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#it's really hard to estimate how long this fic will be at the moment but probably around 60k at least

martianbugsbunny · 10 days

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He Waits By The Riverside (A Bad Batch Fic)

*approaches in a swan paddleboat* so I cried myself to sleep last night about the fact that Tech is actually dead, hence the need for a boat. I'm living in a lake of my own tears at this point. I didn't cry for him properly when he died because I had hope that he wasn't really dead after all and now it's hitting so hard, especially because he's the only one who didn't get to grow old. My chest gets tight when I think about how horribly unfair that seems. So I wrote a fic to put that sadness somewhere, inspired by He Waits, By The Riverside from Renegade Nell. I tried my hardest to make the fic feel the same way the song does (absolutely heartbreaking in a way that holds your hand) and honestly I think I did a pretty good job. So read on and enjoy (?)

Tech opened his eyes. His goggles were gone—his sight was acceptable without them, but he couldn’t see the more precise details of the landscape surrounding him. One was thing was certain, though: it wasn’t what he had been expecting when he plummeted, heart stopped, chest tight, through the clouds.

“Welcome, beloved,” a voice said. Not the gravelly voice of his sergeant, or Wrecker’s warm one, or Omega’s enthusiastic chirp, or Echo’s soft laugh—not even Crosshair’s pinched tone. It was the sort of voice that seemed like the wind, drifting out in one instant and fading away in the next, with no single pitch or volume but constantly shifting, shifting, shifting like the fog Tech had fallen through. Wind itself, however, was absent from the surroundings, not even a breath of it stirring.

Tech looked around, sitting up, searching for the voice’s owner. There was a pounding in his ears, either his heart or a far-off drum; he couldn’t decipher which, or even which made more sense in his current context.

The first thing he noticed properly was, at his feet, a mass of water that was not quite a river. It was long and gently curving into the distance like a river, and he estimated it was about five feet wide, but it didn’t flow. It was utterly still, just as the air was. It was unnatural, and yet somehow, it didn’t fill him with the creeping dread that perhaps it should have.

“You’ve come later than I expected,” the voice said. “Many of your kind joined me much sooner.”

Tears were blurring Tech's vision a little more, although he didn’t know why. A bird with a lilting song—one he could identify after a moment as a Yavin nightingale—was singing in the distance. Fish glittered vaguely in the river that didn’t flow past his feet, sunlight pouring down around them like rain.

That wasn’t right. The sunlight shouldn’t reach down here.

“Sooner than I hoped.”

The bird continued to sing, sweetly, brightly.

There were no bulrushes growing on the not-river banks, allowing Tech an unobstructed view of the creatures thrashing in the reflective water, scales aglow in the light that shouldn't have cut through the clouds. He couldn't bring himself to look up and see if there actually were any now.

“Ah, well.”

The sweet song was becoming a monotonous drone as it went endlessly, unhesitatingly, on. The fish in their sparkling glory were flames in Tech’s slightly unclear vision, kicking up sand from the bottom of the riverbed that drifted around them as the fog had about him. The reed grasses beneath him rustled as he got to his feet and turned his face to the cloudless grey sky.

He knew why he was crying.

A creature stood on the opposite bank, sheathed in a long white robe, bare-footed, with its face invisible except for a peculiarly unreadable grin made of white teeth and red lips. “Join me, love,” it said.

He knew why he was crying.

For a moment, there was a phantom pain across his body, the immense impact of sharp stones after a long fall. Another tear slipped down his bare face, and he knew he had succeeded. They were all safe: Hunter with his wide heart, Wrecker and his brilliant smile, Omega with her endless hope, Echo for his new purpose, maybe even Crosshair despite his mercurial loyalties.

He knew why he was crying.

“Do I have to?” he asked, despite already knowing the answer. This one time, he wished logic would fail to hold, and he could be released to rejoin the family he had made safe. To enjoy the fruits of his final and hardest labor.

“All that is loved becomes mine eventually,” it said. “You have been loved.”

Tech sobbed.

As the creature compelled him on, softly playing a military tune on an ebony fiddle and urging with its strange and sighing voice, Tech stepped into the river and crossed over to the other side.

….

In the still water—there were no fish to be seen from this angle—he could see them, by turns, running from the Empire, running towards the Empire, doing the best they could to keep their broken family from rifting any further, trying to mend it as best they could. It ached to watch, knowing they could never be truly whole again now that he was gone. Knowing that they were becoming more whole by the day, however, as Omega brought Crosshair back to them, and that he had sacrificed not only his life, but also his chance to be part of a reunited family.

Their lives continued to be dangerous, and every so often he would glance across the water, afraid he would see Hunter or Wrecker there and that the family on his side of the river would become more whole while that on the other side became more fractured and grief-stricken. He had a world without end. It hurt, but he would rather wait until the others were all old to hold them again. He didn’t want them to die young like he did, even if it meant sitting alone beside the water for another hundred years.

So Tech sat there, on the other side, and sang, slightly off-key, as though he could warn them, as though they could hear him, as though he could put off their final reunion for longer if only he was as determined as the nightingale that he could no longer hear.

“He waits by the riverside, and he waits by the road; he’ll play you his drum and the fiddle he’ll bow. So caution yourself—beware of his tongue.

“Cause all that is loved….”

Can crumble to none.

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staplegrapes · 2 years

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Not On My Watch (Dean Winchester x Reader)

Description: You make a mistake that gets Sam hurt on a hunt. You're certain Dean is going to kick you out. However, you seem to be the only one who thinks that.

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: I wrote this fairly platonically, yet I feel like it can be left to personal interpretation.

Also, I'm working on writing and actually posting. I struggle with overthinking fics. This one was written, proof-read and posted in a record-breaking two hours.

TW: Mentions of canon-typical injuries and self-doubt

✨Gender Neutral Reader✨

Narcotics had nothing on the pain-masking effect of embarrassment. Sure, you had bloody gash on your cheek, a bruise forming over your entire thigh, a throbbing hip on the other side and ringing in your ears, but you didn’t feel it, not all the way. The one thing you could feel fully was the absolute destruction of your pride.

To make a long story short, you made a mistake that got Sam hurt, really hurt. It wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed, but he was going to be out of commission for at least two months by your estimate. Two months of a constant reminder of your screw-up.

You also felt the rock in your stomach thinking about having to interact with Dean. Sure, the brothers loved you. You knew Sam would forgive you, but Dean? Dean was a complicated guy, but one thing was simple. Sam was his everything. If you didn’t love Sam the way he does, then you’re not worth his time. You made an intentional decision that got Sam hurt, nearly killed. Any chance you had with the hunter you had fallen so hard for vanished in that single moment. His worry for Sam preoccupied any sort of interaction he would have had with you on the way back to the bunker. The moment the two of you managed to position Sam on a bed in the infirmary you disappeared into your room. Dean didn’t even notice, he was already tending to Sam.

You couldn’t cry. Not before Dean even came in here and yelled at you to get out. What you could do, was take a breath and start packing. The Winchesters had graciously let you claim one of their spare rooms as your own for when you passed through. Lately, there wasn’t a lot of leaving, Sam and Dean and the bunker were the closest thing you had to a home in years, until now.

As you began to move, your physical injuries started to make themselves known, but you just ignored them and tried to breathe through it. The sooner you could high-tail it out of here the better.

You had packed up all your drawers into the duffle bag, just as you were about to start clearing off the desk and side table you heard a knock on the door. You hide the duffle under your bed. You stare at the door for a moment.

This was it. This was the last time you’d ever see Dean Winchester.

“-me in,” the words got caught in your throat from not speaking for so long.

You saw the door open slowly and slightly, only his head peaking through.

“Hey,” he says with a scowl on his face. This was going to break your heart.

“H-hey, h-how’s Sam?” what you would give to not look and sound so pathetic right now. He is probably wondering why he ever let you hang out with them in the first place.

Dean steps in the room, closing the door behind him. He still has the scowl but it doesn’t look quite as threatening as you expected. It was the type of face he had when he was stressed or concerned. Yet, at the mention of Sam, his expression softens.

“He’s doing ok, he’ll be alright, but that demon did a hell of a number on him.”

You nod, sitting back down onto the bed.

“I know I was focused on Sammy back there, but I caught your limp, Tiny Tim. I brought you this.” Dean holds out an ice pack wrapped in a towel along with a bottle of Advil you didn’t notice him holding before.

“Your hip, right? Giving you trouble again?” He questions. You nod, taking the Advil from his hand.

After you take the meds and place the ice pack there’s a silence in the room. He’s looking down to his shoes crossing his arms, once again, a sign he was deep in thought.

“Look, we need to talk about it.” He sighs. In that moment you had a surge of confidence, maybe the universe granted your confidence a final hurrah. You interrupt him before he can say anything more.

“For whatever it’s worth, I didn’t realize Sam was back there. That’s on me. I didn’t think the Demon was set on trying to kill Sam. Just don’t think I intentionally put Sam in danger. It was a mistake, but a big one, I get it.”

“Well, it looks like you’ve already hashed this out.” He shrugs much less angry than you expected. “Good talk, I’ll just go grab…”

“I’ll be out of here as soon as I can.” You cut him off.

“What?” Dean turned back with a mixed look of confusion and concern. The two of you shared the same expression. You were shocked he was shocked and he was shocked in general that you’d say that.

“You want to leave? Now?” He questions gruffly.

You shrug. “Well, I don’t want to, but…”

“You think we were gonna kick you out?” He cuts you off, realizing what you meant.

Despite Dean not reacting as poorly as you expected, you still felt guilty. You didn’t belong here. You burst into tears, burying your face in your hands. You’re not sure if it’s relief or embarrassment, it’s likely a bit of both.

“Hey, hey, none of that.” Dean pulls your hands down from your face, kneeling in front of you.

“You can’t get rid of us that easily.” He quips, taking a look at the cut on your cheek.

“I’m the reason Sam’s hurt.” You whisper.

It was quite for a moment. Dean likely was mulling through the thoughts in his head. Still, you couldn’t bear to look at him, but again, he wasn’t having any of that as he gently angled your head back to look at him.

“It was a split-second decision. You thought it was right. It wasn’t. That’s how you learn. You know how many of those Sammy and I have made risking one another? I couldn’t name them all within the last year.”

“I didn’t mean to put him in danger.”

“Sweetheart, I know. You really thought we’d kick you out?”

“It’s Sam.” You whisper. In that moment Dean knew this wasn’t about them kicking you out, it was solely about him.

“It’s you. He whispers, giving you a small smile grabbing your hand. “I know you well enough to know it was a mistake, and you’ll beat yourself up, maybe a little too hard, but you’ll make an effort to learn from it.” He kisses your knuckles. Still, it’s hard for you to wrap your head around his forgiveness.

“But, if you make another mistake, you know that’s ok right? Sam and I make mistakes, even ones we get pissed off over, but we’re family, so are you.”

“Dean, I…”

“Seriously, you’re family. Now let’s get you cleaned up. Yeah?”

You knew the argument ended there. You were their family, period.

He stands back up and as he turns his foot catches on the strap to your duffle below your bed. Looking, down, you both see his boot pulled it out far enough from underneath the bed to see what’s inside. It doesn’t take a genius to know that’s almost all your belongings.

He freezes, doing a quick glance to you and back down to the bag.

Wordlessly, he steps back closer to you, pulling you into himself in a tight hug. You’re still sitting, but the bed sits high enough your head rests just below his chest. Wrapping your arms around him, you finally realized something you had known all along. He loved you. A mistake didn’t change that in an instant.

“I’m not gonna let you bolt because of some mistake, you got that right?”

You nod. He pulls back, gently pushing you back to fully lay down on the bed. He walks to the door, for once heading to get the med kit as he meant to get before. But he can’t seem to stop himself from turning back to you one more time.

“You’re not going anywhere, not on my watch.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

#supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #spn #spn fanfic #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #character x reader #dean winchester x platonic!reader #supernatural whump #spn whump #hurt and comfort #spn fanfiction

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blushyeleven · 10 months

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This fic is ofcourse dedicated to my online bestfriend @lopsicle because it is their birthday!!! I absolutely love you so much and I’m so glad that I made my tumblr acc because meeting you definitely had to be one of my favourite parts of it. Almost a year ago we met and I don’t regret one moment and everyday we have gotten closer and I really appreciate all the times you have listened to me, listen to my paragraphs about a few pokes i got from chanelle or just listening to me talk about my bad day. I’m so grateful fr you being the most understanding and amazing friend. I hope you have the best day and get everything you want. I love you lop🩷

note: This fic is very rushed so I am very sorry about that😭

Warnings: tickles, light swearing.

Characters: Lee!y/n ler!jennaortega

𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜

Your eyes flung open. 8:30am. You had a restless night sleep, I mean, it was your birthday eve. And it was now your birthday. You turned around to find your bed.. empty? Nothless you flung yourself out of bed and skipped down the stairs to were you presumed your girlfriend, jenna would be. And you were right. You swung open the living room door to find jenna sat on the floor, putting a few neatly wrapped presents in some gift bags. You also couldn’t help but notice the living room covered in sparkly confetti and baloons. Your jaw dropped slightly as jenna turned around and her eyes widened with excitement as she ran up to hug you. “Goodmorning! Happy birthday!!!” She exclaimed “Thankyou! This is really sweet” you said with a smile “ofcourse! You deserve it!” You looked around at the hard work jenna had put in, but you smiled to yourself as you saw two empty cans of energy drink placed on the coffe table “how long have you been up?” You asked “a few hours.. but that doesn’t matter! It’s your birthday!!” She exclaimed again. You rolled your eyes jokingly and giggled as she added “and.. we’re gonna get your favourite for breakfast… maccdonalds breakfast!!” Your smile widened “yess!!” And you sat down with her on the sofa as ienna pulled out her phone and started adding a lot of food items to the menu. You couldn’t help but giggle that Jenna ordered 2 coffees and very sugary items.

After you finsishrd the delivery driver was estimated to be around 30 minutes. Perfect.

“So what are you waiting for? Open your presents!” You noticed a lot of neatly wrapped gifts and sparky gift barks. Even a sash with “happy birthday” written in big, bold, gold letters. You smiled. Jenna was so sweet, she really didn’t have to do all of this. You couldn’t have asked for a better girlfriend. She was the best gift you could have ever received. Your eyes darted at the array of gifts, debating what one to open first. You started with a box shaped present after seeing a hand written note saying “to my beautiful girlfriend, I love you more then anything. I hope i can make you have the best day and give you everything you deserve and more, love from your favourite, jenna” you excitedly teared open the bright pink wrapping paper to reveal a Pandora box with a silk ribbon tied to the box. You unfolded the Ribon and carefully opened the box to reveal a silver necklace with an infinity sign and heart attached to it. Your heart melted. “Jenna! Oh my god! This is adorable!” You threw your arms around her again and grabbing her cheeks before kissing her. “Thankyou so much, i Love you more then anything” you said in a more gentle tone as jenna just smiled at you before saying “ofcourse, anything for you, but that’s not just it!” You raised your brow and realised there was another box inside the bag, this one relatively the same size but it was another Pandora box. You opened the second box to find a silver Pandora bracelet with matching charms and a few extra, like a pink crystal and a star. your eyes grew. “Jenna!!” She giggled “you really didn’t have to do this!” You said, overcome with emotion. “Well duh, ofcourse i did, It’s your birthday!” She ended that sweet sentence with a kiss to your cheek. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you” you smiled, happy was a colossal understatement. You spent a few more minutes opening the rest of the gifts from family and friends and placing them all on the coffee table and all of the cards on the shelf.

You let out a sigh, not a sad sigh, more of a “that was so fun” sigh as you sat down on the sofa. Ofcourse, Jenna took this as an invite to sit right beside you, cuddling you and embracing your warmth. Since you were both still in your fluffy pjs you were both very snuggly. “You know..” she said with a small giggle. “Oh I dont like were this is going” you said with a returned giggle. “Well, you know how people give each-other birthday bumps?” She said very randomly. “Yesss?” You said with another giggle, this time more curious and you debated wether you should be slightly concerned. “Well, maybe we should make our own version!” She said cheerfully. “What do you mean by that?” You said not completely understanding, but intrigued by the idea. “Well, when people do birthday bumps they punch the person in the arm, how old they are indicated how many punches they get.. but! We should do something similar but not with punches!” She carefully explained and loved the fact you were actually on board with her idea. “Hm.. okay! You got any ideas?” You asked. “Hmm.. well.. maybe just a few pokes! It’s playfull enough but also harmlessss..” she trailed off giving you a smile that you could never resist. “Okay! I like the sound of that!” You said, challenging her slightly. She then sat up, sitting opposite you. “Great! 20 pokes for the birthday girlll~” she said as she began poking your arm. It started of fine but then she moved down your arm as she got to poke number 5 and shortly enough her prodding finger reached your side and poke number 6. You immediately jumped at the touch and let out a high-pitched shriek as your natural reaction was to put your hands out to try and cover/protect your sides.

“Oh?” Jenna snickered with a knowing smile. “I- jehenna!!” You said trying to wipe the stupid smile of your face and the small blush that appeared across your cheeks. “Forget the pokes! I Almost forgot how ticklish your were!” She said before reaching her hand out to scribble at your side for a second. “JEHENNA!” You jumped and tried to bat at her hand “THIHIS ISNT FAHAIR” you said as you fell onto your back from giggling intensely. “This is fair! Instead of pokes you just get tickles.. actually what number was we at? 6?.. oh! That looks like 14 more minutes of tickles for you!” She teased as she then sat on top of your thighs, just below your hips and used both her hands to scribble into your sides. Her fingers moving at a rapid pace. “14 MINUTES?” You coughed out “ILL DIHIEE!!” Jenna thought about it for a second, she thought about the fun she would have and thought of the consequences for afterwards. “Okay, fine! 2 minutes!” She said, Coming to an agreement with you. “FIHIHINE!!” You said reluctantly through your blabbering laughter. She smirked to herself. “Oh? You actually agreed!! .. I mean.. I’m just taking a wild guess here but maybe you agreed because you don’t mind this?” She said with a very teasing and mischievous tone. “SHUHUT UHUPP!!” Was your best comeback because your mind was to scrambled and fuzzy to think of any quick-witted answers. Jenna just snickered to herself “well, I guess I better make these 2 minutes count!” She said before crawling her hands to your stomach she then started clawing into your stomach at full force. “AHAHAHHAHAHAHAH OH MY GOHODD!!” You wriggled as best as you could but you and Jenna both knew there was no escaping.

Jenna then sneakily dipped her hand under your fluffy pj shirt and began wiggling her fingers onto your sensitive, bare stomach. You squealed again before falling into another round of heavy laughter. “AHAHAH FUHUCK!! HOHOW LONG HAS IT BEHEHEENN?” You asked, Not desperate for it to stop, you were just over dramatic. But rightfully so, you were way to ticklish for your own good. “30 seconds” she giggled.”NOHO IT HAS NO- HAHAHHAHA” your own sentences were cut of by your abrupt, explosive laughter.

Jennas nimber fingers then moved to your worst spot. The spot that made you cry with laughter. The spot that was just in the brink of unbearable. And what made it worse was that she said exacrly 1 minute and 12 seconds to target it. As she slowly lowered her hands they finally stopped at their destination. Your hips. Your eyes widened in mostly fear, but with a twinge of excitement as your stomach was swarmed with butterflies. “Jenna.. c-come on..” she evilly smirked on-top of you. She didn’t exactly say anything, but she didn’t need to. Your reaction was enough to give her the get go that she so desperately wanted. She then started to lightly trace her nails around your hips causing you to let out the most soft, adorable giggles with the most beaming smile. “I- ahahahha- o-oh my gohohoddd..” Jenna then started to speed up her fingers, little by little untill her fingers were at full speed, racing across your hips. “AHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!! FUHUHUCKKK!! JEEHEHENNAAA” your mind couldn’t concentrate on any other thought but how much that this tickled. The sensation flowing through your body. “Oh you really are so ticklish y/n” she mused seeing you wiggle about in helpless laughter. “AHAHAHAH SHUHUT UHUPP” she continued to use her black-painted finger nails to absolutely wreck your hips making you react with erupting laughter and piercing squeals. But as quickly as it started jennas time was up.

“Oh my god! That was so fun!!” She smiled, clearly very proud of herself and slightly smug. “Y-yeah.. if you say so..” you said, half-agreeing but refusing to admit to her that you also enjoyed that. But luckily unfortunately for you, Jenna could see right through you. “Oh come on, you know you enjoyed that!” She said smugly. “Shut up. As if!” You refused to let her mischievous and cocky demeanour get to you. “whatever you say, birthday girl.. but we both know you didn’t completely hate that” okay, that one was kind of hard to ignore. “I- s-shut up! I’m.. im Gonna go get a Glass of water” you said trying to change the subject but also because all of the laughing dried your throat out . “No! I- i mean.. don’t.. not atleast untill the delivery is here.. please?” Jenna said hopefully. You raised an eyebrow as your suspicion was now at a peak. But you decided to listen anyway. “Okay..” ding dong. Talk about perfect timing?

“That will be our food!” Jenna jumped out of her seat and scurried to the front door to collect your food. “Thankyou!” She said befire shutting the door and looking back to see you stand in the doorway. “Follow me!” She said excitedly again and opened the kitchen door. To wich you did follow her and when you entered the kitchen you were met with another surprise. On the island counter was a vase full of pink and white tulips with an enveloped card at the bottom with plates already layed out for the both of you on the island. You eyes watered. You didn’t know how much more of this you could take. It was do sweet and thoughtful and you couldn’t wrap to mind around what you did to deserve all of this. Jenna was just looking back. Her grin also beaming as she watched you become estatic but also emotional. She opened her arms again, warping then gently around you as you were absolutely lost for words. “Happy birthday, I love you more then you could ever know.”

#tickle content #tickle #sfw tickle #sfw tickling community #tickle fic #jenna ortega #ticklish y/n #jenna ortega ler #jenna Ortega tickle #Lee y/n

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starlightkun · 9 months

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the dragon's happily ever after ❧ jisung [teaser]

❧ teaser word count: 818

❧ warnings: just some cursing for the teaser!

❧ genre: fluff, modern magical creatures au, fantasy au, college au, dragon jisung, human reader, ft. various other magical dreamies & human renjun, fake not dating/secret dating trope, same universe as strawberry sunday

❧ extra info: this work is set in the same universe as strawberry sunday but can be read as a standalone! there is no continuing plotline between fics in this universe, they simply take place in the same world/magic system and may have overlapping characters (neos may pop up in more than one work!)

❧ estimated release: saturday, august 12, 2023 2:00 p.m. eastern time

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ explore the strawberry sunday universe more here!

“Come on Jisung, I’ll drive,” Chenle called for his roommate, spinning his keys around his finger.

“Sure, hold on!” Jisung said back, waiting up to say goodbye to you.

“Renjun, you still up for ramen and ranting?” You clasped your hands together hopefully as you looked at your friend. It was ritual for you and Renjun to get together and rant over extra-spicy ramen whenever some drama had gone down within your department at the school. There’d been some going on this past week, and you and Renjun decided that late-night after studying was the perfect time to talk shit.

Except, he and Chenle seemed to lock eyes for a brief moment. And then, Renjun was checking his phone, throwing up his other hand, and sighing.

“Ah, Y/N, you know what,” he clicked his tongue. “I am so sorry, but I got a text from my dad while we were in that study session and he says the cat is sick. I’ve really got to go.”

“Your parents live three hours away—”

“Uh, Jisung! You like ramen!” Renjun gestured at the dragon that was still waiting next to you. “Why don’t you take Y/N for some ramen? Just- just you two?”

“That’s it! You’re taking too long, Jisung! I’m leaving you!” Chenle yelled dramatically from the front, giving his keys one last jangle before he quite literally ran off through campus.

You were too distracted watching Chenle incredulously to notice that Renjun had escaped too until you turned back around to talk to him. Then you realized that all of your friends had mysteriously dispersed.

“What just happened?” Jisung asked, looking around confused.

“I think… I think they set us up,” you scratched at your head.

“Like, a date? Don’t they…”

“I think they think they’re plotting to make us date.”

He blinked at you. You grabbed his arm to start walking down the sidewalks. “Come on, we can at least talk about this over some ramen.”

“Didn’t you tell them?” Jisung’s face seemed as though it was permanently stuck in the same bewildered expression. You two were side by side at your favorite 24-hour ramen bar by the university, and you had finally filled him in on what he missed in the study room.

You slurped up a noodle. “I thought you did.”

“I thought you were going to!”

“They were your friends first!” You retorted indignantly.

“Hey, I only claim Chenle,” he held up his chopsticks and spoon defensively. “The others just came along.”

It was true that Jisung had befriended Chenle first, and the others just sort of came with the fairy. After all, dragons did tend to be solitary creatures, and on top of that, you’d be hard-pressed to find one hanging out with a dryad on purpose, much less two.

“Speaking of Chenle, how did you not even mention it to him? You live with him!”

“Well, every time I was going somewhere with you I’d be like ‘Oh, I’m going to wherever with Y/N’ or ‘I’m going to Y/N’s place.’ It’s not like I could call you something else.”

You tilted your head curiously. “Something else?”

“Like… you know… my girlfriend,” Jisung mumbled, very focused on stirring up some of his broth.

“Well… you could.” You were getting warm, and not from the spicy ramen.

He looked up at you, a smile growing on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay, on one condition.” He set down both his utensils, holding up the number one.

“What’s that?”

“You call me your boyfriend.”

“God you’re dumb sometimes,” you shook your head, but still had fondness in your tone and your actions as you brought your hand up, all five fingers up. “Yes, duh.”

Jisung got the idea, opening the rest of his hand back up to lace all of his fingers with yours. You squeezed his hand, your stomach doing flips at the softness in his eyes as he looked at you.

The two of you brought your hands back down to keep eating, and your boyfriend circled your conversation back around to the entire reason you were here in the first place.

“Anyway, our friends.”

“Our friends,” you repeated unenthusiastically. “So… how are we going do it? They’re going to be annoying no matter how we go about it.”

“Good point. You know… they’re going to keep meddling if we don’t say anything. What if we just… let them?” He suggested.

“You’re proposing we fake not date and let them all run themselves in circles trying to connive us into dating?”

“How long do you think it’ll take them to notice?”

“A month,” you snorted.

“A month?” He scoffed. “Come on, they’re a bit dumb but they’re not that bad. Like, two weeks.”

“I think part of it’s going to depend on how stupid they think we are.”

That looked like it changed Jisung’s mind. “You’re so right, a month at least.”

⤷ blog masterlist ⤷ anthology masterlist

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chaos-of-the-endless · 1 year

Text

A little Gren fic that no one asked for and was created out of a 3am mental breakdown. Love that for me 😂

Set after Viscous' visit.

Leaning against the railing outside, Gren let out a soft noise to themself, it was pouring rain, and it was far too early in the morning to call a cab. So they started to walk.

And walk...

.......And walk...

Eventually, they had to stop. They estimated that they where a little over half way to their home, but attempting to walk any further with a suspected broken rib and the rain lashing against their bruised face when it was already hard to breathe seemed to be... an impossible task. They ducked into a market stall that had long ago packed up and gone home and perched on the edge of a wooden crate in the corner with a quiet little cry out in pain, wiping the corner of their bleeding lip on their sleeve as they tried to straighten their body out a little.. to no avail.

With a hard attempt at a breath in, their shaking hands grabbed hard onto the material of their wet jacket and tried to set off again... only a little further.... just a little... come on, Gren...

Their knees hit the floor into a puddle, immediately regretting flinging and arm out to save themselves the rest of the way when it jerked that rib all the further to one side. They cried out again, but this time, their delicate body let it out with a force and volume they weren't expecting.

Someone that appeared to be in a hurry to get out of the rain at 3.56am was halted by the sound, only to run back to where it came from, quickly covering the beautiful blond that appeared to be severly injured with her umbrella as she scooped an arm under theirs.

".... are you okay?" she asked as she guided them up to their feet again, sheilding them from the rain by standing in the way of its lashing onslaught.

"Not really, no." Gren replied with a grimace

"Come on, I'll walk with you...how far from home are you?"

"Not far... just... ten more minutes, I think..." They'd lived here for a long time, but in the haze of pain and what appeared to be a typhoon, they weren't even sure.

"I can't just leave you here." She said as they stood outside Grens door as they fumbled with their keys.

"....I'll be fine. Thank you for your help." They tried to assure her, but every word hurt, and it showed on thier face.

"Please, let me come in... at least to make you some tea." She really did have the sweetest smile, and Gren was certain that if it wasn't for the painful distraction, they'd have recongised her from around the city. Her face was somehow not unfamiliar.

"Okay... Sure... Thanks." They wheezed out as their key finally slid into the door and they staggered straight to the sofa.

"It's a good thing I found you, my mother was a nurse when I was growing up... And I'm guessing you're not the type to go to a hospital when you need to." She smiled as she put her bag down and headed to where she saw the open plan kitchen was and set about making tea.

Gren had blacked out almost the instant they laid across the sofa.

When they woke up a few hours later, their blurry eyes just made out the shadow of someone that had fallen asleep in the armchair opposite the sofa. They found themselves to be shirtless, and their ribs had been bound in bandages around their body, their wounds no longer bleeding. Sitting up a little, they found a cooled cup of perfect matcha tea waiting for them, which they drunk almost instantly.

What an absolutely remarkable human.

They where certain they knew her.

And then it clicked - this was Haru - the newest dancer to have auditioned at the club. The one that walked in on Gren playing the saxaphone, a hidden little talent they kept to only behind the scenes. They hadn't seen her since... Of course shes the one to see them in yet another vulnerable moment. She was fast becoming a very good friend indeed.

#mason alexander park #cowboy bepop gren #desire of the endless #the sandman #desire #ian wright #quantum leap 2022 #gren cowboy bebop

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persnickett · 1 year

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Hello ily ♥️😘

Also! ✨ 🌠 🌿 🎀 🎉 💞 💎 📡 🤲 ☯️

💟✉ - I had to improvise bc I couldn't find the love letter emoji 🙈

I know there are a lot there lol, but what can I say? Your mind is wonderful and I'm curious 😇 So take your pick, and if any of these take your fancy, I'd love to hear your thoughts 😍

♥️😘

OMG HI, my darling. Thank you for this! I am so sorry for the long wait - and how stupidly long this got lol. But ily2 and here is my answer at last. ❤️

✨What's a fic you've posted you wish you could breathe life into again and have people talking about it? (or simply a fic you wish got more credit)

Oof. Well there are certain fics I have worked really hard on, but I feel the notable example does get its fair share of credit and love and discussion (a big thank you to everyone who has read and engaged with me <3 ). But I guess I put a lot of work into An Apprenticeship, Of Brick and of Bone, Bad Moon a-Risin' too , and will always appreciate anything people want to pick up on and come and chat to me about on those. (I mean, the same is true for any fic ever, quite honestly lol – but) Those fics I’d say do also sort of have some subtlety or backstory to them that doesn’t get explicitly laid out in the fic, particularly An Apprenticeship, so there might be some fun things to talk about there if anyone is picking up on any Vibes they want to share.

Ok Edit: I wrote that whole answer out and then I went to grab the links and realize all those fics actually have not too bad interaction in comparison to my others lol. (thank you again, y’all <3). So, if this question is meant to be about the fics that get the least interaction, here’s something kinda fun: I sorted my stats page by hits in reverse, and in keeping with my weird experience that Holiday Themed Fics Seem to get Less Interest, these three tmrss fics have the lowest hit count. Three Cryptids Walk into a Bar Northern Crossing I Like you a Latte (After that it's drabbles, which seem to make sense drawing less traffic to me, for some reason, and then a New Year's themed fic 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️) As for Die Hard, the lowest hit count that goes to a full fic and not just a drabble, is this one: The Weather Outside is Frightful

Does anyone else experience this with their holiday themed fics? I’m really interested in this lol.

🎀give yourself a compliment about your own writing

Hmmm. I have a pretty big vocabulary. Is that a compliment? Lol It’s *Nerdy* with a capital N, how about that? Lol. There’s a lot of nerdy semi-obscure word play, reference humour, and I fall in love with the characters and get obsessed with every minute little detail about them. So if you love obsessing over nerdy details too, my fic just might be for you! lol

🎉how often do you celebrate completing & posting a work? how often do you give yourself the credit/validation that you seek from others when you post? (if you don't, you should!)

This is a sneaky wife-scolding moment, @dream0fspring, and frankly it’s fair. I mean the short answer is, I don’t. OP is right though, that writers definitely should. We have talked a lot about this in DMs (because you put up with so much from me <3) but at least in terms of my WIP, I tend to celebrate the success of completing the hard work of posting a chapter by rewarding myself with more work – ie. setting the deadline for the next one. I also have a tendency to set my deadlines by estimating how long I will likely take to finish a chapter, and then trying to shorten that timeline as much as possible because faster is better, and working comfortably and at my own pace would be lazy and somehow feels like a ‘failure’. To ‘hustle’ or something, idk. This is a really important question though, because I have learned a lot about myself and my workstyle and the importance of motivation and self care through writing, in ways that apply to my life outside of writing - how I approach workload in my rl job or life admin tasks and responsibility, etc. I think it’s something we could all benefit from examining in ourselves from time to time. Are we happy with the way we treat ourselves in terms of effort and reward for the different kinds of labour that come into our lives each day, and would we be happy to see somebody else, say a friend or loved one, treat themselves the same way? It’s a great question. Afraid I’d have to throw it back out to tumblr though – does anybody have ideas on how they celebrate publishing to share?

📡why is writing and sharing your writing important for fandom?

Most of you reading this will probably know that I have a little collection on my ao3 of random snippets I call Snickits, bearing the Henry Van Dyke quote “The woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang best”, it’s about that fear of the vulnerability of putting ourselves into something and then offering it up to the world but I think that’s part and parcel of sharing one’s gifts. Obviously if we all gave into that voice that tells us ‘but mine isn’t as good/as big/as angsty/as funny/as worldbuilt/as proficient in English as xx’s fic’ and let it be a reason that we didn’t share it, there would be no content and there wouldn’t be a fandom at all. <3 Incidentally, (off topic, but hey this is already long af), there’s no fandom without readers, either, and this is something I’ve been seeing a lot of chat about lately with comments too. Comments and feedback are what let writers, or songbirds, know you heard and appreciated their song. They are super important to keeping fandom being a thing and a big reason many writers write here instead of going off to make money on original fiction. I see so many people say the reason they don’t comment is because other people’s comments intimidate them or seem smarter or more ‘creative’. That just breaks my heart to know somebody had a reaction to something someone wrote, was touched by something they created, and wanted to let them know but then *didn’t* because they felt themselves unworthy. (And then the image of the author on the other end, posting to the sound of crickets and thinking the same thing.) If anyone is a nervous commenter and reading this, please know it takes basically no more than a ‘omg!’, ‘this was my favourite chapter so far’ or ‘haha the moment xx happened cracked me up!’ to make a writers’ entire day. <3

🤲what do YOU get out of writing?

Is it weird that this question stumped me so much I left it to last? I feel like I spoke to this a bit in my last reply to this ask game but there are SO many reasons people write. Escapism, activism, therapy, self expression, to inform, to entertain. I guess for me it’s a bit of the first and last. It’s a hobby, and it’s the one I chose because it fits the best. Words have always been sort of my one thing I feel like I *have* as it were – as a skill, to offer to people, to make an impact with etc. We all have our skills and strengths and interests and words and language have always been one for me. (Don’t know if it’s related but I’m an auditory learner and will remember everything I hear too, which I understand isn’t all that common lol). I’m also introverted, so I’m far more likely to sit down at a keyboard and think about what I want to say than to get up on a stage and shout it out to a crowd (though yes I get up on a stage and do that set to music sometimes lol, shhh, humans don’t have to make sense). I guess writing is my way of feeling competent and effective at something, and fanfic (and feedback) is a way I feel like I reach people and offer them, and the world, something. I know I already mentioned that as a character driven writer, I find the depth to which I imagine different characters with different personalities reacting to the circumstances in my stories is a way I’ve come to feel like I have a better understanding of personalities different to my own, and it lets me have a better appreciation for, love of, and patience with, the people around me in every day life, too.<3 Writing is amazing!

☯️how do you think engaging with each other through tumblr, twitter, comments, kudos, creates healthy fandom experiences? How do you deal with that if you're not a social person/experience social anxiety?

Hmm. I feel like there’s kind of two different situations here. Comments and kudos are something I associate with Ao3 (I’m not sure if they have kudos on other platforms like ff.net or wattpad) and quite specific to writing, and I think engaging with authors on their stories to show that you liked it with kudos or that it made you think or feel or simply enjoy something, with a comment, are super important motivators to keep writers writing, and keep fandom being a welcoming space that embraces and encourages new writers starting out and fosters opportunities for them to explore and practice and build their skill. But then, tumblr and twitter are social media that can be used for fandom interactions with the people you meet who share your interests, but can be quite separate from writing, or at least they are in my experience. As a writer I don’t always get to engage with fan artists, and that’s one of the big plusses for me with tumblr, because I can’t do art at all and I really respect and admire fanartists hardcore. I don’t really use twitter. I’m intrigued to see it here being touted as a space for healthy fandom interaction when it has the reputation for basically being the opposite lol. I’m a highly drama-allergic person so I guess it’s possible that arguments and fanwank and ship wars are perceived by some people as a ‘healthy’ way to express things, and to each their own I suppose. But while I find respectful, calm discussions in fandom as intellectually stimulating and fascinating as the next fan, I do feel that so often that isn’t the goal, so much as finding a fight to have. And the problem there is negativity breeds negativity. I'm a firm believer that car horns ought to be made obsolete because they don't do what they were intended for anymore, which is warn somebody that another vehicle is coming around a bend on a one-lane dirt road. They're just a big loud 'fuck you' button these days, and hearing it directed at you can plant a seed of negativity that can set off your whole day and definitely makes it very tempting to hit that button on the next person that bothers you, and so it spreads out and spirals. Fandom wank feels like that to me. It might *feel* like ‘venting’ lets things out, but therapeutic psychology actually tells us distracting yourself with something positive is a just as effective, if not moreso, way to feel better without focusing on the negative – and definitely without passing it on to others in a chain reaction of yelling and fist flailing lol. I perceive fandoms that embrace a lot of opposition and ‘warring’ as actually toxic rather than healthy, and more as things that will wind me up when I came here with my leisure time to let go and relax, rather than as ways to ‘get things out’. I’m also concerned that behaviour toxifies a space, and can put negative thoughts into people’s heads that weren’t there to begin with and didn’t need to be there at all (it’s all fiction at the end of the day lol) when they might have logged on to the internet feeling perfectly fine. So I’ve never been one to go looking for an argument, even if I’m feeling some kinda way on any given day. And from what I’ve heard, that means twitter isn’t really the place for me lol.

As for having social anxiety – yeah I do. But funnily enough interacting over the internet mostly takes care of that for me. I’m far less nervous when I have time to sit and think what I want to write out and say to somebody, than I am when I feel put on the spot in person. Not to mention the added option of anonymity on the internet. So that’s how I deal with it lol, it’s probably a large part of the whole reason I’m here using it!

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

Well, I’m three chapters away from finishing The Blood Culmination . That is definitely feeling pretty momentous after 5 years (omg). And then, the sky’s the limit for what I want to work on next, I guess! Which is pretty damned exciting. Like maybe 10% scary, 90% exciting. Or 90% scary, 10% exciting *insert Owen Wilson in Armageddon meme here*.

I do have my ideas, as you know.😈 Maybe I should take a poll on what I should write next lol. Something spicy, mayhaps? Maybe the next big thing won’t even be fanfic at all… !!

With apologies again that this got so long, luckily some of the things you asked already came up in my other post here.

For anyone else who wants to do this, these questions are all from the ask game found here

❤️❤️❤️

#writing be like #ask game #snick talks (apparently)

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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 2 years

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juuuuust curious, how long till the next chapter of your ethan x reader fic, the long one? love it sm and your writing is spectacular!

I’m getting there, i swear 🥲 i forgot how hard it is to write PFFF— but the technicalities of trying to sneak onto Air Force One are fucking beating my ass 😃😃😃

but i think my best estimate is gonna be Friday, Saturday or something like that this week. I AM ALMOST DONE

you’re gonna cry when you see the word count

and i’m really sorry but i cannot find a single snap shot of this story that doesn’t spoil anything or any of the moments i want you guys to 😗 at

SO IM SORRY

BUT THANK YOU FOR THE ASK

I’M GETTING THERE 🙃

#you’re really out here tryna make me cry with that compliment tho #what would happen if #i asked you out #as a joke haha #but also thank you so much im wiping away tears #you need head?#ethan hunt x reader

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galacticlamps · 1 year

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💘🌈🤍 for the fic writer asks? :)

💘Is there any posted fic you want to rework/re-edit/re-write?

Not especially? Little mistakes I'll fix whenever I notice them, even if it's on something that's been up for a long time already - and for anything I'd want to do a major overhaul on, I'm enough of a '2 cakes!' person to be down with writing a new fic on a similar concept, rather than rework one that already exists. Sidebar: that's actually how Shards of Memories & Fragments of Glass and Interrupted initially began, as kinda inverse/incompatible approaches to a similar moment - and I wasn't even frustrated with those, so I can only imagine how much more willing I'd be to write both ideas again if I thought it would be a massive improvement on a story.

((The fics of mine I like the least are also the ones I think about & re-read the least, so maybe there's something in one of them that I would be annoyed by enough to want to re-write, but it just isn't really on my mind? I suppose I look at Reckless and wonder why so little happens in 10k words, or I look at Oh, So Right and wonder if I shouldn't've held off and let that grow into something larger that incorporated more of my headcanons on the subject (I have a lot, but that fic was never meant to be the vehicle for them) - but it's not like I've ruled out doing that some day, so there's no real harm in it already existing as-is. Honestly I think my whole 5+1 series is pretty unbalanced - some like In the Kitchen feel better suited to being a chapter than a whole fic of its own, whereas others feel more like their own independent stories - and I think if I set out to do something like that again, I'd aim for more consistency, but it's not like I want to rewrite those actual fics just so they'd fit together better. If I recall correctly, On the Spot is probably fairly silly, but it's meant to be and there are about a million different versions of proposal & get together fics I have in my head - that one's far from being my favorite version but it doesn't hurt to've gotten one of them out of my system at least.))

🌈is there a fic that you worked *really fucking hard on* that no one would ever know? maybe a scene/theme you struggled with?

See, the thing I struggle with the most is length, and to some extent it really affects everything I write - because it's not as if I'm just anti-long fics, it's that I have a problem with consistently under-estimating what the word count on just about any wip will become. And then I worry if I'm pulling focus & distracting from what I actually want the story to be about with unnecessary word vomit - so I tend to do a lot of second guessing, shortening & looking for things to cut before I post anything, and sometimes I get waaaay too concerned about that, for relatively little payoff. In that regard, it would be much simpler to list the fics I miraculously didn't struggle with lol

But to talk specifics - there's a bit of anti-gravity business in Small Hours in a Wide Universe that I super stressed about narrating, and I sincerely hope no one would ever know - in that case, the problem was that I could see the actions very clearly in my mind & wanted to make sure I articulated it well enough that the reader could too, but the extra dimensions & scifi environment gave me a kind of limited vocabulary to describe movement with specificity. Since I know what it's supposed to look like though I'm not a good judge of if the description I ultimately wrote works well or if it's obvious reading it that I struggled there.

Your Life Begins By Leaving was another that I guess I had trouble with? It spent much longer than usual in my 'on deck' pile, but I wasn't working on it so consistently that it required major trouble to become stalled - again, I was just worried about sort of focus & mood and if I was overshadowing certain things with less necessary bits.

(there are 3 wips in particular that I would love love love to've posted & be able to answer this about one day, because those are truly the ones I've struggled the most with - but right now the only reason no one would know is because they literally don't exist in anyone's minds but my own lol)

🤍what’s one fic of yours you think people didn’t “get”?

I don't think this is really a case of people not 'getting' it as much as people just not caring about it as much as I do, and that's understandable - of everything I've posted, Wedding Colors is probably the most Gen & deals the least in romantic pairings - which a) is already a less popular subject in fanfic, and b) possibly even actively disappoints people by sounding like it would be more overtly romantic, given the title. But that's what I wanted to write, and I did, and I even tagged it as 'one day i decided i needed a Two/Jamie wedding fic that was actually about Zoe and this is that,' so I was kinda as upfront as I could be. (I do find it funny though, because when I'm writing things that are more exclusively Two/Jamie focused, I'll often wonder if I've done a poor job of contriving some reason for the other companions to be absent - sometimes I even feel bad writing them out, bc I think there's a great importance in a healthy romantic relationship also being part of healthy dynamics among any kind of friend group or found family, so I don't want to feel like I'm sidelining everyone because I don't think they're relevant - and yet if we're going by statistics, a fic that does heavily involve those other people & their perspectives on the romance IS in fact less appealing than ones without them, apparently)

The only other one that even slightly comes to mind is Bath Salts & Bruises, but again, saying people don't get it sounds unnecessarily harsh. I did mention once that its stats are pretty unique - if you rank my fics by hits, it's in the top half, by kudos it's in the bottom half, by bookmarks the bottom 4, and by comment threads dead last - which would seem to paint a picture of attracting more attention than it did interest or appreciation - whereas personally, it's a kind of favorite! I'm rather proud of the particular angle I took on their relationship in that one, it's one I believe in headcanon-wise (which I don't always - sometimes I just write things I could see happening because a story seems fun, and not because it's reflective of my more consistent beliefs about the characters) and for something I was a little nervous to write about, I was pretty satisfied with how I executed it too. But again, I don't think this is truly a case of anyone not getting something and more of just varied tastes, and it for sure has some stuff that objectively works against it. It's near the end of a series that took me months to write, versus the beginning installments that you'd expect to receive more attention. Most installments in that series are missing scenes during or after tv episodes - this one's set after a Big Finish audio, and to make matters worse, one that's part of a box set in a relatively unpopular range. Like the wedding one, it might also be a kind of false advertising too - it's a bath scene, the characters are nude for most of it and touching each other and even thinking about sex more directly than usual in most of my stuff - and yet it's not at all steamy or spicy or whatever you want to call it, and nothing ever comes of those thoughts, which could be a let down in terms of expectations/disappointment. And then there's also the fact that this is, I think, the most blatantly ace I've ever written Jamie - which could in itself annoy or even just fail to appeal to people who don't agree with that take - but he's also pretty clearly not uninterested in potentially sleeping with the Doctor. That combination makes perfect sense to me because it overlaps with some of my own experiences as an ace person, but could easily serve to confuse people who've spent less time considering asexuality, while at the same time even alienating other people who are more familiar with its nuances, but whose experiences or perception of the character are at odds with that particular detail.

So I've no reason to believe anyone hates it or is actually super confused by it, but it certainly doesn't appeal to others as much as it does to me (and that's fine, nobody at all could read it ever & I'd still be quite glad I wrote it!)

#ask games #what's the opposite of wips?#oh right #fics

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haruhey · 3 years

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Mind If I Join You?

check out my masterlist!

buy me a coffee ¿?

Word count: 13k (i am SO SORRY i got carried away and this fic turned out SO FILTHY but i hit 300 followers so consider this a gift??)

Established Relationship Fluff | Smut

There’s only one bed shower, and Daryl Dixon is an opportunist.

the request:

every single fic of yours is seriously amazing. ur a great writer!! can i request a daryl shower smut bc wooweeeee

There’s always a giddiness inside Daryl when he returns from runs. No more sleeping in the RV for nights on end, no more eating cold canned chicken soup and - as much as he liked Aaron - no more hearing him talk about how much he missed Eric and making him miss you, too. He’s exhausted, his muscles sore from overuse, but the fact that you’re probably curled up in bed makes him so damn excited that all the ailments of his aging body are swiftly forgotten with each step he takes.

Houses fly by in a blur as he ramps up into a jog, his feet taking him to the dim light of a moving lantern in your shared bedroom window. By Daryl’s estimate, it couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11pm, but time meant little in the apocalypse - it was either dark out, or light and with the days getting shorter, he noticed you using the lantern more and more frequently. Just a few days ago, you had fallen asleep curled up on his chest, the soft orange light filling the room before he strained his body trying to turn it off without waking you. The next morning he had a terrible cramp running from his rib up to his bicep, but he never complained. Not even a wince in your presence since he thought the soreness was worth it. He would rather die several times over than lose the image he saw - of your pillowy lips taking soft, steady breaths of air while you slept against his bare skin.

Smiling, he lets himself remember the way you looked when he first gifted it to you, a grin that spread to the apples of your cheeks and crinkled at your eyes plastered on your face. It wasn’t a perfect replica, but it looked close enough to the one you would both light on nightwatches in the prison - which he thinks was when he first realized he loved you. Daryl also remembers the first night he saw you use it, the memory so vivid in his mind that he felt like if he reached out, the soft fabric of your pajamas would welcome his touch.

He could picture it now, your back against the headboard, reading one of the books that littered the shelves he never touches. Your face bathed in the lantern’s hue while your eyes scanned the pages and drinking in every word of whatever you were holding. He plucked that book right out of your hands that night and pulled you onto his lap, kissing the pout off your face until you weren’t annoyed at him anymore, rendered down to just laughing against his lips.

Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get home and see you again.

Daryl curses under his breath as he fumbles a little with the doorknob, but the profanities are quickly replaced with a huff of accomplishment as he practically sprints to the bedroom, boots shucked off haphazardly at the front door. He skips every other stair with long strides, desperate to feel you in his arms. When he enters the bedroom, he places his crossbow on the dresser and is surprised to see the room as dark as it is, the only source of illumination being the moon as it streams through the windows. The bed is empty and the blankets are strewn to your side, but neither you nor your pajamas are anywhere in sight. Panic flies through him before he registers the unmistakable sounds of the shower running, and he scoffs at himself when he sees the dim orange light peeking from beneath the bathroom door.

Had you known how worried he was for a second, you would have laughed at him. He was already so protective of you before the two of you got together, but it was another level entirely when you both made it official. It wasn’t just losing you to the dead anymore - it was also losing you to other people. Daryl knew you could take care of yourself, he had seen you hold your own on runs in the prison and trips outside the Alexandrian gates, but, God, if anything happened to you he wouldn’t know what to do. Being apart from you once when the Governor attacked was already almost too much for him to handle, but the thought of losing you and having to be okay with the fact you were never going to love him again? That was something he never wanted to experience.

Leaning against the wall, he pulls off his belt and places it next to his crossbow, his vest following not long after. The mattress squeaks slightly when he makes his way over to it and lies down, his body feeling almost instant comfort at the feeling of something other than the hard leather of his bike’s seat. Days like this made him think that maybe you were right in jokingly telling him that his motorcycle was a dumb choice for long runs - his tailbone was probably shaped like a rectangle from how long he’d been sitting on his ass.

A few moments pass as he allows himself to indulge in some rest, eyes closing and already in the first stages of a slumber before he shoots up, pushing himself to the edge of the mattress and sitting straight. Fuck, he needed to shower. He had given you his word that he would. Each time before he fell asleep after a run, he’d said; and Daryl Dixon was not one to break promises. Especially not to you.

Getting off the bed, he sheds his shirt and throws the old fabric onto the dresser, grimacing at the knowledge he would have to scrub at the dried walker blood come morning. His socks are next, pulled off by impatient hands and left on the floor, not even given a second glance as he then pulls open a drawer and grabs a pair of boxers from his meager pile. The only thought in his mind being the feeling of smooth sheets and your body against his skin. He’d pick up his clothes after his shower - if he could even muster up enough energy to.

Step by step, he makes it a good few feet out of the bedroom before he realizes the other second floor bathroom doesn’t work. If his memory served him correct, there were some plumbing issues and, before anyone could buy replacements, the world became, well, what it is now. After all, it was the only reason you and Daryl even took this house - nobody else wanted to have only one shower and, after becoming a couple, sharing one between two people didn’t seem all that bad. At least, that’s what he thought until now. Groaning, he rubs his eyes in an attempt to rub out the fatigue in them before his whole body lights up with an idea. Maybe he could have some fun with this. And if you asked, he could always blame the missing pipe or whatever it was that the Alexandrians couldn’t fix.

Practically thrilled, he mentally pats himself on the back and rushes back to the bedroom. Tired? Not anymore. Daryl can’t be if he wants to fulfill what just popped into his mind. Years of hunting leave his footsteps nearly silent when he enters the bathroom, but he’s not exactly at a disadvantage in terms of noise. The rhythmic beating of water against the tiled floor drowns out the slight squeak of the door as well as the hitching of his breath when he notices the gap. With how the room was designed, just standing at the door led his gaze in a nearly direct line of sight to you, the shower curtain lying an inch or two from the wall and offering him a vision which he doesn’t hesitate to indulge in.

It’s not like he's never seen your body - far from it, actually - but there was something about you that made him hesitate when it came to stuff like this. You deserved sweet and soft, affectionate with declarations of love between his kisses, and while he enjoyed giving that to you, sometimes he wanted something different. Sometimes Daryl wanted to act on impulse - to feel a different type of desperation - and tonight, he wanted to act out one of his long-hidden fantasies. One that involved you on many, many occasions.

Truthfully, he couldn’t fucking stop thinking about it since Merle and his buddies showed him that damn VHS as a hormonal high schooler. He never really had a committed girlfriend or anything like that to ever even pluck up the courage to ask, but that fantasy remained like a phantom in the back of his mind, lying just outside his finger’s reach. One that haunts him late at night and renders him withering in his own palm. At least, that was the case. Because he has you now and how he managed that? He didn't know. But he felt confident enough around you and trusted you enough to pursue the desire in him.

A shiver courses through him, running along the tip of his spine when he considers the possibility you might like it as much as him - and if you did, maybe he would divulge to you more of these secrets he’s always kept hidden so well.

With silent movements, Daryl unbuttons and unzips his jeans as he leans against the door of the bathroom, just barely suppressing a groan when his fingers graze the zipper. He curses himself, chastising his sensitivity at the mere image of you doing something as mundane as taking a shower, but he knew it was an inevitable consequence. Ever since the prison, anything you did got him riled up - even just seeing you sitting on his motorcycle made his skin light up with goosebumps. Left in only his boxers, he steps out of the denim pooling at his feet and picks it up, throwing it haphazardly onto the cream coloured counter as he waits for you to take notice of his presence. The metal button clashes against the smooth marble of the vanity, and its noises sound across the room, your eyes opening and your fingers catching the edge of the plastic curtain as you dart your head out, searching for the source.

Your body tenses up, no doubt the experience of living out on the road for so long, but the fighting instinct drains from you the moment you see the affectionate boyish grin playing on Daryl’s lips. It’s barely visible as he stands so far from the meager light source, but it sends an eager smile onto your face. Like all those times he’s returned to you, you want to run to him, feel his arms wrap around you and inhale his scent as you plant those incessant kisses he ‘hated’ everywhere on his face, but that urge only serves to remind you that you’re standing naked in a shower and he’s just staring at you.

“Daryl! What the- I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

Embarrassed, you speak, voice pitched higher than normal from the shock and excitement coursing through your body. However, he stays put, leaning against the door as he drags his eyes up the expanses of skin afforded to him; that is, until you pull the plastic curtain to cover yourself and run your free hand through your hair, tilting your head ever so slightly in order to urge his eyes to meet yours. You wait for his response as you brush the wet strands back from your face, but it never comes, him instead choosing to stride towards you and send you a pout before pulling petulantly at the shower curtain, trying to coax you to let go of it. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, your grip loosens and he can barely hold back his excitement when you really do let go, tongue peeking out for just a second before he hooks his lip between his teeth.

Throughout your relationship with Daryl, you learned he loved looking at you, gawking at and admiring each angle, birthmark and curve until you felt heat flush through your body. Even before the two of you got together, his gaze stuck on you, longing and soft when you weren’t looking, only hardening if your eyes ever met his. Each time he saw you it was like he was still in disbelief that you were his, forever suspended in the wide look he had when you first confessed to him, hence why you didn’t pay much attention to his stare as you moved to pump out some shampoo. You didn’t really know why he was in the bathroom and he made no effort to tell you, but you were here to clean yourself. So that’s what you’ll do. He’ll probably leave sooner or later after making sure you weren’t hurt anywhere, anyways.

The way the light from the lantern bounced off your glistening skin made you look like some sort of goddess. Like an otherworldly being he shouldn’t be looking at. Or like a succubus, sinfully tantalizing, except you didn’t know what you were doing to him as you raked your hands through your hair again, bubbles forming already between your fingers as you scrubbed. Shit, this was way better than he expected, and he’s gladly taking in everything it was offering. Shifting his weight, he clenches and unclenches his fists - commanding himself to keep them at his sides - but then you turn around, allowing the water to rush down your back and his resolve withers away as he tries not to envy the path along which it’s falling.

Soon, the little space between the shower curtain and the ceramic tiling isn’t enough for him. He needs to feel you against him, his trembling hands and suffocating boxers egging him on like this was the first time he’s ever seen you naked. Clearing his throat, he urges himself to move, building his confidence which had seemed to dissipate nearly immediately as you locked eyes with him. What he wanted to do wasn’t sweet or affectionate, and even though he knew you would tell him if you didn’t like it, he just didn’t really want to risk even doing something you didn’t like in the first place.

“Sorry I, uh, I’ll go rinse out my hair somewhere else. Here, I’ll get out so you can-”

This was it. He had to act now or he’ll lose the opportunity. Running his thumb across his bottom lip, he watches as your hand reaches for the shower valve, but your movements and voice stop when Daryl shoots his dominant hand out, the calloused skin wrapping around your wrist in a warmth that makes you snap your gaze to his. While firm, he never applies enough force to hurt you - he knows what kind of men there were in this world, and he didn’t know what he would do if you ever thought of him like that. On the contrary, the feeling of his fingers around you is welcome, especially after what felt like years away from him. Giving him that same inquisitive look, except this time laced with a small smile, you can tell by the way he’s gnawing at his lip that he has something to say. Something that has him hesitating in a way you’ve never really seen him hesitate before, well, besides the first time you both kissed.

“Actually, mind if I join ya? ‘Cause ya see, the other shower don’t work and there’s this girl - my girl - she’s amazin’, but she doesn’t let me into our bed ‘til I shower and I’m damn tired.”

Oh.

Noticing the way you tense up slightly at his suggestion, he offers more, another reason to sway you into accepting as if the pursuit of his little fantasy would both begin and end with what drops from his lips. This definitely felt more daunting, like a much larger leap than him asking for permission to kiss you.

“I also heard showerin’ in pairs saves water.”

Oh.

Yeah, you get why he was hesitating now.

Honestly, Daryl really couldn’t give a fuck about the water he was talking about. What he had in his running mind had little to do with his environmental footprint and more to do with feeling your skin on his and the image of you coming undone for him. He hasn’t been home - been with you - in what felt like weeks, and he thought the generator could stand to work a little harder after running for one person for a few days. With a slight upwards twitch of his eyebrow, you can feel what little apprehension you had leave your body and his heart pounds in his ribcage with the anxiety of what’s to come. At least, he thinks that’s why its beating at 100 miles per hour.

It surely can’t be the residual hormonal anticipation or excitement from his youth.

“And who exactly did you hear that from?”

The slight joking edge to your voice causes him to smile, but it’s a mischievous one, one that holds promises and sends a shiver through your body. Daryl really had no clue what he did to you when he looked at you like that, his piercing blue gaze hitting you as his head tilts down almost sheepishly to the grip he has on you.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a glint residing in them that draws you to look at nothing but him as he runs his thumb along the bone of your wrist. With a tilt of his head, he speaks, muttered as he gnaws once more at his lips and lets go of his hold.

“It matter?”

So nobody, probably.

The amusing thought sends you shaking your head ‘no’ as you smile, pulling open the plastic curtain in invitation while trying to suppress the idea that just popped into your head. Daryl just wants to shower and the only reason he wants to shower with you is to fulfill that promise he had made. Because he just wants to go to sleep. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, he’s hopeful that you would be watching him - and he’s fully prepared to make a show of stripping his last piece of fabric - but he’s sorely disappointed when he sees your eyes closed in an attempt to keep the bubbling shampoo from burning at them.

Why weren’t you looking at him? Was he not overt enough?

Wow, he really wasn’t very good with… whatever it is he’s trying to do, huh?

You shuffle forward from the steady stream and he takes that as his cue to step in, gladly placing his body just a few inches from yours and sighing in relief when the water hits his sore muscles. The sounds don’t go unnoticed by you, and your heart sinks a little with each suppressed groan of pain Daryl lets out. He always worked so hard for Alexandria, and they still treated him like somewhat of an outsider, questioning his true intentions with harsh looks when he even so much as walked too close to them. But they didn’t seem to mind him much when they were eating the animals he hunted, though, and that sent your blood boiling.

Turning around, you try not to let your gaze drop too low as you place your hands on his shoulders, frowning when you feel the stiff knots that have burrowed their way underneath his skin. Almost immediately, Daryl submits to your touch, an all too familiar warmth bubbling in his heart as he, too, turns and exposes his scar ridden skin to you, allowing your thumbs to rub circles into his upper back. He always loved this - the domesticity of these moments, the wordless communications, your love and affection directed solely at him - and he’s starting to forget the real reason he crashed your shower in the first place, lulled into relaxation under your nimble fingers and the water beating down on his overworked muscles.

“Does that feel better?”

Your question warrants a response landing somewhere between a grunt and a groan, but then you laugh and he swears his heart swells tenfold. He missed hearing that. Even if you got embarrassed of it sometimes, or hid it muffled behind the palms of your hands, he loved hearing it. Because you glowed when you did, your eyes crinkling up at the corners with a smile that almost always brought him to his knees, and perhaps almost selfishly, the knowledge that he doesn’t want to be away from you any longer dawns on him - as well as the knowledge that it’s inevitable that he has to leave again soon. Whether it be with Aaron or Rick, or some of the poor bastards that piss their pants whenever they see him.

When you stop your ministrations, he feels himself frowning as you tap him once with your thumbs, but he elates almost immediately when you speak promise of a better massage come morning. He’s slightly ashamed of the way his whole body lights up in goosebumps in anticipation, but it’s not unwarranted. Spending late mornings with you was something Daryl never knew how the hell he had lived so long without, and they were his favourite types of mornings by a long shot. Especially when it ended up more often than not with you on him or him on you, the both of you thankful for the misfit house you had all to yourselves and away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears.

“You’re too damn good to me.”

But he deserves it, you think to yourself, He deserved to be cared for like this.

His praise drips with a softness he didn’t even know he was capable of until you came along and Daryl turns back around to face you, smirking lopsided when he sees a shy smile worm its way onto your face. He had to have known what he was doing when he said stuff like that - especially when he used a voice like that. Seriously, how long had the two of you been together? It felt like an eternity already, but he could still make you flustered from a simple compliment. Shaking your head, you rest your wrists at the nape of his neck and use the leverage to pull his lips to yours, thumb swiping at the blood dried at his cheek and hoping the distraction of your tongue on his will keep him from teasing the warmth crawling up your neck.

A ‘hm?’ noise falls from him, small and surprised as his eyebrows raise for just a moment before his hands loop around your waist by instinct. When you pull away, another noise falls from Daryl, but this time it’s more disappointed than anything, and he chases your lips with his bottom one jutted out, taking full advantage of the strong arms he has wrapped around you. Holding you in place, his eyes plead with the now perfected ‘one more’ look you’re all too familiar with and you can’t bring yourself to deny him - he knows you can’t. Closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he waits patiently, he hums when you finally kiss him again, his satisfaction vibrating down to the hollow center of your collarbones before begrudgingly letting you go when you pull away again.

The water runs a brownish red from the dried walker blood being washed off his body and he scrubs furiously at his arms, trying to gauge the right move that will get your thighs shaking and your moans bouncing off the ceramic tiles he’s seen less than he’s willing to admit. Should he just… go for it? Just pull you against him and push you up against the walls he wants your noises to echo off of? No, he should come up with a better idea. You deserved a better idea.

Running his thumb along his jaw, Daryl sneaks furtive glances at your body - who the hell he was hiding them from, he didn’t know - and picks even more skin off his chapped lips as he watches you twist at your waist ever so slightly to comb through your hair. Swallowing down his spit like some teenager, he watches your shoulder blades protrude and disappear, intently following the droplets of water as they fall along your neck and down the muscles you’ve developed. He had to hand it to the sorry rich prick who had designed this house because, all things considered, they did a pretty good job; there was just enough spread of it between the two of you to pass as a decent shower. Even if you or him had to oddly angle yourselves to warm a cool patch of skin.

Reaching towards the shampoo bottle, his arm brushes against your waist almost feather-light, but it sends a shiver through you, rattling your ribs and making your cheeks flush all the same. Daryl lingers for a moment longer than you expect, his body leaning as he stretches over and you think he’s going to step forward - wrap you up in him - but dutifully, respectfully, anxiously he stays put. You want his touch, especially after nights alone with only the scent of him on his side of the bed to keep you company, and, having caught a quick glance at his straining boxers before he joined, there’s little room for doubt in your mind that he wants you. But still, it exists.

Your own arms begin to sore when he finally pulls away, his hands now raking through the hair he seemingly never wants to cut. Clearing your throat, you turn around, eyes screwed shut as you face Daryl, fearing for both the shampoo you’re washing out stinging at your eyes and the fact that if you looked at him, your gaze would probably drop. God, was all it took just a few days without him to have you craving him like this? The close proximity coupled with the knowledge he’s standing next to you naked makes you tense up before a shiver runs up your spine, your thoughts causing your breath to hitch for barely a second. Despite your efforts to suppress it, your subconscious prays that he picks up on the little noise. Please let him pick up on it.

And he does, ever observant as he connects the dots, the initially surprised look on his face melting into a small anticipatory smirk before he all but races to lather his hair in the coconut - or was it grapefruit? - scent. This was good. This was damn good.

He dares take a step forward, tentative, testing out the waters as if he was unsure of your desire, but he knows he can read you, and that he can do it well. This was when he should do something, right? The subtle confirmations - a tense, a shiver, a hitching breath - beg him to. Under the streaming shower, Daryl impatiently scrubs at his scalp, teeth hooked permanently atop his lip as he watches the rivulets of watered-down shampoo catch along your skin, his fingers and mouth itching to replicate its path down your neck to your chest. He knows that path well, and perhaps that’s what makes him even more envious.

Thank God for the fact you’ve closed your eyes because if anybody saw Daryl right now, they would take a step back, maybe even several thinking he was angry. How could they not when he was glaring at you as if you had done something horrible? It’s a surprise to him, the fact that it seemed like you really could not feel the burn of his stare, but then a thought pops into his lust-fogged brain. Maybe you did know. And maybe you were toying with him, playing coy and pushing him to a teetering edge, letting him taste the tension on his tongue until he could hold back no more.

To say he’s impatient is an understatement. He isn’t simply impatient, no, he’s impatient. He wants to do something. He wants you to do something, to initiate the flurry of hands and lips he’s craving so desperately and, seemingly blind to that triad of signals, he scrubs frantic at his hair in an attempt to control himself. As he rinses out the shampoo, he manages to cling onto what little restraint he had over his body until you turn back around. It was like the universe was egging him on, trying to break his resolve by showing him those dimples on your lower back, reminding him of the way he gripped them when he took you that night before he left - and it works. Jesus fucking Christ does it work.

Daryl’s body crowds you then, muscular arms wrapped around either side of your waist and rough hands palming at your chest before sliding down to your stomach, pulling you flush into him while he grinds his hips experimentally against your body. The feeling catches you off-guard, eyes widening in surprise as you let out a gasp into the steam of hot water and you grip harshly at his forearm, attempting to steady yourself from the sensations blossoming from your thighs. He can feel them tense and begin to snap closed against him, but you hear the corners of his mouth twitch upwards with satisfaction.

“What- what are you doing?”

Restless, his fingers travel downwards, hooking a strong thigh between your two legs as he ignores your question, them parting immediately to accommodate him. Daryl’s veins thrum with adrenaline, feeling the all too familiar effects of your warm skin when he realizes you’re letting him do this - enjoying him, even - your hands pawing at his to beg him to speed up, to bring you that nirvana he loves to be the reason for. Heat flushes your body, knowing full well what he’s capable of, but despite it, your skin erupts into goosebumps under his touch, desperate for more.

“What’s it look like ‘m doin’?”

Your neck comes under his affection next, his lips meeting it as he mumbles the words against your pulse point, tongue darting out when he feels it speed up. Almost methodically, Daryl finds the marks he’d left days prior, darkening them with unadulterated determination and rolling his hips against you once more. The heavy motion draws a whine from you, short and needy as your nails dig into his wrist and he all but basks in it. God, this felt good. How the hell had he spent so long without you? Without your skin under his? Everything about you feels like a fucking drug to him.

“D-Daryl- what would your girl say.”

He smiles against your neck, a warm pride bubbling in his chest when he hears the slight shake in your voice. It always got like this when he was touching you, and he liked to think it was the anticipation raking through your body. All the possibilities he could bring to you. He loved listening to your voice as it was, but hearing it quaver as it bounced off the ceramic walls, mingled perfectly with the rhythmic thrum of water crashing against the two of you? It was almost alarming how quickly it made his head spin.

Submitting to your urging, he lets you slide his hands down to the apex of your thighs, groaning guttural into your ear when he feels your hips lift and rut into his touch, unintentionally grinding your ass onto his cock when you push yourself back onto him. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, you hear his breaths as he digs his palm an inch below your pelvis, thick fingers gripping harsh at your inner thighs as he nudges his further between them. It feels like fucking magic, whatever he’s doing, and a plea tingles at your lips before you bite it down. Daryl’s never been this bold, and this is new territory for the two of you. Very new. So you were going to let him take his time - let him explore every inch of your skin as if he didn’t already have it memorized - despite the fact every cell in your body screams for you to sink down on him right here and now.

His grip disappears too quickly for your taste, but before you can even register the decadent sear that marks his blunt fingernails and calluses, his palm makes home just below your stomach and he swipes two fingers against you, spreading you for him but avoiding that bundle of nerves you want so desperately for him to touch. An expletive drops from Daryl’s lips as he gathers evidence of your arousal, and the sound of him makes you claw at his wrist, your hands still blanketing his as you try to angle him to do something other than coat his fingers and smear you across your inner thighs. Amused, his middle finger curls, breaching you just until his first joint before pulling away, relishing in the way you clench as if trying to keep him in you.

“Hm, I dunno. What do ya think she’d say? I think she likes it.”

You can hear the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he feels your body react and you can practically see it behind your closed eyelids. Daryl knows all your buttons, every single movement that renders you down to a puddle of mush, but he’s avoiding them. His jaw clenches and unclenches as you buck your hips up to try and meet the talented fingers only getting further and further and further from you. Skin warm from the streaming water and the sheer amount of lust coursing through him, his left arm snakes upward, resting just under your breasts before pulling your shoulders flush against him. His teeth sneak out from behind his lips, grazing against that spot that made your thighs shake the first time you slept with him, and you become putty in his hands.

A gasp of Daryl’s name falls before a staggered whimper erupts from your throat, his hands moving so fast and sure along your body as if he had molded you to his perfection. Everything hits you at the same time, his sharp canines right below your jaw bone before they melt into the caress of slightly chapped lips, the hand at your chest palming and tweaking and toying like there was no tomorrow, his fingers swirling, nudging at that tiny bundle of nerves you’ve been silently begging him to touch just once, and you can’t stop the noises falling from your lips. No matter how much you try, they escape.

“Or d’ya think she’s too busy moanin’ for me to tell me?”

Oh, that fucking prick.

To make it worse, you can’t even bring yourself to be angry for that long because his voice drops into that low, husky whisper that makes your knees go weak. Had Daryl not essentially smothered you against his body, you just know you would be a puddle, pliable and aching after just a few days away from him. A jolt of pleasure rockets through you the moment you realize what he wants - to make you as desperate as he is for this - and you know he knows exactly how to get it. Biting your lip, you trap your sounds in your throat just to spite him and you dig your fingers into his forearm, seeking in any way to find another outlet for all the compounding stimulation he just keeps giving you.

Your heartbeat drums through your ears and you can barely register the growl against your skin, but the vibration of it is inescapable. He feels the crescent shapes already forming from your nails on his tan skin and he pulls his face from you, breath fanning your ear in preparation to express how disappointed he is at you robbing him of your noises, but you beat him to it, freeing the words that burn at your tongue to knock him off his high-horse. Daryl was never a very confident man, but fuck if it does not make your skin tingle.

“I think she’d tell you to- to shut up.”

The rebuke is futile, a stutter brought on by the push and pull of his deft fingers and he laughs. Daryl chuckles into your skin before everything from him detaches, only for him to grab at your waist and spin you around to face him, adjusting his hold to crowd you once more. Your back hits the ceramic tiles, a sharp whine escaping you at the contrasting cold, and you can see that smirk you had envisioned on his face when you open your eyes, taking in every inch of the swept back hair now falling into his face as he tilts his forehead slowly to yours. Running your non-dominant hand up from his arm to his face, you push the strands back, smiling slightly at the way he melts as his eyelids flutter shut for just a second. As much as he said he hated how damn soft you made him, he sought after your touch, your hands much too intoxicating for him to deny them.

You glow a ring of delicate orange from the lantern shining behind him, the light bouncing off your glistening skin and those sparkling damn eyes that shine with unguarded affection despite your ‘annoyance’ from just moments ago. Creating shadows over your body with his broad figure as he blankets you, Daryl nearly groans with delight at the image - the realization that you look impossibly better with the warm hue making his head spin. And when he remembers that you’re his to love? He tries to hide just how much it makes his mind run, but his voice comes spilling out without much thought, everything about you shrinking the filter between his brain and mouth that he so tenaciously keeps on during the day.

“That so? ‘Cause if I do then I can’t tell ‘er how much I missed her. Or what I was thinkin’ when I thought about ‘er at night.”

Daryl was already so worked up at the thought of doing this to you, you didn’t even need to actually do anything to him to have him throbbing against your stomach, begging to be touched after days of only imagined scenarios to keep him company. So you indulge him, tracing your dominant hand down the V-line of his pelvis and biting your tongue when his hips snap into your grasp, his grip at your waist tightening as he tries to still himself. He wants you to touch him, to let you give him what you want to give him and he tries his damndest to control himself, instead using his words to try and rile you up.

“Nothin’ I do feels as good as her. Nothin’ I’ve tried’s ever been close.”

Your whole body shivers at the insinuation, the ceramic sandwiching you to Daryl ceasing to feel as cold as it did when he first pushed you against it. He feels like centuries have passed when your hand finally wraps around him, running your fingers in a stroke that has him groaning and nearly keeling over you with how much that simple damn action makes heat pool in the pit of his stomach. Everything about this feels heightened, the steam of the shower failing in comparison to the heat pinging between the two of you. His eyes seek yours, cock twitching and catapulting him much farther to his climax than he would like to admit when he sees you watching your grasp, lips parted ever so slightly, pleading with him to lay his on them.

Heart thrumming in his chest, another groan of an expletive followed by your name drops from Daryl before his hips jerk forward, stuttering into your grip with no real rhythm as he pushes a rough kiss onto your mouth. When you let out a little surprised squeal, he pulls himself back immediately, as if shocked by his own lack of self-control, but your hand never stops, and your face leans closer towards his, the feeling of his ruined sounds vibrating along your tongue making you chase him. This must have been how he felt when he had you whimpering for him on those late nights and early mornings. No wonder you both loved them so much.

Twisting your other hand from the side of his neck to his nape, you pull him to you with equal fervor, the stroking of his cock forgotten in favour of his chapped lips turning into something more sinful with each movement of his talented mouth. His fingers begin to wander now, eagerly grasping at the two dimples at your lower back before his palms find all too familiar territory kneading and massaging your ass. Knees nearly buckling, you remember the leaking heaviness twitching in your grip and you nudge him between your thighs, your legs spreading just a bit wider as you inch him closer and closer and closer to where you need it most.

“N-no, wait- I gotta-“

His hands shoot downwards to still yours and he pulls his hips from you, his statement stuttered through a sharp, shaky breath. Whining, you nearly beg for him before you realize he succeeded in what he set out to do - and he was only gone four days, your subconscious chastises. Your head is swimming in desperation for him as you shake it, hair whipping into your face and onto the wall while you vehemently disagree with both his words and your own internal mocking. All coherent thoughts leave your mind, washed away in the stream of water running down your body and you come to the conclusion that you don’t fucking care if he would poke fun at you come morning, you need to feel him.

“Daryl you don’t need to- you can just- I can-“

You don’t need to keep-

You can just-

I can-

God, you sounded pathetic, your voice barely breaking above breathy through the heavy beating of water, and he loves it, it’s enticing him; he could die right now and he would feel nothing but satisfaction. Daryl was never a very confident man - well, with people at least - but around you, he felt wanted. Not just in moments like this when you craved him so debaucherously, but in moments when you would pull close to him while you were sleeping or hug him from the back. Just giving him your affection so freely and not expecting any back. It made his heart damn near break everytime he had to leave. Adjusting his grip on you, he digs his knee into the wall, perching you on either side of him and leaning closer and closer to your burning skin.

“Gotta get ya ready. Jus’- jus’ be a good girl an’ be patient. Don’t want ya limpin’ tomorrow ”

Despite his words, Daryl can’t help but think that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t be so bad to linger beside you the whole day, a constant reminder of the real reason you needed him to get you things, or why you would grip his arm as a piss poor substitute for a crutch when the two of you walked along the street. Nobody else would know - at least, neither of you would ever tell - but the satisfied puff of his chest and the fact he stands just a little bit prouder might make them connect the dots. That, and the lovebites that creep out from underneath the neckline of your shirt which, coincidentally, only seemed to darken after he came back. Nah, he thinks to himself, it wouldn’t be so damn bad.

“I thought you were tired.”

There’s a hint of concern in your voice, peeking out from between the teasing and he grunts, acknowledging your words before his hands wrap around your wrists and urges them to loop around his neck. He knows he needs to do this, the action a silent beg for you to just relax and let him treat you right in the way you know he always will. With his neck flush in the crooks of your elbows, you tug him, pulling his face to yours and raking your fingers through his wet hair.

“Never too tired for you.”

His stubble scrapes against your nose as he mumbles his confession between kisses down from your forehead, a delicious burn leaving a trail that makes your heart beat impossibly faster between your ribs. Grip falling to your waist, Daryl’s rough fingers inch towards the apex of your thighs, but he moves them so fucking slow you're tempted to just reach down and push them into you like you intended to do with his cock. Before you can entertain the idea any longer, he catches your lips in a clash of tongue and teeth and knowingly smirks against your lips. He’s dedicated, attentive, and what kind of man would have the heart to deny you? He would do anything for you, all you had to do was ask.

Daryl eagerly swallows the moan you let out against his lips when his middle finger curls into you, the vibrations spreading along his tongue and consuming him from the inside out. Your thighs spread wider for him, welcoming him - no, begging him - for more and it riles him up almost comically well. Whether it was intentional or not, he would never know. He pulls his face away just inches, breath heavy against your parted lips before he sends you a small smile, an underlying mischief peeking out from the tiniest sliver of teeth he exposes. Leaning more of his weight onto his knee, his left hand travels around your waist to your ass, digging his dull fingernails into the flesh and pulling towards him, bringing your hips off the cold ceramic and snaking that arm into the curve he’s just created.

Before you can even brace yourself, he pushes a second finger in, curling languid with accelerating speed, revelling in the heat you bring him with an audible groan that reverberates off the shower walls. Already so desperate, the feeling nearly makes your legs shake under your own weight, but Daryl’s prepared - he could keep you up with the hand he has splayed across your upper back and he’s secretly proud of it. His mouth returns to you again, tongue surging to meet yours as if just the taste of your kiss would satisfy his desire to taste what’s beginning to coat down his palm.

It doesn’t, but it’s a damn good substitute.

Nails scratching pathetically at his scalp, your lungs beg for oxygen, but you ignore your body’s pleading for as long as you can. You need Daryl. Just him. Just him. His fingers are ardent, all of them pushing and pulling and toying and touching you in a way that skyrockets you into an overwhelming nirvana and it feels good. It feels so good to be with him again, surrounded by his scent and his heat, that you start to entertain the thought of begging for him. You try to do just that, but every sound coming from your lips is only absorbed greedily by his before you pull him away by his hair, taking large gulps of oxygen as he does the same.

Not even a second passes before you’re grinding down into his palm with pleas falling into the steam of the shower, all your words going straight down to his cock. Gritting his teeth, he growls at your desperation, lips shooting down along your collarbone before catching the skin between teeth. He has your whole body memorized, proof of that fact littered across your body in the form of lovebites, memories seared into your mind of his everything and it’s almost too much to handle. Almost. But you need more. And Daryl knows, much too perceptive in all senses of the word.

His left arm snakes up to your neck, the nape of it secured in a grip firm enough to pull your hips down onto his muscular thigh, spreading you and rubbing that sensitive bundle of nerves with his rough skin. Something between a swear and Daryl’s name chokes through your throat and he curls his two fingers just enough for you to repeat the sound, the movement perhaps pulling your hips forwards toward him. With the way you grind down so readily on him, it wasn’t easy to tell whether the roll of your lower body was from his fingers or the lust running through your veins. A satisfied smirk worms its way onto his face that you want to kiss off, but your head is stuck against the ceramic tiling by his hand tugging securely on your hair. Not enough to hurt you. Never enough to hurt you.

He can feel it now, the fact that you’re close, and it only makes him work harder. Maybe it was selfish of him, expediting your pleasure so he can finally seek out his, but he’s damn near shaking with the thought of finally being able to be with you in one of the ways he always wants to be. Sometimes Daryl felt like a teenager with all this certain enthusiasm he can’t seem to control with you around, but you had never complained - you made him feel alive in all the best ways - and he thanked whoever was pulling the strings in his favour for bringing him to you. Circling his thigh, he pushes everything he can up into you, the pressure making you feel like you’re floating. Fingers carding through his hair, your whole body tightens around him in a silent plea, and he's pretty sure he would have to be just about the biggest idiot in existence to ever deny you.

“Give it to me. C’mon, give it to me. Ya wanted my cock didn’t ya? Jus’ give it to me an’ I’ll make ya feel even better.”

Give it to me.

Daryl’s voice makes your mind swim, the growl rough and dangerous like everyone always tends to think he is, and incoherence drops from your lips, echoing against the confines of the walls as his breath fans your ear. Rutting your hips up to his hand, the knot in your abdomen snaps, the proclamation of it escaping you in a broken moan of his name. He can feel your body’s reactions before you start to get those familiar sparking waves of pleasure, the clench of you around him growing sporadic as he continues to unravel you with his teeth gritted, the unrelenting precision of his fingers sending you clawing and tugging at his scalp with no regard of your strength for just a moment.

His groan at the sensations edges out the haze of your climax and you immediately detach from him, pulling your body back from his so abruptly that he slips from you. Scrunching his nose in disappointment, his large hands cling at the back of your thighs, bringing your chest and forehead to his as if he couldn’t stand being apart from you for even just a few seconds.

“Sorry- sorry if that hurt I didn’t mean to-”

Face inches from yours, he shakes his head and cuts you off with a series of hungry pecks. One to your sinfully soft lips, then to the corner of your mouth, then one to your jawbone, devouring your apology right then and there as he overtakes your senses.

“‘S alright. It felt good.”

Then he kisses you again, urgent all the same, but he only pushes a firm brush of his mouth against yours. The movement is like a signature, as if it were his name scribbled easily along at the bottom of a letter - a soft possession that you wear along the tingles of your lips. It makes you claw at him again, tugging on the sides of his hips to pull him flush against you, fingernails digging crescent shapes he wants to see come morning, and your apprehension all but dissolves into the hot water of the shower. You were his, he was yours and in his mind, there was nothing he wanted more than for you to show him just what he does to you.

“Anythin’ ya do feels good.”

It’s stupid, how you could be in the middle of something so intimate and a simple compliment from him could leave you flushed from the neck upwards, but he loves it. He loves the little whimper you let out at his words and he smiles that lopsided boyish grin that makes your heart skip a beat. When he smiles at you like that, it makes you feel like the only person in the entire world. No walkers, no Alexandrians, no runs or patients at the infirmary to steal you or him away from the other. There was no one except you and Daryl - and it’s been too damn long since it was like this.

Body flush against yours, he snakes a hand down between his legs and the other grips at your thigh, hooking it around his torso and begging with a roll of his hips for you to rest your leg there. Each breath he takes sends a jolt of pleasure blossoming against your ribs, his skin rubbing against your chest so deliciously it makes your mouth fall open in silent pants of air. You don’t know when you closed your eyes, but they open when Daryl says your name, broken by a curse that falls somewhere after the first letter. He looks good like this - eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched.

Gritting his teeth, his mouth can barely form a coherent sentence with how much excitement is coursing through him, and he’s trying his fucking best to hold back from slamming into you until you give him a nod or a pull or anything, but then something in him breaks. The feeling of just having you so damn close worms its way into his brain and he takes himself in his fist, dragging along to gather the remnants of your climax and notches himself, all the while groaning from the heat emanating off you.

“‘S this okay? Need t’know if this’s okay.”

Slurred speech. It was so uncharacteristic of the Daryl everyone else knew - the Daryl who was so sure of himself, the Daryl who wore a permanent scowl on his face, the Daryl who was so mysterious, never speaking anything above a growl - and you think you could have laughed had it not been for the fact the words themselves dig up memories of all the times he had said them to you before. Every cell in your body lights up, high alert now that he’s in you, but he’s not moving. He’s not inching into you or filling you in the only way he can and you push your hips towards him, greedy movements making you swallow more of him. Taking a sharp breath, he lets you rut against him, but still, he doesn’t fucking move.

“God, Daryl- yes. Yes, it’s okay. More- more than okay.”

Sometimes you hated him, and then hated how stupid you felt for hating him.

He waits for your words. He always does. Without fail he checks on you before he slides into you. He never wants to take because he always wants to be good for you, but sometimes you wish he would. Sometimes you wish he would just take from you - take everything you have. There is nothing in this world that is not shared between the two of you. Daryl’s wholly yours as you are wholly his.

Curses drop from his lips, your name thrown in once or twice as if he’s reminding himself you’re real as he feels you around him. They fly out of his mouth like the bolts from his crossbow and ricochet off every wall as he begins to move, slow at first, experimental maybe with his hand secure against your thigh, then he starts building and building into a heavy, sinful rhythm. Shakily, Daryl groans, the breath he lets out tendrilling at your chin before he sucks frantically at your bottom lip, your noises meeting his as they hit the ceramic wall.

He wants to live in this moment forever; immortalize the way you look and sound on one of those VHSes, write the damn date on it, and hide it away for his and your eyes only so it’s rewatchable and revisitable and reliveable. It's not enough to just sear you into his memory like he’s done so many times before because you’re damn near perfect. Like you were made for him - for him to give you everything he wants to give to you.

“Fuck- fuck- you feel better’n I remembered. How’s‘at possible?”

The words escape him, rushing out as if you’ve put a spell on him, and they almost escape you, too, your pulse beating in your ears. But he’s so close to you, growling out through gritted teeth into your ear and pushing his lips to the curve of your jawbone like they need to be on your skin. He pulls his body away, chest leaving yours, and you pull at his waist to bring him back, whining lewd for him and only him, shameless and betraying the blush you feel as you register his stutters, but he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl smiles, that same damn grin with his teeth hooked along his bottom lip and eyes hooded as he watches every change in expression. You groan, half in the way he rolls his pelvis just enough to rub against that small bundle of nerves that beg for him, and half in annoyance at the way that lascivious expression seems to make every electron in you buzz.

“Shut- shut up.”

He lets out a sharp breath, a singular amused ‘ha’ following it, cock hardening and twitching even more at the fact he’s making you blush like that first night he had lavished every inch of your body with his lips - like you didn’t deserve every single damn word escaping from him. Leaning his weight against his left forearm that lies on the side of your head, Daryl brings his face to yours, nipping at your lips and seeking your tongue before he starts speaking.

“You should see yourself like this, y’know. Fuckin’ perfect for me.”

For a man who only ever growls and mutters, he certainly liked to talk a lot when he was pounding into you the way only he knows how and you’re just so damn unbelievable for him. For him. You’re his to love and it sparks something within in him that makes his tongue fucking run and his hips speed up involuntarily. Hell, you probably heard more of his voice in this shower tryst than the whole first nightwatch you had with him. You’re not even sure the water is beating down onto you anymore because the heat of your body makes the shower pale in comparison.

The sweat accumulating on his back and chest and everywhere is washed away almost immediately as it forms and you’re grasping for something to hold onto. Clawing, you wrap both your arms under and around his shoulders and scratch desperately at his back, grinding up against him and making jumbled noises of moans and Daryl’s name when he drags against that spot he knows so well. It’s skin on skin, the ceramic wall ceasing to feel cold as you screw your eyes shut and let yourself mount and mount with each roll of his hips. You hear a nearly feral growl, feeling your leg being hiked up higher by the elbow hooked underneath your thigh, and a loud noise breaks from your throat when his thumb swipes where his cock meets you.

“C’mon, we ain’t got all night.”

You’re close and he knows it. It was like he was rubbing it in your face, the fact he could make you like this - how quickly he could reduce you into the incoherent, ruined state you always seemed to become for him. Attentive. He’s always attentive. You can tell by the way he’s memorized everything that makes you shake and capitalizes on them, thrusts coupled with the tight circles pulling you closer and closer to that precipice of pleasure, but he says those words anyways, hoping to get a reaction from you. Daryl’s not an impatient lover - he would spend hours buried in you if you let him - but he’s so damn close and perhaps almost selfishly, he wants to watch you succumb first. He wants to watch the water race down your body as you writhe for him against the wall, and he wants that to send him over the edge.

“Then- then do better, Daryl.”

You bite back, your breath grazing against his neck and a wet heat rushes through him, making him groan nearly wrecked as his hair tickles your cheek. Reaching behind his muscular body to his shoulder blades, one of his large hands is more than enough to wrap around both of your wrists and he takes them in his grasp, moving them until they’re secure against the ceramic wall behind you. You’re warm for him. Pliable for him despite the veil of distaste in your voice and he can’t get enough of it.

Daryl’s so fucking happy you bite back.

His hips stop and you let out an almost childish cry, but he stays buried deep, filling you up to the brim as the water beats down on the both of you and holding you against the tiles by the weight he’s pressing from where you meld to him. His face is so close to your ear now. So much so that you can feel the breath when he speaks, a dangerous growl resounding through your body before his teeth graze along your neck.

“Hm? I ain’t never heard a complaint from you be- before. That a- fuck- are ya challengin’ me?”

An expletive drops from Daryl’s lips when you clench around him, no doubt from the sudden crash of your mounting pleasure, and he pushes impossibly further into you, firmly pinning you down until he knows you won’t be able to move anymore. He wants to show you he can stop at any moment, that he can make you work for it, but you both know he’ll give in. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of which you have him wrapped around your finger, but if you even knew half of it, you would know he would never stop. Not when he was so desperate for you he can barely think of anything except the way you look and feel. At least, not unless you wanted him to.

“Are you g-gonna take it up?”

Although your mouth ceases there, your brain runs, pleas tickling at the tip of your tongue, but you can barely manage to form the meager few syllables that have already escaped you. Eyebrows knotted at your forehead, you try desperately to coax more movement from him - a whine, a whimper, a thrash of your pinned hands flattened by his strong grip - but Daryl’s so damn still and it’s driving you crazy. When your body settles for only ragged breathing and shaking thighs, he takes it as his cue to lean down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s so affectionate you forget that, just moments ago, he was relentlessly pounding into you.

“Don’t know. Seems like you might be wantin’ it more’n me.”

Smiling against your mouth, he pulls away just enough to speak. A challenge in his words so obvious to you that you try in vain to buck your hips to his. If he didn’t sound so good and look so good and feel so damn good, you would have denied it, but you’re strung so taut, so close to the peak, that you can barely form a retort. A stupid, handsome smirk rests on his lips as he waits. Patient. Like it wasn’t affecting him, being buried in you. He’s just waiting for your words - goading you as he watches from underneath his lashes.

“Daryl, I swear to God if you stop right-“

The insincere threat is enough to spur him into action. Partly due to the fact you sound so desperate and ruined for him, and partly because he just needs to feel you again - he would lay you down and take you the way you deserved on the bed come morning, but right now was a different matter entirely. Swearing, his smirk drops in favour of a scowl, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he snaps up into you in quick succession. The hand at your thigh is roaming now, massaging and palming wherever his nimble fingers can worm their way onto before it splays across your ass, using the grip to pull your body impossibly closer to his. Daryl would have made you beg for him - he wanted to - but he can’t stop himself. Not when you look so pretty up against the wall and you’re taking his cock so well.

“Been gone four days an’ you’re already so damn needy.”

Whether that statement was directed at you or himself, you would never know.

An abashed whimper escapes through you and you want to deny it, perhaps just to see what would happen, but you can’t. You can’t because Daryl’s right. He knows he is, and you know he is. You thrash your arms so you can touch him, feel his skin underneath your fingers, but his grip around your wrists keeps you firm against the ceramic tiling - just enough to keep you pinned so he can admire the way you squirm for him. Grunts and groans of your name escape from him with each thrust, the feeling of your body melded to his much too intoxicating for him to keep his mouth shut.

“What, you embarrassed now? Wanna cover your mouth? Keep them noises from me when you’re soundin’ so damn pretty? Ya better not be thinkin’ about it. ‘Cause ya damn well ain’t gotta.”

Daryl tilts his head, eyes squinting in faux-concern and mocking you as his hips relentlessly hit up into yours, pushing out the breath from your lungs which escape in tantalizing gasps with each roll. You’re so close, and the only thing you can do is moan at the sound of his rough voice, the coil tightening in your abdomen because of his determined thrusts. You just need a little more - just a little more - and he reads you like a book.

Without warning, the hand pinning your wrists frees itself, his finger pinpointing back between your thighs with an unadulterated eagerness to pull your climax from you and you damn near cry out Daryl’s name as you claw at his back. It’s like second nature to him, the way he can touch you and make you crumble for him. Practice does make perfect, and he’s always been a persistent man.

“Ya sure as hell weren’t when you were bein’ a brat.”

Everything he’s doing to you is almost effortless. It makes your legs shake and without warning, your thighs tense up, a white hot surge of pleasure erupting from the base of your stomach and you gasp a broken moan of Daryl’s name as you clutch at his neck in an effort to keep yourself from collapsing onto him. He holds you close, chest pushed up to yours and breathing ruined into your ear as he works you through your climax with dextrous fingers, chasing his own as his rhythm begins to falter. Sporadic thrusts meet each flutter of your clenching warmth. until he can’t hold out anymore.

Screwing his eyes shut, a stuttered chanting of profanities mixed in perfectly with pleads of your name fan out from his mouth and he pulls out, rubbing himself harsh against your thigh before your fingers wrap around his cock. Fuck, Daryl nearly crumbles right then and there, a ragged groan rushing from him before his hips jerk upwards to your touch - nothing could even compare to it and he thinks nothing could ever come close. Nothing except you. Pulsing in your grasp, both of his rough hands dig into either of your thighs and he stills, teeth gritted as the evidence of his pleasure hits your stomach before being washed away in the steady stream of water.

Satisfied, you smile and lean towards him, your head coming off the ceramic wall, and he parts his lips immediately for your tongue, but you pull away after giving him a quick peck. Scrunching his nose, Daryl pats lightly at your thigh for your attention and seeks your lips once more, moving his with the same amount of overwhelming love and affection he always does. It makes you feel warm inside, like you were the only one in the world for him. And you were. At least, in his mind you were.

He releases the grip he has on your thigh and slowly lowers it, his hand still ghosting close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Both legs still shaking slightly, your foot hits the floor of the shower and you lean your weight on it, tentative and experimentally at first before you overestimate its security and half-fall-half-stumble into him. Daryl notices, of course he does, and he swallows down the pride welling in his chest as his sure grasp steadies you against his body.

“Hey, hey, I got ya. Jus’- jus’- I got ya.”

By instinct, he speaks, the rumble of his chest against yours making your heart well up with the familiar fondness you always experience when it comes to him. Daryl wasn’t a man of many words even though you had managed to break him out of his shell a little - at least with you - but there was no doubt in your mind that he genuinely and wholeheartedly cared about you. In his eyes, you had strung the stars into the sky and he always treated you with a softness he never thought himself capable of.

With one hand on his waist and one on his shoulder, you use Daryl as a crutch, continuing to lean your weight on your legs until they cease to shake. When you can stand on your own, albeit with wobbly legs, you link your fingers in both of his and meet his protective gaze - alert as if prepared to catch you again if your body gave any type of signal. He smiles when he sees the expression on your face and brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a firm kiss onto the back of each of your hands before letting go and reaching for the bar of soap you two had ignored in exchange for something more riveting.

“Here, let me- I’ll help ya wash up.”

It meets your shoulder and it’s cold as he trails it down, lathering your right arm before moving across your chest and to your left. Smiling at his concern, you hum, nodding your head and content at the feeling of his tenderness as he continues to dutifully run the suds down along your body. Daryl unabashedly goes about copping a feel or two when his hand just so happens to fall onto your chest or your ass, a boyish grin meeting your quirked eyebrow when you question his intentions with a look. If you actually, truly cared to ask him, he would say he was helping you wash your body and making sure he was doing it to the best of his ability - quality assurance or some shit like that.

He helps you lather, too, calloused fingers rubbing off dead skin much better than yours could as he focuses the showerhead on him. You laugh when he pulls you into him, water streaming down your body along with his hands as the bubbles wash off your body and you run the bar of soap along the broad expanse of his shoulders, doing your fair share of subtle… touching too. Daryl all but melts into your caring hands, revelling in the way your attention is solely focused on him before he grunts, as if signalling you to look at him. When you do, his hands loop around your waist, head tilted to one side as he gingerly rubs those little shapes he always love to draw onto your skin.

“Y’alright? Was, uh, was that alright, I mean.”

Allowing you to maneuver him under the shower, he begrudgingly lets go of you to rinse off all the soap and feels genuinely clean for the first time in what felt like days. Smiling, you respond, saluting playfully and laying a small peck onto the corner of his lips before you spin around, pulling the curtain open just enough to reach for the towel lying just a few inches away on the towel rack but still keeping the warmth from the water in.

“Yes, sir!”

His cock twitches at the name, betraying the slur of fatigue in his voice and he sighs at himself, turning the shower knob off and opening the curtain fully, reaching for his own towel that hangs next to yours. He always did feel like a teenager when it came to you, and usually he didn’t mind it, but he really was tired before this and his back is killing him, so maybe another time.

Drying your body, you turn your head towards him and smile before making quick work of your wet hair and stepping out, pulling your underwear on from where you left it on the bathroom counter. It’s a small smile, one fully innocent and only ever reserved for him, but that look makes your words replay in his mind. A shudder runs through him as he tries to ease a smile onto his face too, admiring the scene of you for a moment. It’s domesticity, showing him a homelife he could actually feel loved and safe in; reminding Daryl something like that actually existed for him.

He imagines meeting you in a different world, wooing you like you deserved through coffee dates and Radiohead concerts, not through killing reanimated corpses or guarding Alexandria’s walls together, and his whole body calms down.

But then you pull on a shirt that’s much too big for you - one of his shirts that you said you liked wearing because it smelled like him - and he swallows his spit as if he hadn’t seen you naked just moments ago, a familiar shudder running through him again. Definitely another time. Near future, preferably.

Hopefully.

“You coming?”

Your voice breaks Daryl out of his daydream and he grunts an answer, smirking at the joke that just popped into his head as he replies with a curt ‘I just did’ and catches the pair of boxers you throw at him in response. Rolling your eyes, you comb your fingers through your hair and try to dry it as much as you can with the towel before reaching for your toothbrush. He follows suit, dressed in only his boxers as he brushes his teeth and shakes his wet hair at you like a dog, causing you to whip water at him off your fingertips after you wash off the excess toothpaste dribbling at the corners of your mouth. Smiling internally, he spits, tasting mint on his tongue that he'd much rather replace with the taste of your lips, even though he knows full well you’re just as minty as he is.

“Thank you.”

Meeting his eye in the mirror, you give him a confused look, eyebrows raised in an expression he thought was much too cute on your face for your own good. Your hands don’t still as you continue to rub out the water in your hair, determined not to go to bed with it too wet and risking it to clump up and dry tangled.

“For lettin’ me, uh, do that.”

His naturally gravelly voice clears up, turning slightly more timid than you were used to and you notice the shift in his behaviour. He avoids your gaze, waiting for your response as he fiddles with the lantern he now has in his grasp, unsure of what you would say and you decide your hair is dry enough. Hanging your towel back onto the rack next to his, you grab his free hand and lead the two of you back towards the bed, smiling affectionately as you turn off the lightsource and place it onto the nightstand. Wide-eyed, Daryl stares at you, as if waiting for you to tell him to leave - that you hated what he had done - but you break him from that train of thought as you slip under the covers and welcome him to join you.

Relief washes over him and he happily climbs in, groaning at the feeling of your body next to his and he succumbs to the comfort of the mattress. Pushing yourself into his side, his arms automatically open for you and he swears he could cry when you brush your thumb against his cheekbone and lean up to him.

“Anything for you.”

He feels the words as you whisper them just inches away from his lips, and he relishes in them when you pull away from the quick peck and dig your face into your pillow, closing your eyes and just looking so at peace. You’re so close to him Daryl’s in awe and he can’t help but stare. Wanting to hold onto the feeling of his skin a little longer, your finger draws a little heart over where his beats in his chest and you speak again, voice so warm and sincere.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

Home. That’s what it is to him now, too.

“Glad ‘m home too.”

With a final kiss laid on your forehead, Daryl echoes your statement and pulls your body closer into his. A small smile tugs at his lips and his arm slings lazily at your waist before he, too, closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the lull of sleep.

It was good to be back.

Back to a home he had made with you.

──── ⋙

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ladyvader23 · 2 years

Note

Hiiii!!! I love your fics so much! You are an amazing writer❤️❤️❤️ If you take requests, would you ever want to make a fic where Luke gets de-aged so he’s now like 5 years old and dad Vader loses it with protectiveness? If you don’t like the idea or don’t take requests, that’s totally understandable!!! Have a nice day :)

Thank you!!!

I do take requests, but sometimes it takes me a while to come up with something. I like writing things with a twist, so it took me a while to come up with one. This will be a multi-parter, Tumblr exclusive (for now), so if anyone wants to send some asks to prompt stuff within this AU, you are encouraged to do so!!!

Enjoy! <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The world seemed so much bigger.

Luke wasn’t sure where he was, or how he got there. When he tried to remember, he only got flashes–a laboratory. People in white. A whirring machine.

Pain.

So, so much pain.

Pain that continued with every step, with every ragged breath, as he stumbled through the dark, dank…sewer? It smelled like one, distantly, but he focused so hard on just moving that he couldn’t really register it.

Going down the stairs was the hardest. Instinctively, he tried to take long, normal strides, but instead his estimate fell well short, and he stumbled. The first time, he’d stumbled, tried to catch himself on the moldy wall with his right hand, only to find that his hand was gone and he was only left with a stump, and he fell halfway down.

Pain. More pain.

Where did his hand go? He remembered the sound of weapons clashing, the sound of heavy mechanical breathing, screaming, then the feel of his body falling, falling…

Something terrible had happened. Something that, before whatever had happened in the lab happened, had haunted his every step.

Now it hurt to remember.

Later. He’d figure it out later.

The smell of rot and feces was stronger down here, but he couldn’t bring it in him to care. He needed to escape. From what, he didn’t remember, but he knew he had to get out. Before him was a canal, and in it murky water lulled past down through a tunnel leading…Luke knew not where, but it seemed like it probably led out.

That was his escape.

He approached the water. Distantly, he realized what was probably in it, but he didn’t care. The only thing he cared about was that it looked knee-deep. He could handle that. He’d need to ask…someone he couldn’t remember for new pants and…and…

He looked down at himself.

His clothing was unfamiliar, and his feet were bare.

New pants. He’d ask for new pants and take a shower.

Luke jumped in.

It was not knee-deep.

It was chest-high.

He sputtered, realizing his mistake, but not understanding why. He wasn’t as tall as he used to be. He was much shorter, and as a result, what once was gross but a minor inconvenience was now gross and a major one. It didn’t matter, though–his course of action was the same.

He was suddenly glad he’d been taught to swim by…by…

A face entered his mind. A woman with dark hair pulled up into an elaborate braid. She smiled, laughed as he surfaced from the water, saying something he couldn’t quite remember…

He began swimming into the tunnel.

Luke wasn’t sure how long passed, but his body very quickly began to tire. Occasionally, he’d stop, letting the current take him. Sometimes the ground slipped from under him, and he had to tread to keep from being sucked under the mucky water. It was strange to do it with one hand, but he quickly got used to it.

Eventually, the water sped up, pushing him faster through the dark, twisting tunnel, until finally, ahead, he saw a dim light growing closer and closer until…

He was being thrown out of the tunnel, through cold, night air, and into a lake.

For a moment, he drifted in the water, confused and reeling from the way his body ached and screamed at him to stay still, but the burning in his lungs reminded him that air was a necessity, and he forced himself to push upwards until he broke the surface, gasping wide-eyed as he looked up at the stars.

So many stars. Had the galaxy always had that many?

He struggled to keep his head above water, turning to find the closest shore. It wasn’t far…at least, he didn’t think so, until he began swimming towards it and realized it was, in fact, very far. Still, he didn’t give up, and eventually his feet touched sand and he crawled awkwardly, painfully onto a rocky beach.

Once he was to shore, he collapsed face-first into the rocks, not caring how they pricked his skin. It wasn’t comfortable at all, but he was too exhausted to do anything about it.

He closed his eyes, and dreamed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A man stood before him…at least, Luke thought it was a man. He was dressed in a suit, his mask looking more like a skull than a human being. He seemed…surprised to see him, but Luke couldn’t remember why. All he knew was that this man’s presence made him feel cold, and the mechanical breathing…

He looked at his stump.

Without a doubt, he suddenly knew that this man was the cause of his missing hand, and a frozen fear settled in his gut.

“What happened?” The man asked–no, demanded, in a dark, deep tone that sent shivers up Luke’s spine. Terror gripped his heart, and he knew he needed to be anywhere but there.

He began to back up. He didn’t know where he would go–everywhere was fuzzy, dark, nothing more than a void.

“Stay away.”

His voice didn’t sound like it should have, and the man reared back, as though the sound of it made whatever was happening more real.

“What happened to you?! Who did this?!”

The anger scared him, and suddenly he remembered his screaming, and that same voice demanding that he join him…

Luke took another step back.

“Stay away!” He shouted, then turned and ran.

Behind him, as everything blurred, he thought he heard the masked man calling his name.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Luke’s eyes opened, he had the intense feeling of something holding onto him–not physically, but…but…

Through the Force, his mind supplied.

He needed to run.

It took all of his strength to push himself to his knees. Ahead of him, there was a city, brightly lit against the night sky. Somewhere, he heard sirens, saw smoke.

Don’t go there.

He didn’t plan on it, but it was strange that he’d felt that so strongly.

It’s the Force.

He knew that. It made sense, but it didn’t–he could recall no specifics. Everything was so hazy and painful, it made it hard to think straight.

But that cold, dark presence had latched onto him, and in his panic, he knew he had to run.

With a cry, he stood, and began stumble-running towards the city, but away from the sirens and the fire.

The city was a lot bigger than any city he could remember. Buildings towered over him–even the ones that couldn’t have been more than a few stories tall. Soon, everything seemed to look the same, and he was worried that he was going in circles. All of the streets looked the same.

At this time of night, there weren’t many people out and about, but those who did were…far taller than Luke thought they should have been. As he passed them, he couldn’t help but notice stares and confused looks. Some merely covered their nose and mouth, and he remembered, distantly, that he’d swam through sewage to escape…escape from somewhere.

“Excuse me,” a blue woman with gold accents on her face asked (Pantoran, his mind supplied). She had to lean down to sort of get on his eye level. “Are you lost?”

Luke paused in his footsteps, considering the question. He didn’t know where he was, or why he was there, or what had even happened to him, so he supposed that meant he was lost. He nodded, solemnly.

“Do you know where your parents are?”

I am your father.

The voice…the voice from the masked man…

“I…he’s not…I can’t…” he reached up and rubbed his temples, trying to shake the blurriness from his mind.

“I’m sure your parents must be worried sick,” she said, reaching up to ruffle his hair, but when she touched it and realized how dirty it was, she quickly pulled her hand back. “Let me help you find them.”

“I’m…no, I can’t.” He began backing away. His parents…his father…

I am your father.

Something was wrong with them.

“A little boy shouldn’t be out here so late,” she tried to follow him.

Luke paused.

“Little boy?”

“Yes, you’re certainly not grown up yet.” She smiled, as though that were supposed to be a joke.

Except…except…

He was grown up.

But looking at the woman, at how tall everything had become…

Why did that suddenly not feel right?

“I…I can’t go back,” he said, shakily. Back where, he didn’t know. “He’s…I…I have to go!”

Ignoring her cries to come back, he turned and bolted as quickly as he could, not caring where he was going.

He ran down twisting streets and alleys, running until he found no one else around. By that point, he was deep in the city. The buildings were worn down and dilapidated, and the alleys were so small, he could barely squeeze through them.

Perfect, he thought as he wedged himself through one of these alleys, he can’t get to me in here.

Somewhere, he was certain he was wrong, but his eyes were drooping and he was having a hard time seeing anything clearly at all now. He found a dark corner, curled up into it, rested his head against the wall, and was instantly asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s here.

The knowledge was so immediate, so certain, that it startled him awake with a deep, painful gasp. That presence that had grasped onto him before was now everywhere, yet when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but the dark space he’d crawled into.

Luke.

That voice. It was somehow in his head. Distantly, he understood why, but the sound of it made him panic, and he was crawling out of his hiding spot to find a better one before he could be found.

Luke, you are… a hesitation. Somehow, he could feel that this masked person was just as confused as he was. You are not yourself. Come with me. I can help you.

A lie. He felt it as deeply as he did the knowledge that he was being closed in on. He burst out of the tiny alley and into the streets.

At least, I will do my best to help you fix this.

That was not a lie, though Luke could feel this man’s fury at being so clueless as to how to help him.

Still. Luke did not trust him. One glance at his stump of an hand and he knew this man was not to be trusted.

He turned a corner and was brought up short to find that there was a line of men wearing white armor blocking the entire street. As far as he could tell, there was no way out.

I have blocked your perimeter. I will find you, it is inevitable. Do not make this harder than it needs to be.

Luke reached up, one hand gripping his filthy hair, the other pressing against it, his teeth grinding as he tried to push the voice out of his head. In his panic, whatever had happened to him seemed worse, and the pain almost made him double over.

He couldn’t, though.

He needed to escape.

Desperately, he turned and fled into the nearest building–a skyscraper, if he remembered the term correctly. There was no one in the lobby to stop him. He sprinted towards the lift, his dizziness causing him to stumble and go off course, a few times bumping into walls, but he made it. He threw himself in, falling on his knees, and he crawled to the numbers on the side, reached up…and couldn’t reach. He pulled himself to his feet, straining, crying out as he managed to finally hit as many of the buttons as he could.

He was trapped, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy on this man to get him.

As the lift went up each floor, one by one, Luke took that moment to try to push back the pain. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head, did whatever he could to clear his head, but nothing seemed to work.

Something is wrong with me.

He knew it clearly, but he didn’t understand. He looked down at himself. He was shorter than he should have been. He wore soiled clothes, but they weren’t his own. He had no shoes. His hands…hand…was small–too small.

The size of a child.

He was the size of a child.

He wasn’t a child.

And yet he was.

Something is wrong with me.

The panic was growing stronger with every realization and he was hyperventilating now.

We will fix it. That voice promised, and there was an anger there that Luke couldn’t understand, an anger that terrified him further.

By the time the lift stopped at the top floor and the doors opened to a rooftop showing a distant sunrise beyond the city, Luke was a complete, blubbering, petrified mess.

Beyond, a familiar ship screamed towards the rooftop, towards him, and Luke knew it was over. But in that moment, Luke was more terrified of what he’d somehow become than the looming fate coming for him.

We will fix it, came that voice again, gentler as the ship landed in front of him, and out stepped the man in black, we will fix it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read Part Two HERE!

#my writing #writing #fanfic #star wars fanfic #luke skywalker #darth vader #child luke #but like...not fully child luke if that makes any sense #child luke au #dad vader

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val-made-a-mistake · 3 years

Text

❝NEED OVER WANT.❞

(not my gif)

summary: natasha really does drive wanda crazy. it’s a shame she loves her.

warnings: smut, oral sex f receiving, bondage, face sitting, use of a gag, slapping, spanking, use of a toy, slight humiliation, slight edging, top!wanda, bottom!nat, implied sadomasochism, i promise this fic isn’t as bad as it sounds, they love each other and it’s completely consensual!! i tried to sneak in fluff throughout the whole thing.

word count: 1.7k

a/n: i have nothing to say myself, i wasn’t even aware i could write something like this. the fact i had one (1) alcoholic slurpee and almost immediately got inspo to write this makes it even funnier. i know all my wlw fics have been fluffy, so have some filthy ass smut!!! i’ll get back to my requested fics now.

(ps— like in my zemo fics, wanda’s terms of endearment are in german, even though realistically they would be in russian or something, i’ve always written sokovians speaking german for some reason. natasha speaks russian tho!)

//////

Natasha had been testing Wanda’s limits all morning long, and Wanda was almost definitely sure she was doing it on purpose.

The board meeting had gone relatively well. Stark had some California Congressmen sit in and for once, they’d actually shut up, let the more knowing people speak. It would’ve been a relatively interesting meeting— they were discussing what to do with the Ultron remains— had Natasha not been sitting opposite her, looking like that, with two extra buttons undone on her otherwise professional blouse. Fuck, she was asking for it. Wanda had caught Steve looking, and she didn’t like the glint in his eye one bit.

But of course she had to remain perfectly fucking civil until the meeting was adjourned. As soon as it had been, she’d gotten up from her seat a little too quickly and rounded the corner, and in the same moment, Natasha stood up to hand Ross a mundane file. In doing so, she leaned over the table, and because she’d orchestrated this just so she could drive Wanda crazy, her skirt rode up. The tiniest bit, sure, hardly noticeable to anyone else, but it was more than enough to warm the back of Wanda’s neck. She’s asking for it, she’s definitely asking for it.

Maria Hill may have tried to say something to her, she didn’t know as she’d already stalked out of the room. Mostly everyone was absorbed in the after-meeting small talk, and it wasn’t like the Avengers paid much attention to her anyway, so her absence went unnoticed.

Of course, Natasha had to follow her.

“Angry?” she quipped.

“My room,” Wanda hissed, whipping around, “Be there in ten. Undress. I’ll tell Stark you’re not feeling well.”

“Of course,” Natasha replied flirtatiously, extending her toes for a kiss, but Wanda pushed her away.

She had the audacity to look annoyed, but obediently pivoted and started off for Wanda’s bedroom, which was, by her estimate, three floors, an escalator ride, two keypads, and an elevator ride away. Enough time for Wanda to gather herself. When she last let herself get caught up in her emotions, Natasha couldn’t sit for a week.

//////

God, Natasha looked fucking perfect tied up.

The rise and fall of her chest told Wanda she was barely scared, too, and she didn’t know how she felt about that. Her entire body was glistening— fuck, Natasha Romanoff, feared assassin, founding member of the Avengers, was sweating for her— and she hardly fidgeted, her arms and legs were near-perfectly still. Wanda, despite the circumstances, was feeling particularly generous, so she’d only tied her by her wrists and ankles.

“Schatz,” Wanda sighed, making Natasha look up a bit too eagerly, “What the hell were you thinking?”

Natasha smirked at her. “I think that’s perfectly clear.”

That earned her a hard slap in the face, and she melodramatically winced. “Ow.”

“You know, I can’t believe you sometimes,” Wanda hissed. “You never learn.”

She climbed onto the bed, being careful not to let her body touch Natasha’s, and she didn’t stop advancing until they were face-to-face.

“You forced my hand,” she whispered, the Sokovian accent coming out in full force. “I will make you learn.”

Natasha was motionless, her pupils were completely blown black.

“Touch me,” she offered.

This had Wanda laughing, and shamelessly. “No, schatz. You get to lie back and take what I give you.”

With that, she pulled away from the bed to start stripping. First she pulled off the red jacket (Natasha’s, ironically, she’d borrowed it before they’d even begun their relationship and had never bothered to give it back) before moving onto her shirt, a simple long-sleeved shirt she wore nearly everyday at the compound. She could hear Natasha whimpering as she unclasped her bra, but she ignored it.

Wanda shimmed out of her pants and pulled off her underwear in a flourish, barely making an effort to be teasing this time. She wanted to, she really wanted to, but what mattered was her high, not Natasha’s.

Suddenly, a gorgeous little pussy was dangling in front of Natasha’s face.

“You ready, Nat?” Wanda cooed, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because she’d already sunk down, and the knot that had been tightening in her stomach ever since the meeting dramatically loosened. “Oh, fuck.”

She wasn’t even fully conscious of it, but as Nat’s tongue obediently delved through her folds, Wanda raised and twisted her hand, and in a scarlet flurry, the ropes around Natasha’s wrists tightened.

“Fuck,” Wanda cried out as she started moving against Natasha’s mouth, “Fuck, you’re being such a good little toy…”

Maybe she was doing this all wrong, maybe this wasn’t punishment at all, maybe this was a reward in Natasha’s mind, maybe she’d specifically pushed her buttons just for this. Whatever it was, Wanda still pushed earnestly against Natasha’s tongue, feeding off her whimpers and moans. So hopeless already, and Wanda had just begun. It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, and she’d just begun.

“Not so cocky now, huh?” she gasped, pulling off for just a second, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

She only allowed herself to come once, although she could’ve spent all day like that. She needed to preserve her sexual stamina for Natasha’s sake, which was, admittedly, unusually soft for her.

Wanda was climbing off soon enough, and she tried not to appear pleased with herself as Natasha automatically gulped for air.

“How did that feel?” she asked absentmindedly as she searched the cabinets for the toy she wanted. She knew exactly the one, it was pink, on the longer side instead of the thicker side, where was it?

“So fucking good,” Natasha gasped back, her chest rising and falling at a faster pace now, “God, непередаваемое чувство-”

“What’s your colour?” Wanda asked, opening up another cabinet: found it.

“Green,” she replied breathlessly, “The brightest fucking green you’ve ever seen.”

“Right,” she responded, “That’s enough talking for you.”

She lifted a finger and a drawer fell open on the opposite side of the room: a piece of dark cloth rose out of it, flew over to the bound figure on the bed, and wrapped it around Natasha’s mouth, effectively silencing her whining.

“Now,” Wanda purred, leaning over the bed, “I was going to give you lube, but Jesus Christ…”

She finally dared to run her palm along the inside of Natasha’s thigh. Not her pussy, but dangerously close. She didn’t need to touch her to know how wet she was.

Wanda hesitated, as though contemplating, then pushed the tip of the toy inside.

The effect was immediate: Natasha bucked against her binds and mumbled something made incoherent by the gag, and Wanda kept a firm hold on the toy so it wouldn’t go deeper.

“Just this makes you struggle?” Wanda’s eyes widened. “Oh, schatz…”

She pushed the toy half an inch deeper, and Natasha’s eyes snapped shut.

“I’m not even moving it yet,” she taunted. “You know…”

A small trickle of scarlet magic kept the toy where it was even though she’d taken her hand off of it. “I didn’t have breakfast this morning. Would it matter to you if I just left you here? I wonder how you’d react if Rogers came and saw your dripping pussy on display for him…”

She grinned from ear to ear. “He’d know you’re nothing but my dumb little fucktoy then. I bet he’d tell Stark.”

Natasha was blushing bright red; Wanda decided to move the toy even deeper, but slowly.

“But you won’t come. You won’t even fucking move.”

More than half the toy had disappeared inside her pussy now. “You’re loving this, aren’t you? Such a whore.”

Wanda aimed a spank at her inner thigh.

“You’re not going to come when I move my dick in you.”

Natasha nodded frantically, her expression screamed more, more, more.

Wanda pulled it out a fraction of an inch before forcing it even deeper than it had been: Natasha’s legs shook, but she didn’t come. It was the bare fucking minimum, of course she didn’t.

She moved the toy without an exact rhythm, she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted it fast or slow, but she moved it anyway, until Natasha’s legs were positively quivering and a sheen layer of sweat covered her tits. Fuck, her gorgeous tits.

Wanda let her magic do the work this time: she let go of the toy, which kept on evenly pistoning without her holding it, and lowered her mouth to one of Natasha’s nipples, hard as stone. She tried to cry out, but got stopped by the gag for the millionth time.

Before Wanda could really enjoy Natasha’s body, there was a soft knock on the door, causing them both to jolt.

“Not a sound,” she ordered, then conjured a thick curtain out of nowhere: it completely covered Natasha, her binds, and the toy. As long as no one questioned why her bed had suddenly become four-poster, everything would be fine, right?

She wrapped a bathrobe around her naked body, and got up to answer the door, only cracking it open the tiniest bit.

It was Vision.

“Miss Maximoff, I came to inquire-”

“It’s Wanda,” she corrected him sweetly, already praying he would go away.

“Oh, alright then. Wanda, I came to inquire about the whereabouts of Miss Romanoff and I know it scares you to have me appear suddenly through the walls, so I - why are you in your bathrobe?”

“I took a shower, I felt like I had to, and I don’t know where Natasha is,” she replied quickly, the lie rising easily to her lips. This is the part where he goes away.

“Oh, it’s just that Dr Cho heard she wasn’t feeling well, so she was wondering if Miss Romanoff required medical assistance,” Vision responded.

“It was a just a headache, to my understanding,” she said, cocking her head to the side in fake curiosity. “You know how it is with the board meetings.”

He grimaced. “Er - no, actually, my brain is entirely synthetic. That, and I don’t have blood vessels.”

Wanda cast a glance at the curtain, a horrible, horrible idea coming to her.

“Let me get dressed and we can find Cho together.”

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanova #black widow #scarlett johansson #wanda maximoff #wanda maximov #natasha x wanda #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff smut #elizabeth olsen #marvel #marvel fanfiction #please don’t let this flop it’ll be embarrassing

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thanks-mike-stamford · 3 years

Text

Fics that inspire my writing - Part I

This is Part I. The other parts will be linked here as they are posted: Part II | Part III

When people ask "What's your favourite fic?" I can't truly give an answer. It depends on my mood! How can I choose only one? Sometimes you want to reread that one fic for emotional comfort, sometimes you want that other one for the hots, sometimes you want to suffer a bit with the characters and have the relief of the happy ending, and sometimes you love a fic so so so much, but it hurts and you don't pick it up again ever. There's no way I can choose a favourite.

So this is just a disclaimer that this list is not really about favourites.

This list is about writing.

I'm not as prolific as a writer than I am as a reader. I try to do my best, of course. The best way to learn a lot about writing, though? I have to say it's reading. I can attribute most of my vocabulary (in all languages I know) to reading. When talking about writing fiction, it's more than vocabulary, though: narrative, prose, dialogues, plot, characters, themes... It's a lot happening.

These fics I'm going to mention are the ones that I read and think yo myself: oooh, I wish I could write like that. So I use them to study! Perhaps I could try this type of narrative? Or I could build my characters to be complex in this way? Perhaps I could phrase things in a less mechanical way, like this author does?

I'm drafting a lot of stuff recently and in these new works I'm trying to improve the way I write. I'm a quick reader but slow writer, but I hope my future works can show I learned from these stories below.

So, here we go, 10 Fics That Inspire My Writing, in no particular order. This list is not exhaustive either, it was horrible to choose just 10.

Part I

Limping forward series by bendingsignpost

I absolutely love this series, which is a main fic from John's POV and a short prequel from Sherlock's POV, supposed be read after the main story. I'll refer to the main story from now on.

This fic is dialogue-heavy. The moments of description are usually very close to the POV, and while it's used to indicate actions, the main purpose is always to show what John is feeling by how he interacts with whatever and whoever is around him. Sometimes we are left with dialogues that are not explicit. The characters know exactly what they mean, by the described reactions, but the reader is left to wonder - or most importantly, to actually think about what they mean given the context. The fic feels almost like an intelectual exercise in which we practice how to read people's feelings. The climax of the fic doesn't come from a misunderstanding that can be fixed with a conversation, for example. It comes from an emotional misunderstanding, and it's brutal, because there's no way it couldn't happen. Both John, Sherlock, and the reader need to understand the meanings behind the actions - if you have a bias or trauma, it can be hard. Sherlock's deduction at the climax scene comes from an emotional perspective - he deduces how John felt, and that would finally explain John's actions, which weren't clear for him. Just like Sherlock says in the story - it's magnificent.

These two aspects - dialogue with implicit meaning and description with a purpose - are aspects I lack in my own writing. I struggle immensely with dialogue, and my descriptions are usually "Character A is here or there, talking to B or C, and they're thinking X or Y". I look up to how this fic works in trying to get better, and I did try to incorporate those "invisible conversations" into my works.

The Illusion of Control series by starrysummernights

Uuuh, omegaverse! Not everyone's cup of tea. I love omegaverse though, for two reasons: you can create completely different world dynamics and sex/gender dynamics, and play with it.

This series needed to be a series. Every part is important. We have alternating POVs of John and Sherlock. If you read the series as a WIP, as it was posted, you could have been under the impression that it was strictly porny. But it helps a ton to read it following the chronology of the story (the prequels and sequels to the original one were attributed accordingly). Because the trick of this series is John's character arc. We are immediately presented with John's life story since childhood until he starts a relationship with Sherlock. He has endured great emotional trauma, but at first he doesn't even recognise he has been traumatised. Lifelong issues build up and eventually will spill over. It's not quick to deal with it, that's why it needs a full series. His relationship with Sherlock deepens, he needs to make some important choices, he faces great struggles. And step by step, we follow John's journey. It's absolutely brilliant to get there. It hurts, but it hurts good. And it's nobody's fault, at the end. He's not reduced to his issues, he's an entire complex person, but we are always aware how said issues played an important role in shaping this character.

Writing such a long story, posting it out of chronological order, and not losing sight of the character arc is what makes this fic stand out. One of my published fics specifically took great inspiration in this one while building a character arc for John.

Trying to Find The In-Between by NoStraightLine

Later on this was re-posted as a multi chapter fic, but I originally read it as a series when it was a WIP, and personally I think it works better this way.

This amazing work taught me a lot about causes and consequences. I think the entire series can be grouped in three parts. First part is the beginning of their relationship. They are learning about each other, playing piece by piece like a puzzle. Then second part is around Reichenbach Fall, they separate and emotional fuckery ensues, up until Sherlock comes back, the pinnacle of angst. Third and last part is them relearning each other from scratch. The relationship needs to be completely different - and they don't even know if they will get together after all, if it will ever work again. And here's the main point: it's not a single decision that warrants consequences. They had a super intense relationship at first - but if you go too high, the fall is worse. Everything is borderline unhealthy, but it could easily be attributed to love. The author doesn't shy away from showing us it's a bit of both: big love can be a bit unhealthy. To put up boundaries between them so they both keep sane you also need to limit how you treat each other, and what you expect from each other.

This fic made me think I need to estimate the consequences of how I build up characters' interactions. The reactions need to be accordingly to that measure. In one fic I tried to play with this intensity ended up being borderline unhealthy. Not something you'd want in real life, of course, but in fiction... anything is possible.

This is the end of Part I. Stay tuned for Parts II and III!

#johnlock #sherlock fanfic #writing #hoverseas talks about fic

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mithrilwren · 3 years

Text

I really, really wanted to contribute something to Essek Week, but unfortunately with two essays and a novel chapter due by Monday, I didn’t have the time or mental energy to write anything new. Cue me remembering that I’d actually started working on an Essek-centric shadowgast Pirate!AU last summer, that never saw the light of day! Though I did a whole bunch of research for it, summer ended before I could get farther than the first couple chapters. Still, I’m very fond of the premise, and I’d like to finish it one day. I can’t guarantee I will (life’s too busy to commit myself to another Big Fic Project atm) but in the meantime, here’s a little taste in the form of the first chapter.

-------------------

For @essek-week Day 7: AU

Courts of Silk (Chapter 1)

Essek startled from his trance to the crackle of blistering thunder overhead.

Mind bled of all drowsiness in an instant, he unfolded his legs and slid off the berth, drifting to the center of the room and tilting his ear towards the boards above.

A storm… but the skies were meant to be clear for days, and he trusted Avus to know it. Could the weather have turned so–

Boom.

Essek’s eyebrows flew up as the deck visibly lurched below his feet.

Not thunder.

Cannon fire.

More sounds now, hurried ones – an erratic tempo of feet pounding through the corridor outside his little room, the floorboards creaking dully under the weight of the crew scrambling over the deck above. He flinched as a louder noise pierced through the commotion: the rattling of a heavy fist falling against the door of his cabin, hard enough to shake the wooden frame.

“We’ve been boarded!” Zel’ra’s guttural shout startled him out of his confused stupor, and he flew to the door and flung it open. The quartermaster stood outside, her snarling jaw dripping with whitish battle foam, the kind that bugbears of Rosohna so seldom have occasion to sport within city walls. “Come on, magic boy, time for you to earn your– Shit!”

Then she was gone, and Essek was left staring dumbly at the empty corridor, as Zel’ra raced back the way she came. A moment later, there was a yelp, and the grisly crack of metal hitting bone. Then there was no sound at all, save the rocking of the ocean’s pulse against the hull, and the thump of confident, unfamiliar footsteps, coming closer and closer to his open door.

He had only a few moments to make his decision. The fight might still be going on above deck, but if intruders had already made it below, there was little hope of a favorable outcome for the crew of the Barren Bow. He hadn’t thought the Empire would be brazen enough to attack a diplomatic ship in open waters, but there were soldiers of all ilks on the open sea, and no government to hold them to account so far from land. He would not put it past a Dwendalian crew to sight a Dynasty flag on the horizon and decide to take the matter of revenge in their own hands. If so, there was no telling what treatment they might expect at the hands of their attackers. Rage was rarely tamed by abstract rules of engagement, and he doubted anyone would care to ask what the nature of their mission was, once the killing began.

But perhaps…

Quickly, Essek drew aside his sleeve and materialized the leather–bound contents of his wristpocket into his hands. His spellbook lay beside precious components in their embroidered fold, and there, at the bottom of the pile: the folio. He whispered a quiet word and the paper folded apart, revealing its damning – and perhaps, in the right hands, lifesaving – contents.

The letters.

If the tides were so unfavorable that he could not fight, perhaps that might be enough to–

He vanished the whole affair back into the ether as two shadows fell across the door.

From the darkness of the hallway, two figures stepped over the threshold. In front was a young woman: human, with swarthy skin made darker still by the weathering burn of long days at sea. Her hands were tucked beneath bare arms and her hip turned out to an unconcerned jaunt, adorned by a sash of deep blue. Behind her, and looming so tall that she had to hunch to fit through the frame of the door, was a giant of a woman. Taller even than Zel’ra, her bare shoulders glistening with rippling muscles and sweat, pale as moonlight – or as the steely glint of the broadsword at her back. The younger woman swept him over with piercing eyes, her confident grin not quite masking the focused gaze beneath. Though she bore no weapons, Essek could feel the stain of threat in every taut sinew of her body. He held still, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Her eyes finally paused, centered on the floor beneath his feet, and her grin dropped into something more like a startled ‘oh’. Too late, he realized his mistake – that his levitation, as natural and instinctive as standing on his own two feet, had just given him away.

“Mage!” she sputtered, and her hand was gripping his arm and twisting it behind his back before he even realized she’d moved. Essek dropped the levitation spell, hoping to get enough leverage from the sudden height difference to slip out of her grasp, but before he could so much as shuffle to the left, the taller woman was at his right, clutching his other arm with a grip strong enough to break bone.

“Shit,” the first woman spat as she stepped back, allowing the second to take both of his arms into custody. “Who the fuck did we just board?”

Essek kept silent, staring at her, searching for any sign of weakness and finding less than nothing. If he had just had his hands free for a moment longer… but that didn’t matter now. There weren’t many spells without a somatic component at his disposal, and cantrips wouldn’t save his neck, should the giantess move quicker to snap it than he could speak.

Without a means of immediate escape, he looked next for any way to identify his captors. They were human, but their loose, subdued dress – for the younger woman, a vest of blue cotton, the other, a braided grey tunic, and frayed ribbons in both their hair – was nothing like the silver and crimson finery of the Righteous Brand.

If not from the Empire, who were these people? Hired thugs? Mercenaries?

“Are there more of you skulking down here?”

He didn’t ask the woman to clarify, though he wasn’t sure exactly what she was asking. More drow? Yes, but he was not about to reveal the nature of the delegation travelling under his protection to her. More mages? No. As always, he had convinced the Bright Queen that his effort alone would be sufficient. For the first time in a very long time, he wished he’d been a little more conservative in estimating his own skills. Given the current situation, someone else’s power at his back might actually be welcome, rather than distracting.

Her burning gaze made it clear that he had to say something, and soon, but for once, the right words did not come. The truth did not matter: he knew that any unfavorable answer would be taken as a lie.

Still, Essek would not panic. The only way to regain control of the situation was by carefully gathering information, finding something that he could use to shift the balance of power at a more advantageous moment. That was his particular specialty.

“I do not know,” he answered coolly. “For I do not know who is above and below deck at all hours of the day. I can only speak for myself.”

“Beau! Fjor– fuck– Captain Tusktooth wants you on deck!” A new voice, its timbre high and grating, like glass against cold iron, echoed from around the corner. The woman – Beau, he filed away – turned her head and shouted back out the door.

“Just a second, we’ve got one more!” Then, “Tell him to get Caleb over here, we’ve got a goddamn mage to deal with!”

The giantess at his back leaned down, so close that her dreaded locks nestled amidst the silver chains that hung from tip to base of his pointed ear. “You aren’t going to give us any trouble, are you?” she murmured, and despite every ounce of training he’d undergone for exactly this sort of intimidation, he still couldn’t help the way he shivered at her dark tone. There was a deep quality to her voice that sung of violence, for violence’s sake, and though he wasn’t yet truly afraid, he had no wish to provoke her.

“How could I?” Essek gently flexed his arms in her grasp: not enough to challenge, but enough to reassure her of his helplessness.

Her lips curled back, and… yes. There was a little fear gathering there, in the back of his throat. A good kind of fear – the prudent kind. It would keep him alert, and focused, and ready to strike back when the moment was right.

When she started pushing him forward, he followed her lead willingly, and the two of them shadowed Beau into the corridor and up the steps that led back above deck. Essek winced as the bright noonday sun slipped into view, already anticipating the stinging burn that was sure to follow. He’d managed to avoid the deck for most of the voyage, much to the chagrin of the Assarian crew. He was not born into a body made for manning rigging, and certainly not under an unrepentant sky determined to scorch his face and hands and neck and leave him itching and miserable for days without relief. His better use was below deck, planning for the engagement ahead, and his hours of fresh air better taken in the evening, when the gentler light of the moons was merely a prickle beneath his skin, rather than a flame.

Everywhere he looked, he saw mismatched bodies. Though Essek hadn’t met the entire complement of the Barren Bow’s crew, he had to assume most of the scattered orcs, goblins, and bugbears belonged to their side. Most of the ones on their feet were being held in the shallow recess at the centre of the deck, where great cannons might have been lodged on a more modern ship. A handful of unremarkable humans, each equipped with a rapier – or, in one man’s case, a salt-encrusted retort – stood above them, keeping watch. Amidst all that humanity stood a wild–eyed goblin in a blaring yellow dress, hefting a crossbow composed of whirring gears and levers of an intricate make that rivaled Waccoh’s own craftsmanship. She was currently in the process of shouting threats down across the heads of his cowed compatriots. Some were clutching broken arms or wiping blood from contusions and burnt welts. Lying at the center of the group was an unconscious Zel’ra, the goose egg at the back of her skull already angry and red.

Finally, he spied the remainder of the drow contingent clustered by the ship’s rail. Diplomats, all of them, bound for a parley at sea and not trained for conflict beyond what it took to hold a dagger right-way up. He was the only one among them battle-tested, and even then, his means leaned more towards subterfuge than outright combat. Theoretically, the Assarian crew was meant to be their main line of defence in case of attack. Clearly they had not proven up to the task.

Essek would be filing a very unfavorable report with their commanders upon his return, if any of them survived the day.

“Captain!” Beau shouted, and a tall half-orc stepped away from the railing, his wide-brimmed hat only partially disguising the many scars that littered his face.

“Weather’s turning,” he said, casting his eyes towards the – as far as Essek could tell – clear horizon. Those same yellow eyes flickered up, above Essek’s head, and for a moment seemed to narrow before turning back to Beau. “You finished clearing the hold yet?”

“Didn’t make it that far.” Beau jerked her head, and Essek was thrust into the sunlight all at once. The glare was blinding, and apparently not just to him. The giantess’s hands jerked around his arms, like they wanted to fly up and shield her eyes as well. That was all the opportunity he needed.

With one quick motion, he jerked his arms from her grasp and drew his hands together, tracing familiar glyphs out of nothing but muscle memory as his mouth uttered an incantation, and the world exploded around him. The giantess was flung back against the doorframe, wood splintering beneath her weight, and both Beau and the half-orc slammed into the deck and began to hurtle towards the side of the boat. Forcing his eyes to stay focused amidst the chaos and the harsh light, Essek caught the glitter of a cutlass skittering along the boards as he took stock of his position on the newly reborn battlefield.

Nearly all of the boarders were in a concentrated area in front of him, and the rest of the Assarian crew were protected by the lip of the recess in the deck. The terrain could not be more advantageous. Essek allowed himself a small smirk as he raised his hand and prepared a vacuum blast that would level the whole of the upper deck, and deliver them all to safety in one swift stroke.

How arrogant, that this petty group of mercenaries thought they could capture–

“Counterspell.”

The magic sizzled and died in his hand, and Essek whirled, searching for whoever had spoken behind him. Thugs he could handle, but it was always best to deal with a mage first, when they could do such infuriating things as what had just occurred. But once he turned, he found himself facing an empty doorway, and an empty deck above that. No trace of whoever had cast the counterspell.

The giantess was gone as well.

He heard the click before he could parse what cold and heavy thing was tugging on his wrist, but he was horribly aware of what was happening by the time his other wrist was wrenched behind his back and small hands clasped the second iron band shut. A stomach-churning wave of exhaustion passed through him from scalp to toe, and he staggered, only barely holding on to consciousness. Head lolling towards the floor, he saw two soft-soled boots landing lightly on the deck in front of him.

With great effort, he managed to drag his head up from his chest, and found himself staring into blue eyes and dusty freckles, lips pressed into a thin line, all framed by tangles of copper-red hair.

“Good work, Nott,” the man said. His accent was one Essek had only heard once before, though through the mire of exhaustion he could not remember where.

Behind Essek, the half-orc groaned and pushed himself up off the deck. “Next time you have a brilliant plan for subduing the prisoner, maybe let’s try not putting us all in the line of fire, hm?”

The man ignored the sarcasm, still looking all too carefully at Essek.

“Are you finished?” he murmured, and though his body was lithe, his soft voice sung of as much violence as the giantess’s darker growl.

With a sigh, Essek let his shoulders drop. He could still feel the pulses of magic coursing through the iron bands around his wrists. Even if he got his arms free again, the cuffs would not be easily slipped, or broken. These people, whoever they were, came equipped to handle wizards like himself. Was that what they were, then? Assassins in disguise? Privateers? The blunt instrument of some government or another?

Not that it made much difference now. Whoever they were, he was at their mercy.

“Spin him around.”

Essek felt himself being maneuvered away from the man’s incisive gaze. Through bleary eyes he caught the looks of frustrated disbelief from the four drow delegates, lamenting their crushed hope in silent, huddled unity. He was meant to be their protection. Now that Essek was taken, what else could save them? Not one of them was brave enough to attempt it themselves. A shiver of disgust ran through Essek, as heady as the self-recrimination it concealed at having allowed himself to be captured so easily.

The half-orc strode up to Essek, the sword in his hand now replaced, though Essek hadn’t seen the man move to retrieve it. It was a silver cutlass, fine enough to cleave a person clean through and leave one half still propped up on the other. Too rich a prize by far for a simple mercenary – he must have come by it dishonestly, or been given it as boon or bribe. Neither prospect boded well.

The hand that gripped the sword told an equally foreboding story, for only the thumb was composed of green flesh. The rest of the fingers were severed at the third knuckle, and replaced by metal imitations fixed to the wrist by a harness of leather cords. Still, he held the hilt with all the confidence of a trained fighter, and the surety of his grasp left Essek little doubt as to its effectiveness, mechanical augmentation or no.

“My name,” said the half-orc, “is Captain Tusktooth.” A hint of bright teeth flashed from below the wide brim of the hat. “And this ship is mine now. Its cargo, mine too.”

The answer about the identity of his captors, at last, became clear, for what little good it did him.

Pirates.

“By whose authority?” Essek shot a harsh look at the foolish dignitary who had chosen this moment to find their courage, but Tusktooth only grinned harder.

“By my own.” Behind Essek’s back, Nott and Beau slipped back through the splintered doorframe and down into the depths of the ship once more. “Now, my crew is going to finish taking a look through your cargo. I trust that your captain has been honest about the contents of your hold. Are there any other surprises I should be warning my people of? Anybody else looking to make trouble?”

Would that there were. “You will find little of value to take. We travelled light.” He spoke the truth, having no more useful lie at his disposal. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and another wave of exhaustion teased at the edges of his mind. He fought it with all the strength he had – which was growing less and less by the minute.

“So your captain told me. But that wasn’t my question.” Tusktooth’s voice grew as keen as the blade in his hand as he lifted it and placed the edge to the shallow of Essek’s throat. “Are there others like you aboard?”

He did not flinch. Torment and torture were old friends: his own cherished instruments. He did not fear what this man would do to him, any more than he feared death itself. At least, that is what he told his errant heart, as sweat began to bead at the nape of his neck.

“No.”

Tusktooth stared him down for a minute longer, and Essek held his gaze as best he could with the sun still searing his eyes. But at last, the sword withdrew, and Essek’s breath came a little easier. “Then let’s call this an exercise in… mutual trust.” He smiled once more, and Essek returned the expression with a vague twitch of lips.

The tense exchange was followed by ten excruciating minutes of silence, during which Essek did his best not to fidget in his heavy robes, even when his exposed skin grew so heated he felt liable to burst into flames. As they waited, the redheaded man pulled Tusktooth aside for a private conversation, and Essek sweated, and watched, and tried to formulate a plan.

The pirates would find nothing of value to steal. The Barren Bow had provisions for the voyage, but anything else aboard was the purview of the Assarian crew, who had planned to head back towards the shores of Igrathad as soon as the parley concluded. There were no scheduled stops for trade, and thus, no trade goods in their hold. There weren’t even guns to offer. Essek would never dare to admit it aloud, but the Dynasty lagged sorely behind the rest of Wildemount in outfitting its fleet with the relatively new technology of cannonry, at least of the type that lacked a magical component. Firearms had only entered the sphere of weaponmaking some thirty years prior, and with Xhorhas primarily landlocked, the navy hadn’t been high on the priority list for refurbishment.

His best hope was that some of the crew had hidden stashes of coin in their quarters. Otherwise, there would be nothing for the pirates to take, and without anything to satisfy them, well… he did not want to be in manacles when that news was delivered to a man who’d already put a sword to his throat.

If only to convince himself he was not totally beaten yet, Essek watched Tusktooth and the redhead carefully, seeing what he could glean from body language alone. Their conversation was hushed but tense, and every few moments the redhead would turn his eyes towards the drow delegation, and then to Essek himself. He made sure to drop his own eyes before they could meet again, not wanting to spark another confrontation by appearing insolent. As for the pirate captain… there was confidence, yes, but the unwavering edge of confidence seemed to drop away from his shoulders as he spoke to the other man. His arms moved more wildly; his words were more rapid, and at a higher pitch. Perhaps his earlier confidence was not so unshakeable as it at first appeared.

At last, Beau and the goblin re-emerged from the staircase. “We got shit all,” Beau said, tossing down a half-empty sack by Essek’s feet. He winced as a few bruised tubers rolled out across the warped deck.

“...Shit.” Tusktooth ran a hand over his mouth. “Shit. Nothing?”

“Nott and I checked every inch of that hold, the crew quarters, everything. No money, no timber, no – fuck, I don’t know – fine silks or–”

“No cannons,” Nott added mournfully. “No black powder.”

“We went through all this for nothing?”

“Maybe someone’s holding out on us,” Nott said, brandishing her crossbow. “I could make ‘em talk for you, Captain. Make them squeal–”

“Oh–kay, Nott,” Tusktooth said, “let’s take it down a notch.” But despite his placating tone, his look was thoughtful. Again, he turned to Essek. “You never never did say what you all were doing out here, so far from home. You don’t look like a sailor to me.”

“Yes, friend,” said the redhead, stepping up to Essek from Tusktooth’s other side, alarmingly calm, and placing altogether too much emphasis on the second word to be trusted, “what is it you do here?” Essek took a half-step back, not liking the feeling of being pressed in from all angles, and walked himself straight into the chest of the giantess.

Nowhere to hide. And with his hands bound behind his back, no way to levitate up to a level where he didn’t feel every inch of height his captors had over him. Which, at his firmly average height for a drow, was many.

Focus, Thelyss. Focus.

“Why should I answer your questions,” he sneered, “when you have not done me the same courtesy? Who are you, to board a vessel commissioned lawfully by the Bright Queen herself?” It was a dangerous ploy, but a considered one – a hastily calculated risk. If the pirates could not be convinced there was nothing of value to be found, they might decide to punish the crew for concealing their rightful prize, and when even a beating couldn’t drive his compatriots to forfeit non-existent gold, the pirates might well scuttle the ship and leave them all to drown at sea. He doubted simple brigands would care much for the particulars of a diplomatic mission if there was no treasure involved, so there was little harm in broaching a subject that might be far more dangerous to discuss with more educated captors.

But apparently, some aspect of Essek’s logic had failed him again, because the redhead immediately shot a wide-eyed look at Tusktooth, before looking back to Essek. “The Bright Queen?”

Essek gave a little bow. His head swam as he dipped back up – the handcuffs, no doubt, though it could just as easily be the beginnings of heatstroke – and he had to swallow twice to find the fortitude to speak without slurring. “Essek Thelyss, Shadowhand of the Kryn Dynasty and ambassador of the realm.” The last part was an… embellishment, and if he chanced a glance over at the true ambassadors, he imagined there would be many offended looks. But thankfully, all attention was solely focused on him. “I assure you, you won’t find the prize you’re looking for on a diplomatic vessel, gentleman. Your friends have already given you proof – we carry nothing beyond our own provision. Unless you have a particular taste for the delicacies of Xhorhasian fashion, I’m afraid we have little to offer you.”

Nott snarled, but the redhead put up a hand. “Captain,” he said slowly, looking at Tusktooth. “Might I… make a suggestion?”

“You may.”

“It’s not something I’d usually propose, but times being what they are…” Tusktooth nodded grimly.

“We haven’t got many options left.”

“Precisely. I believe that our friend Mr. Thelyss here has lied to us.” He could laugh for the irony of it all; this was the most truthful Essek had been in years. “There is indeed something very valuable aboard this ship.” His blue eyes pierced through Essek, and it was only his determination to keep the – now violently pitching – contents of his stomach where they belonged, that stopped him from speaking up in his own defense.

“And that is...?”

“Himself.”

#critical role #essek thelyss #shadowgast #essek week #my writing #also since plank king essek is a... thing??? now #the timing seems appropriate lol #this fic is not that but it is still (eventual) pirate!Essek #and who doesn't love that

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iovjun · 3 years

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tsubaki (椿) - preview

PAIRING: commander!jeno x rebel!reader (fem)

GENRE: fluff, angst, enemies to lovers(ish), royalty(ish) lmao idk

WARNINGS: mentions of murder, death, swords and knives, blood, violence

SYNOPSIS: all you’ve ever wanted was to avenge your parents, who died at the hands of the emperor. when you meet jeno, the man who commands armies, he offers to help your cause. but how can you trust the man who works for the very thing you plan to tear down?

WORD COUNT: teaser: 1.2k (estimated wc: ?? definitely more than 6k idk)

A/N: this is my very first long fic lmao not sure when it’ll come out, maybe in the next month or so. special thanks to @yoongistoesuwu for the original idea and some scenes that were also her ideas and for helping me out sometimes

[SEND A MESSAGE OR AN ASK TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST]

A silent warrior in the night.

You ran as fast as your feet could carry you, your steps making a muted thud against the soft ground. No other sounds could be heard but the chirp of the crickets and the breeze brushing past your ears. There was a howl in the distance, the sound of a wolf closing in on its prey.

You, like the other creatures of the night, were out for blood.

Each footfall ripped a ragged breath from you, your chest falling and rising rapidly. Ahead of you were the looming walls of the palace, too tall to see over. You approached the sturdy structure, cautiously observing your surroundings for any movement. Giving yourself a minute to catch your breath, you hid in the shadows beneath the wall, watching the starry sky above you.

The clouds moved and obscured the moon for a moment, pitching the world into murky darkness.

You moved quickly, taking hold of a jutting stone and scaling the wall in no time. As quiet as a mouse, you landed on the other side firmly, scurrying to find another shadow before the moon appeared again. It was risky to go through the palace courtyard, but the night was on your side this time.

As the clouds advanced once again so did you, scanning the vicinity for anyone that could be watching.

There was an approaching guard. When you saw him, your breath caught in your throat and you almost choked. You flattened yourself against the inner wall, scolding yourself for that one reckless moment that could’ve foiled your mission. As the figure got closer, you hand wandered down to rest on the dagger hanging from your hip. If he got any closer you would have no choice but to take him out.

Your grip tightened on the dagger, inhaling softly and watching the guard closely, getting ready to strike. Just as you were about to pull it from the scabbard, he turned on his heel sharply and headed the opposite direction.

Letting out a relieved breath, you continued your precarious trek along the stone wall. Your plan was perfect. Eliminating a guard was not part of it.

Just ahead was the gateway that would lead to the palace itself, and all you needed to do from then on is walk right in. It was comical how easy it was to break into such a heavily guarded place. The thought of it could make you laugh out loud.

Without making a single noise, you sprinted across the decorative stone floor and crossed the tall gateway, smirking to yourself at your skill. You finally pulled out your small weapon, holding it against your palm and crouching along the stone pillars. You momentarily stilled, your skin tingling the way it did when you trained.

Spinning on your heel, you turned and met an incoming blade with your dagger, the metal clanging and reverberating throughout the courtyard. Your eyes widen, and you quickly shove the long sword away from you, the blades making a shing! sound.

The man wielding the sword was not the one from earlier; he seemed of higher rank from his uniform robes, but you couldn’t tell clearly thanks to the lack of light.

It dawned on you that you had been discovered, and it was a problem.

In a split second, you pulled out your second knife, twin to the one you held in your right hand, and held it in your left. You lowered into your offensive stance, bending your knees and holding out your weapons in front of you.

You lunged first, aiming for a weak spot, but he moved just as fast and blocked your attack. Once again, your blades rang out and you could feel the power in his parry that made your daggers vibrate.

“Stop.”

His voice was hushed and calm as he lowered his sword. You took the opportunity to aim for his undefended chest, yet he anticipated the move and stepped aside. He grabbed your wrist and yanked you forcefully, the action catching you off guard. You tumbled down with him, hitting the stone ground hard.

“Hey!” you growled, attempting to untangle yourself from the mysterious man.

He put a hand over your mouth. “Shh...you’re going to get caught,” he muttered, pulling the both of you closer to the pillar, blending into the darkest shadows.

“Who goes there!” shouted an unfamiliar voice from behind the pillar.

You sucked in a breath and heard your unwelcome companion do the same, gripping your daggers tighter. Neither of you moved an inch, watching the other guards’s silhouette for his next move.

“I asked who’s there! Come out now before I call for more soldiers!” the voice rang out again. The hand over your mouth was removed and he used it to bring it to his lips, asking for silence. You watched him with wide eyes.

“I’m going to go out. Don’t move or make any noise, alright? I’ll take care of him,” he whispered, gripping your shoulders. “Just trust me, okay?”

Before you could even think of a response, he shot up with his sword in hand.

“Lieutenant Han!” he exclaimed. “It’s just me, don’t worry. Resume your rounds please.”

“Commander Lee? Right away sir,” the guard replied quickly as the man in front of you sheathed his sword like nothing.

Commander? You had been caught by the damn commander.

You got up quickly and stepped back but, as if reading your mind, the commander held out a hand to stop you.

“I know what you’re doing here, but you’ve got to have a better plan than just walking in and killing him,” he said, his voice low.

His words miffed you a bit. “So are you going to stop me?” you taunted, holding up your knives once more.

He sighed. “Put those down, you’ll attract the whole force if we fight. If you try now, you won’t make it. It was foolish of you to come alone.”

You lowered your weapons. “What are you saying then?” you asked him, raising your eyebrow.

“I’m saying go back home, and come back with a better plan.”

“Are all commanders this lenient? Aren’t you going to arrest me?” You scoffed.

The man shrugged, the action making him seem a bit more boyish. The shadows on his face made it impossible to discern his age, but from his voice he seemed young, too young to be a commander for the emperor.

“If you want me to, I have nothing against it. I thought it would be nice of me to give you a chance to spare your life,” he said bluntly. “Now go home, shoo shoo.”

“I am not a child. I’m here to kill the emperor,” you stated, getting defensive. “Now if you won’t stop me then move.” You tried maneuvering around him, but he blocked your path.

“I know, and I’m all for it. I told you though, it’s not time. Look at how easily I caught you, do you really think the other soldiers in there would be as forgiving as me? Go home princess.” He added the last part, putting a hand on your shoulder.

You shrugged him off. “I’m no princess. Don’t you want to murder him too? Is that why you’re letting me off the hook?”

The young man smiled dimly. “The lieutenant is coming back. I’ll see you later, princess,” he said, smirking as he emphasized the ridiculous name. “I’m Lee Jeno, by the way. Find me when you improve your master plan.”

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theshipsfirstmate · 3 years

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Black Widow Fic: No Time Left to Start Again

Post-BW, between the end and the post-credits. Yelena Belova faces life after The Snap.

No Time Left to Start Again (AO3 - wc: 4983)

She looks down to see her hands disintegrating -- fingers floating away like the wispy tufts of the dandelions that grew in their front yard in Ohio -- and Yelena thinks, Is this a cool way to die?

The question is still on her mind when she comes to, even though she’ll find out later that five years have passed since she started wondering.

She puts the pieces together as fast as she can, even though each one only makes the picture more grim. She learns she was lucky to be in the Widows’ safe house in Istanbul when it happened, even if the rancid smell of the rotted fridge makes her gag and there’s a hole in the ceiling and straight through the floor from a bathtub left running.

She learns that the best estimates say it was half of the population that floated away with her that day, and has now returned just as abruptly. The world wasn't ready for them to go, and it is even less prepared for them to return. Cities are plunged into chaos in an instant, governments and aid organizations just starting to steady themselves after half a decade of desolation get the rug pulled out from them once again.

She learns that her phone still works, even if internet service is shit, thanks to dwindling maintenance and overloaded servers. She learns that the Avengers are fighting a war for the fate of the universe (again), somewhere in upstate New York. And she learns, quickly, where she needs to go next.

“Малышка.”

Melina greets her at the gate with an unexpected softness -- so different than the last time -- and Yelena wonders if the woman has simply spent the last five years alone with her pigs, if they've felt any different than the twenty before. Then, Alexi steps out the door behind her, and she realizes that they have.

“So, neither of you…” Yelena starts to ask as they let her in, though she doesn't really have to. She can see the years on them both, and for a moment, she's a child with a family once again.

My mother is going grey at her temples. My father's glasses are thicker than they used to be.

They both have deeper crinkles at the corners of their eyes and Yelena finds herself hoping that it’s laughter that’s left them there.

“For five years we've been on our own,” Alexi answers, but he can't help himself a little smirk before he continues, “and moss grows fat on a rolling stone.”

He doesn't smell so bad this time, when he wraps her in a bear hug. Mercifully, he's shaved and taken to civilian clothes -- she decides to keep to herself how much she dislikes his new handlebar mustache.

“You did?” Melina guesses, and Yelena nods her agreement into Alexi’s chest before he relents and lets her go.

When she turns back to face the question, she finds herself on the receiving end of a look that feels equal parts discerning and maternal. That too, she remembers from her childhood.

“Are you alright?”

“I seem to be,” Yelena answers, gesturing down to her hands, tangible once more. There won't be an answer that satisfies the woman scientifically, she’ll have to be proof enough. “I don't remember any of it.”

What she truly doesn't expect from Melina is a hug, and it's even more surprising when it’s fiercer and longer than Alexi’s. A beat too long, Yelena realizes slowly. Alexi turns away when she tries to meet his eye, and her stomach turns over with dread.

Something else has happened. Something she doesn't know yet. Something worse.

“The report came over my comms just an hour or so before you got here,” Melina says softly, an arm reaching up to stroke the back of Yelena’s head, just like she did when she was a toddler. “It's over. The Avengers have won.”

There's the sound of splintering wood and both women step back sharply, turning to see Alexi clutching a handful of splinters that used to be the back of a dining room chair. He drops them to the ground and strides back out the door, pointedly not looking at either of them, and Yelena tastes bile in the back of her mouth.

“What else?” She tries and fails to stop herself from asking the question. It comes out on a choked kind of half-breath.

“Tony Stark is dead.” Melina answers, dropping her eyes, an uncharacteristic waver in her voice. “And it's been... harder to confirm, but we are almost certain that Natasha is too.”

In the Red Room, after the treatments, there would be a buzzing in your ears for days, like static from an old radio. Widows in training were known to be disciplined after missing commands, and would do their best to shake it off as quickly as possible, but Yelena sometimes welcomed the fuzzy silences, the chance to try and focus inward, no matter how painful.

This is nothing like that.

This is a heartbreak in a cry, a desperate, wailing sound that builds and builds, cutting through the quiet isolation of the farm compound like a knife. It's only when it gets muffled by Melina wrapping her up in her arms once more, that Yelena realizes she's the one making it.

“Малышка,” her mother whispers again -- my baby -- and Yelena can’t tell if it’s meant for her or not.

They sit around the table again that night, but dinner consists only of vodka and memories and they all try -- and fail -- not to notice the empty chair closest to the windows, the one with the broken back.

“Oh, I hated that blue hair!” Melina admits with a watery chuckle, paging through the photo album when their second bottle is nearly gone. “But she was so good at getting what she wanted.”

“You know, I begged her to dye mine too,” Yelena shares, recalling a long-forgotten memory that means something completely different now. “She said no, that she wouldn't let me be spoiled.”

Alexi interrupts the reverie before she goes too deep, laughter overtaking him as he pokes at Melina’s arm. “I remember the night she did it. You came to bed and you were so fed up, you cried! She made you cry!”

“And I punched you for laughing at me, do you remember that too?” Melina fires back, swatting his hand away.

When she was old enough to realize what had happened to her as a child, Yelena remembers scouring her memories for real moments, signs of genuine affection between the family she hadn’t known enough to question. It was difficult then, to believe any of it had been real. But sometimes now, it's not so hard.

“The only reason I was glad we left when we did, was because I knew I could never have handled her as a teenager,” Melina muses then, but there's little humor left in her voice. Yelena wonders if her face darkens in the same way as her mother’s when they think of that day on the airstrip.

It's quiet for a long moment, but Alexi never stops looking at Melina. Yelena's head is heavy from liquor and tears and she rests it on folded arms as she watches them. (Sometimes, it's not so hard to believe.)

“You didn't want to go,” her father says, low and mournful. “I should have listened.”

“You followed the orders,” her mother answers. “What was the alternative? They would have killed us and taken the girls back if we had made even one misstep.”

None of them had a way out, Yelena thinks, they never had. A super soldier and a Widow, weapons both, with daughters destined to follow in their footsteps. Maybe that's still true. Maybe there is no peace when all you've ever known is war.

But they'd had each other.

“It was real,” she murmurs, as her eyes drift closed. “Natasha said it was real.”

-----

A public memorial for Tony Stark is held on the National Mall. Steve Rogers is consecrated at the Smithsonian, again. But no one seems to know quite what to do about Natasha Romanov. The Black Widow, the female Avenger, the Russian-born assassin, only claimed by America, it seemed, when they wanted to accuse her of treason.

Still, Yelena flies to Washington DC, half-curious and half-desperate to burn off the fog she’s been wandering around in since Melina’s suspicions had been confirmed.

Captain America, the new one, had announced the events on a world-wide broadcast -- making a point to mention Natasha by name, Yelena had noticed -- and so she heads to the museum first, though she's not entirely sure what she hopes to learn. The Avengers have saved the world several times over, but those conflicts are usually reduced to heroic platitudes when it comes to the public, and she expects this to be no different.

She's mostly right, but the exhibit is worth it for a few glimpses of Natasha fighting alongside the Captain, scattered throughout the pictures and video of the Avengers’ years together. That's how she finds herself in a darkened theater, watching a compilation of newsreel footage, broadcasts and shaky cell phone shots, the valiant timeline of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

She feels him sit down beside her, catches the glint of metal in the sleeve of his leather jacket before she can even clock his face. Her nerves are instinctively on edge, but if he came for combat, they’d already be in it, so she stays still and quiet, waiting to follow his lead.

“ты сестра?” he asks softly. You're the sister?

Yelena turns to face him, the question and answer on her lips. But the Winter Soldier speaks again before she does.

“She showed me the pictures once. From when you were kids.”

Yelena couldn't count them if she tried, the nights she spent in the Red Room, rubbing a finger along the torn seam of her photo strip, willing the thought that Natasha was out there somewhere, holding the other half, to be enough to comfort her enough to sleep.

She turns away before he can see the tears in her eyes, but it’s no use -- they’re there in her throat when she speaks.

“They didn't even know her.” She nods back to the crowded museum and hopes he can grasp her meaning. There’s no way Natasha can be properly memorialized by government officials, who knew her as little more than a recon file, or the adoring public, who only thought of her when the world was ending.

“She liked it that way.” He means it as a comfort, but still, it makes Yelena flinch.

He notices, and she knows he understands when he tries again. “They were never gonna do her justice.”

The world never would, never could, Yelena thinks. A spy. A sister. A survivor. A lost girl, who fought her whole life for the kind of peace she’d never allow herself. These are not the people who get parades in their honor, holidays in their name.

“I will,” she says, and the stubborn tears win their battle, spilling down her cheeks. “I will do her justice.”

The Winter Soldier nods, with as much of a smile as he seems to allow himself. “I hope you will.”

Then he's gone, back the way he came, and Yelena thinks it's time to leave this city, with its buttoned-up bureaucracy and privatized secrets.

She doesn't care much about the Stark memorial, but skirts around the periphery on her way back to the airfield, catching a glimpse of the enormous photos and expensive-looking displays.

Natasha’s in these too, off to the side or just out of focus. It's starting to wear on her, the way these people seem to barely even notice the Black Widow, how quick they are to disregard one of their greatest heroes because she didn't fly or transform or wield some mystical weapon.

Shouldn’t that have made her even more impressive?

She's standing in front of a tribute to the Battle of New York just beside the bridge, weighing that unanswerable question, hands clenched unconsciously to fists, when Valentina finds her.

“I've been looking for you.” It sounds more like a taunt. I found you.

Yelena scoffs. “Probably a bad idea, if you know anything about me.”

“Oh, babe, believe me. I know plenty,” the woman answers, offering up that ridiculous name, a business card and a tone that's too familiar for Yelena's liking.

She's not to be trusted. That would be clear even to the Red Room’s youngest and most naive recruit. But it's this gleeful performance of espionage, or maybe villainy, that keeps Yelena from writing her off entirely. From the outfit to the attitude, she's either insane or untouchable. Or both.

And then: “So I have some… let's call it interesting information about your sister.”

Yelena clenches her fists tighter, digging her fingernails into her palm. “I don't believe you.”

Valentina seems to anticipate this, and is already reaching into her bag at the answer. She pulls out a thin, soft-bound book, printed with colorful block lettering: Parkside Elementary School, ‘95-’96.

Instantly, Yelena feels like someone's tightening a vice around her ribcage. “No.”

The woman shrugs, with that haughty grin she's already starting to loathe. “See for yourself.”

She flips it open, turning only a few pages to find the first grade classes, and there she is. Six years old. An innocent smile on her face and a fake last name beneath her picture. Orange juice spots on the collar of her shirt -- Melina had scolded her when they brought the photos home.

“How did you get this?” Even if it's a fake, it was done by someone who knows far too much.

“Well, you don't trust me, so I won't bother telling you,” Valentina snaps, taking the book back before she can look for Natasha. “Let’s call it proof that I know a lot of people who have been keeping a lot of secrets.”

Yelena tries to look unimpressed, dropping her shaking hands to her sides when she realizes they're giving her away. “You and me both.”

“Ha! No kidding,” Valentina replies. It's not actually a laugh. “That's exactly why we're gonna work so well together.”

Maybe it's the grief clouding her judgement or residual conditioning left over in her frontal lobe. Maybe it's the unspoken threat to the rest of her family. Or maybe she was just born for this -- a soldier like her father, an assassin like her mother. Whatever it is, Yelena can feel herself agreeing to Valentina’s “offer” before she's even made it explicit.

“We'll start you out small,” the woman assures, but she knows better than to be comforted. “How do you feel about some light arson? There’s some documents and hard drives at a warehouse in Bethesda that need disappearing.”

“Fine,” Yelena answers, ears already buzzing, as a small voice in her head sings along. Fire is the devil's only friend.

-----

When the money from her first job comes in, she buys an old Chevy C/K and drives to Akron, with a useless hope to disappear again. She's lucky enough to find a modest apartment with a kind neighbor who's always happy to dogsit, which becomes a blessing -- Valentina’s demands only increase as the corners of her fake smile tighten.

But it's enough. Enough that when Yelena thinks about home, she can once again think of Ohio.

Not long after, Alexi and Melina keep a promise she’d asked them to make, and return for a few days. She picks them up at the airfield, and drives to the spot she and Fanny found on one of their long walks together -- under the trees that are just starting to blossom with pink flowers.

Alexi lifts the heavy gravestone from the back of the truck and places it at the end of a row, under a tree, where the ground can't be dug up anyway.

“Toughest girls in the world,” Yelena hears him murmur as he runs his hand over the inscription.

Melina hasn't spoken much since they landed. Yelena thought at first that she didn't want to come back, but when she closes her eyes and takes in a deep, shuddering breath as they stand facing the grave marker, she understands that it isn't that at all.

“Big girl,” her mother begins with an uncharacteristic, watery softness, and Yelena is transported back to another lifetime once again. “I’m so sorry...”

There might be more to say, but the long, mournful silence is broken by the sound of another car pulling up. All three of them go on alert, until Yelena spots a familiar flash of metal from the driver's side.

“не волнуйся,” she says, still stepping defensively in front of her mother. “It’s OK.”

The Winter Soldier -- Sergeant Barnes, she reminds herself -- parks and exits quickly, moving to the rear of the car to help an elderly man step out and straighten himself.

He isn't what Yelena expected, but once he's at full posture, it's impossible not to recognize him. He's the man from the news, the internet, all the posters — give or take a few decades.

“Captain America.” Under normal circumstances, she might chuckle at Alexi’s awed whisper.

“Forgive us for interrupting,” the Captain says by way of a greeting. He sounds like him, too, so it must be true. “And, in advance, for not explaining. I just… I thought both of her families should be here.”

“If that's OK,” Barnes adds with a look, first at Captain Rogers, then back at the family.

Yelena nods her acceptance, but feels her heart sink a little when Melina turns back silently to face the gravestone. Only Alexi steps forward, extending his arm, first to the captain, then to his comrade.

“Alexi Shostakov,” he offers. “You probably don’t…”

“The Red Guardian,” Captain Rogers interrupts, and Yelena tries not to let her eyes go wide as they shake hands proudly. “The Soviet super soldier. Of course I know who you are.”

Alexi puffs his chest up for just a moment, and gives himself a pleased nod, before returning to Melina’s side. It's proof of his grief, Yelena thinks, that that's the end of it.

Then it's her turn. “You must be Yelena.”

“Captain.” She nods once and then twice, looking past him. “Sergeant.”

“Buck mentioned you two had run into each other in Washington,” the older man says with a well-worn, knowing smile.

“I would say we're glad to have you,” she offers as a reply, “but now I'm mostly worried that I'm not covering my tracks as well as I should.”

“Don't worry about that,” Captain Rogers replies, with a shake of his head. “I had to call in multiple favors to find you. Big ones, too.”

“Well then,” she sighs, “I guess I should say I'm sorry you went through all that trouble.”

Another small smile, and then the captain steps closer, lowering his voice almost conspiratorially. It strikes her that, while he's likely still one of the most powerful men in the universe, there's nothing about him that feels threatening to her.

“I don't know if you've noticed,” he tells her, “but I'm getting up there in years. Why don't you save us both a lot of time from now on, and only bother saying what you mean.”

He means it as a kindness, Yelena can tell, but there's only one question she wants to ask, and it's screaming in her mind like a klaxon horn.

“Will you...” she begins, stopping to swallow when her throat turns to sandpaper. “Will you tell us what happened?”

“Yelena,” Melina says sharply, and she almost takes it back. But she knows the curiosity will eat her from the inside out if she doesn't take the chance now, when it's literally right in front of her.

“No, I want to know,” she tells her mother before turning back and steeling herself once again. “I want the truth.”

Captain Rogers purses his lips and tilts his head, like he's seeing something different in her now.

“You really are her sister, aren't you?” he muses.

She scoffs, almost reflexively. “There's no family resemblance, if that's what you mean.”

“Isn't there?” She hears Alexi chuckle softly behind her and makes a mental note to elbow him in the ribs later. One super soldier at a time.

“Please,” she asks again, and the twinkle leaves Captain Rogers' eye as he nods solemnly.

“Natasha sacrificed herself to retrieve the last of the Infinity Stones.” Yelena only understands part of that sentence, and she's not sure if it's the important part.

“The stones were the key to bringing everyone back, to defeating Thanos once and for all,” he explains. “We made a plan, as a team. We each had our assignments, but we didn't know the cost.”

The cost, it's evident now, had been Natasha, and it grates again at Yelena that all the other Avengers had returned from this mission for their final battle, while her sister’s sacrifice had merely been part of the unknowable set up.

But Captain Rogers continues, and she finds consolation in the fact that at least he doesn't take Natasha's death lightly, not in the slightest.

“I went back, after,” he reveals, sounding close to tears. “I tried-- I tried like hell to get her back. I never should have let her go.”

“You wouldn't have been able to stop her.” Melina’s voice comes out of nowhere; even she seems surprised to have spoken. But they all nod at the truth.

“Clint said he-- she wouldn't let him go in her place,” Rogers adds. He’s turning something over in his hands, but when Yelena looks closer, it seems to be just a simple pack of bubble gum. “She was just too…”

His eyes, cast towards the sky, return to their group, and he speaks first to Alexi, and then to Melina. Yelena reaches out for her mother's hand, and it's taken with a fierce squeeze.

“I'm not sure I ever really understood her until now,” the Captain says. “I thought her strength, her heart, who she was, was in spite of what she'd been through. But I know now, it was because of it.”

Yelena’s eyes have blurred with tears, but she can see him turn to her next. “We fought that war for her,” he adds. “And I think she fought it for you.”

It's the eulogy Natasha deserves, the one none of them could have hoped to give, and it feels both fitting and unfathomable that it comes from Captain America, of all people.

They sit in it for a moment, each thinking of Natasha in their own way, until the silence is broken by two people speaking in unison -- perhaps the two that understood her best.

“She would have hated this,” Yelena mumbles, only realizing after a moment that Barnes had said the same thing.

A reserved chuckle rumbles through the five of them, and then a deep, forgiving breath. It’s time to go.

But Yelena drops Melina’s hand as the rest of them turn back for the road, suddenly unable to move. She can’t pull her eyes away from the grave, stuck staring at a legacy that makes her feel six years old again, a metaphorical pair of shoes she'll never be able to fill.

When she doesn't hear either car start, she expects maybe Captain Rogers or Alexi, but surprisingly, it's Barnes who returns to her side.

“I haven't… I didn't make a speech or anything,” she admits, gesturing at the stone with her sister’s name and titles, and willing him, once again, to understand the feelings she can’t put into words. “I don't know what to say to her.”

He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks it's lower than she’s expecting, like he’s drawing the words from somewhere deep. “Nat never shared much with us,” he tells her. “I understood that. It's hard to talk about memories you don't think you deserve to miss.”

Yelena knows she’s felt that too, that kind of arrested nostalgia. And she’s seen it in the Widows she recovered before the snap. It's not a surprise that the Winter Soldier could understand it as well -- what it’s like to be freed from a prison in your own mind, but constantly aware of how easily that door could slam closed on you once again.

“She wouldn't care what you say here,” he continues. “She would care what you do out there.”

Suddenly, Yelena wonders if his heightened senses include a bullshit detector, if he can somehow see the marionette strings Valentina has looped around her conscience.

“I might have lied to you when we met,” she admits, telling him as much of the truth as she can muster. “I'm not sure I know how to do her justice.”

“I think you do,” he answers. “Even if it’s hard. Even if it takes a while.”

She turns to face him, and he’s staring at the gravestone like he can see something more than the paltry words they had paid someone to carve in Natasha’s memory.

“Nat was haunted by the red in her ledger, but she also thought it was what made her a good Avenger. She thought it made her fearless, unbreakable.” Yelena looks down and watches the metal of Barnes’ bionic hand curl into a fist, and then release. “But I'll take a wild guess that she was fearless before that, wasn't she?”

Through the years of mind control and conditioning, Yelena has never forgotten the feeling of Natasha’s arm wrapped around her back on that airstrip in Cuba, screaming and threatening men twice her size to try and keep them both safe.

“You may not know what to do now. You might feel like the things you've done, or the things you want to do, have set your future in stone,” Barnes continues, cutting through the haze of her memories.

“But there's gonna be a moment, maybe in the future, maybe soon, when you're faced with a choice. And in that moment, if you choose to be the person she thought you could be, that'll do her justice.”

Yelena looks up and Barnes’ eyes are there to meet now. Whatever he knows, it’s enough.

“Thank you for coming,” she tells him. “Truly. And thank you for bringing the Captain.”

“Couldn't keep him away,” the man admits, with his little half-smile. “The two of them...I think that was as close as they let themselves get to anybody. I know he’ll always blame himself, but I hope this helped.”

Yelena nods her goodbye, thinking idly, mournfully, about the way Natasha never gave any thought to her future -- wondering if that’s something she and her teammates had shared. But as Barnes returns to his car, the back window rolls down and Captain Rogers flags her down with something dark and folded in his hand.

“I found this with her things on the quinjet,” he says as she approaches the window, and her throat is tightening with new tears before he can finish, before she can even reach out to touch the familiar fabric. “Thought maybe you might want it. It’s pretty nice, it’s got a lot of pockets.”

-----

When she returns Melina and Alexi to the airfield a few days later, it's the most Yelena has felt like a real person in a long time, maybe the whole of her adult life.

“You’ll come to visit, yes?” Alexi asks, but his raised eyebrow tells her it's more of an order than a request.

“I will.”

“Come for Christmas!” he booms as he climbs out of the truck. “I will tell Santa Claus where to find you.”

Melina doesn't follow him out the passenger door right away, turning back to face her and looking for all the world like a typical worrisome mother.

“Yelena…”

“мама, I'll be fine,” she promises, trying not to hear how hollow it sounds.

“I know you will. But please, watch out for yourself.” Yelena’s stomach knots at the memory of Melina telling Natasha the very same. That was the last time they were all together, she recalls. It always will be.

“And if you need us,” Melina adds, “just come home, where it’s safe. OK?”

It's something about the way she says it that steals Yelena's planned reply from her lips. She doesn't want to lie, not now.

So she ducks forward, pressing her head against her mother’s and willing them both a little bit of peace.

“You are the best of us. Strong like your father, smart like your mama,” Melina whispers. “And like Natasha, through everything, you’ve kept your heart.”

Yelena pulls back then, swiping at her eyes, unable to stop herself from asking. “You don’t think that’s a weakness?”

“Maybe, at one time,” Melina admits. “But now, I think it’s lucky. Because now, you have a place to carry her.”

She can do that, at least, Yelena promises herself, reaching down to tug instinctively at the hem of her vest. Natasha died for them, and so she can live for her. She can do her justice.

“Stay safe, Малышка,” Melina says again, kissing her on the cheek before climbing out and following Alexi towards the runway. They two of them turn back to wave before boarding their jet, and Yelena’s heart knocks in her chest to remind her. That’s my family.

She puts the truck in gear and is pulling out to the main road, brushing away a few stray tears, when she notices it. A cassette, half-ejected from her ancient tape deck, with a Post-it stuck to the end.

She peels off the note and grins at the mismatched handwriting -- “Love, Mom. And Dad,” both in Cyrillic -- before pressing the tape in and starting to sing along.

“A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile…”

#first mate fic #black widow fic #yelena belova #yelena belova fic #black widow spoilers #black widow #natasha romanoff #romanogers (if you squint)#post-bw

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