#and (i’m aware that this sounds cynical) why are you still following me if you’re not interested in the content i write

[xaphrin]

I am hoping to post this whole fic all at once, but I was so happy with this chapter that I wanted to share it. So, here. Have some "I wasn't supposed to fall in love with my wedding baker" AU.

- - -

When Damian opened the door to find Raven standing in the hallway, the expression on her face spoke volumes about her feelings of being here when most people were dead asleep.

She adjusted the large plastic container in her hands and shook a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You are aware that it’s two in the morning, right?”

Damian knew. Of course he did. A part of him almost felt apologetic for calling Raven and forcing her to come to his home in the middle of the night (especially over something as insignificant as lemon curd), but with the premium he was paying her for an off-hours house call, he didn’t allow that apology to take root. He’d been accused of being a “night owl” on more than one occasion, but the truth was that he suffered from occasional bouts of insomnia. And if he had to suffer through this ailment, then so should others - including the baker for his wedding.

“I’m paying you enough to make up for your interrupted sleep schedule.” Without any ceremony, he ushered her into his penthouse, closing the door behind her. Titus pushed past him and nudged Raven’s hip, begging for pets. Damian couldn’t help but notice that Titus paid Raven more attention than he paid his own fiance. “Sleep when you’re dead.”

Raven’s lips pulled to the side in a teasing half-smile, her eyes meeting his. “How chivalrous of you.” There was a small pause as she set the plastic container down on a small table by the door and bent down to scratch Titus behind the ears. “You know that your night time doorman seems to think I’m here for purposes other than cake. Why else would some strange woman be visiting you at an unreasonable hour?”

Damian didn’t care what his doorman thought, and he highly doubted Raven cared. She was just trying to get under his skin. He shrugged and turned away from her, motioning her to follow him deeper into his flat. “I hardly see how that is my problem. Besides, didn’t you say that you get up at four in the morning anyway?”

Her face fell. “That is entirely beside the point, and you know that, Mr. Wayne.”

“You can call me Damian.” He had reminded her of that fact at least half a dozen times now.

“Ha.” Her sarcastic laugh made him smirk. “No one calls a Wayne by their first name. It’s akin to social suicide. I’d be willing to bet that you even call your father Mr. Wayne.”

Damian walked her through the massive living room, heading towards the kitchen at the far end of his flat. “Only on holidays, and the occasional birthday.”

Raven snorted. “Ah. I see how deep the decorum runs.” As they walked into the kitchen, her face lit up with surprise, and she let go of a low whistle. Pushing past him, she inspected the appliances with blatant envy. “Do you even know what I would do to have this oven in my posession? I would commit war crimes to get this oven in my apartment.” She opened the oven doors and looked inside before standing up and turning to him, eyes narrowing. “Is this just for show? Do you even bake?”

“No.”

Raven closed the oven door and sighed. “Pity.”

“I cook.”

That seemed to pique her interest, and she leaned against the marble countertop, watching him with a sharp stare. There was a long stretch of silence, and it felt like her eyes were boring into him, stripping away everything that protected him until it felt like each flaw was exposed to her scrutiny. In any other situation, Damian would have slammed up some kind of barrier to keep her from looking too deep, but this time he found himself oddly comfortable with letting her investigate him. He didn’t mind showing her his weaknesses, and that thought should have scared him, but it didn’t. He kept his face blank and let her watch him.

“You know… I am having a hard time imagining you slaving over a stove in a hot kitchen.” Her head tilted to the side and she smirked. “Although I like the thought of you wearing a frilly apron. A soft pink one, with ruffles and bows.”

His face fell and he crossed his arms over his chest. Cheeky. “I am docking your home visit fee until you take that back.”

“Mm. Worth it.” She turned away from him, and reached for the plastic container on the counter, unsnapping the lid. In an instant, Titus was at her side and Damian watched her sneak him a treat she had obviously made for him. Raven seemed to make herself at home in his kitchen, as if she belonged there. He found himself smiling at her, and a strange kind of warmth filled his chest.

“So, tell me your fear with the lemon curd, and why it was so imperative that you force me out of bed at two o’clock in the morning to travel all the way across town with cake samples.”

Well, when she put it like that, it did make him sound like a typical, spoiled son of an eccentric billionaire. Damian ignored that small spot of guilt again and settled on a stool at the eat-in counter. “I think my fiance is allergic to lemons… or curd. I can’t remember, but it’s one of those.” He thought for a long moment, trying to remember what it was that she had said last time he had spoken to his fiance.

“You can’t remember?” Raven turned back around and looked at him, her expression incredulous. “Haven’t you two known each other for years? That's what all the tabloids say anyway.”

Oh, right. The tabloids were spinning the relationship into some falsehood of star-crossed lovers who used to be childhood best friends. The truth was far less interesting. “We have known of each other for years. We’ve crossed paths at various parties and events, and my father and hers have a mutual business relationship. But, knowing each other implies some kind of deep, long term relationship. Something more than casual friends.”

“Ah.” Raven rummaged through his cabinets for plates, setting them next to the plastic container containing cake samples. “And I take it that’s not what you have with the daughter of Queen Consolidated?”

Damian shrugged, knowing that talking about the arrangement was opening himself to all kinds of scrutiny from her. But, there was something about Raven that made it almost comfortable to open up to her. In all the times they had been together, she never seemed like the type to spill his secrets. In fact, she seemed to keep them closer than most people he knew. He actually liked talking to her - even with her cheeky attitude. “We’ve only been together in an official capacity for a few months.”

“Oh…”

Her tone seemed to waffle between pity and understanding, and Damian felt like he had to scramble for an explanation. It felt like he didn’t want her to think less of him as a person.

“The marriage is one of a business nature. Our families would be brought together with the marriage of children. It would strengthen the ties between us.” After saying it out loud, Damian realized how cynical that sounded. It was more than just a business move. For all intents and purposes, he liked Emiko, she was smart and polite and reasonably attractive. Marrying her was a good, sound move. He would be content though their marriage.

“I didn’t realize that was still a thing - marrying for business purposes.” Raven pulled out cake samples from the plastic box and placed them on the counter. “Sounds a little medieval, if you ask me.”

Damian shrugged, not feeling any particular way about her comments. “She’s a lovely woman.”

“Is she?” Raven scoffed. “My landlady is a lovely woman. The mail person is a lovely woman. The person who delivers my takeaway is a lovely woman." She gave him a flat stare, pursing her lips. "Lovely woman is not a term of endearment you use for someone you're madly in love with."

"I never said I was madly in love with her."

"Ah. I see. I must have misunderstood." She handed him a slice of cake, her eyes as sharp as a hawk’s as she watched him. "Raspberry and chocolate." She paused. "Is that the business agreement to the marriage then? You marry Emiko Queen, and in return both families have fingers in each other’s pots… so to speak.”

"Yes." Damian took a bite of the cake, and he tasted the sharp tartness of the raspberry at the forefront of the cake before melting away to luscious chocolate. Just like the first time he tasted her cakes, he barely kept himself from moaning in pleasure. She had to bake magic into her cakes for them to taste this damn good. He chewed slowly, letting himself wallow in the flavor.

"Does she love you?"

Damian swallowed and stared at her. The question caught him off guard. He knew for certain he didn’t love her, but he had never really thought about whether or not she loved him. "That's forward of you."

"Asking if your fiance loves you?" She snorted and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "You're right. How rude of me." Another slice of cake appeared. "Pistachio and cardamom."

He took a bite and tamped down a shiver. She was a magician, there was no other explanation. The flavor curled in his mouth like spiced smoke. "It'll be a fine arrangement."

"Mm. How romantic, an arrangement. Be still my fluttering heart."

Damian rolled his eyes and took another bite of cake. "I am amazed you manage to keep clients with the mouth on you."

She gave a one shouldered shrug. "I let my work speak for me." There was a pause and she leaned over the counter to look closer at him, trying to decipher his expression. “But you never answered my question. Does she love you?”

Damian blinked, letting her question settle in the pit of his stomach. Did his fiance love him? He doubted it, but then again, he never thought to ask. Emiko wasn’t frigid to him, but she wasn’t overly attached either. Indifferent seemed to be the best way to describe her feelings, as though she cared for him as nothing more than a distant friend. She seemed to view this arrangement the same way he did - a duty to her family and a business transaction. Nothing more.

“Your silence speaks volumes.” Raven’s head tilted to the side and she stared at him again, blatantly reading his face. He felt uncomfortable, letting her sharp eyes watch him. She seemed to see more than anyone else had. “I see hundreds of couples a year, and I’ve learned to pick out who truly cares for each other, and who really doesn't know what they want."

Damian took another bite of the pistachio cake, never looking away from her face. Even when she was picking him apart, she was beautiful. "And I take it that you believe I'm the latter?"

"I don't just believe, I know." She handed him another slice of cake. "Orange spice."

"I'm not particular about marrying for love. I've never subscribed to the idea." The orange spice was by far the best, and it immediately went on the short-list.

A pitying look crossed her face. "You don't believe in love?"

That question made him pause, and he looked back at her, his head filled with something akin to smoke. It was like he couldn’t think beyond her question. "I… don't know." He realized with some small amount of shock that he really didn't know. As he sat there, watching her, he realized that he never thought he would fall in love. He had crushes and minor relationships, but nothing that he would call love. Nothing that made him feel like the world was falling out from under his feet, and he was left clamoring for something that made him whole.

“You look surprised by your own answer.” Raven’s voice was soft, nearly swallowed up by the silence between them. “Did you honestly think you would never fall in love?”

“I suppose I did.” Damian took another bite of cake and shifted in his seat. “Love never seemed like something I gave much thought to. My duty has always been to my family, and as long as I am comfortable, I don’t see the need for much else.”

Raven pulled out another slice of cake. “Have you thought that maybe you haven’t met the right person?”

Damian’s face fell and he stared at her, taking the slice of cake from her. “That seems a trite response.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. That’s vanilla and rose water.”

Damian’s face scrunched at the flavor and he pushed it away. “That rose water is abhorrent.”

A soft laugh escaped and Raven shook her head. “Rose water is very en vogue right now. I’m not fond of it, but some people like it.” She took the slice back and leaned against the counter. “So, tell me if you don’t mind, why are you putting all this effort into a wedding with someone you don't have feelings for?"

"It's meant to be a performance." He hummed softly, thinking. “Both of our families have a reputation to uphold, and if we don’t live up to that expected standard, the media will tear us apart. Emiko doesn’t need any poor publicity.”

“Mm. I understand to a point.” She paused and pulled out another slice of cake. “You’re very pragmatic about this.”

The way she said that didn’t sound like a compliment. Damian took the offered cake. “I don’t require your approval.”

“I never said you did. I’m only in this for the absolutely exorbitant fee you’re paying me.” She smirked. “But… I am curious, don’t you want to fall in love? Just once?”

“And who would I fall in love with?” He took a bite of cake and practically sighed. Chocolate and orange.

“You’re a Wayne. More than half the world would be willing to fall in love with you. Take your pick.”

“I don’t think you can force love.”

Raven shrugged. “Well, your upstanding camaraderie with your fiance doesn’t fit the bill either.”

He blinked and took another bite of the cake. This was the one. “I never intended to love her. Our partnership will be fine.”

Raven lifted an eyebrow. “So… what happens if you fall in love with someone before you get married?”

“I hardly think that will happen.” He scoffed and took a third bite of the cake. He doubted he would find anyone who could coax him to fall in love. That seemed like an impossible task. “And even if I did, it changes nothing.”

“You’re so committed to this marriage. It’s admirable.” Her smile widened. “I take it the orange and chocolate one is the winner? You’ve eaten half the slice already.”

“You’re talented at this.” He took another bite and met her stare. “What about you?”

“I think the chocolate orange will both make a statement and still be appropriately conservative.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His eyes searched hers, and he suddenly realized he had to know. He had to know if there was anyone in her life that meant more than just a friend. He wanted to know who her heart beat for. “Are you in love?”

Color crawled up her neck. “That’s a pretty personal question to ask your baker.”

Damian shrugged. “For what I’m paying you, humor me.”

She chewed on her lower lip and glanced away, and she shifted for a moment. “Currently? No. I was in love once, but… it faded.” She looked back into his eyes. “But that doesn’t make it any more special and important.”

"And you want to fall in love again?" He felt strange and a little invasive asking these questions, but some part of him wanted to know. He wanted to know not just about falling in love, but Raven falling in love specifically. Would she fall in love again? And with whom?

"Of course." Her voice was soft and gentle, and she gave him a small, almost sad smile. "I haven’t found the right person to fall for just yet. But it’ll come.”

Something in Damian’s chest twisted and he found himself reaching across the counter to rest his hand next to hers. It was as close as he dared to get to her. She met his stare for a long moment, and that feeling in his chest turned almost painful. He wanted to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, to feel her skin under his fingertips, but his hand stayed firmly pressed against the cool marble of the counter.

He swallowed slowly and nodded. “The chocolate orange.”

#damirae #demonbirds #I DID SOMETHING #whatever this is #baker au

[professorspork]

superhell fic prompt: JAUNE RUNS INTO PYRRHA

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5]

It doesn’t occur to that she’s allowed to talk to them until Torchwick reveals himself to Neo. And even then, well-- Roman Torchwick isn’t exactly a shining paragon when it comes to setting a good example of what’s allowed.

But the idea refuses to stop hounding her footsteps, once it’s come. Once she’s seen it’s possible, without consequences. Still, she waits, and keeps her distance. There’s no sunset, here on the island, no night, but there are shady places beneath the towering roots of the Tree; eventually, they all bed down, and Jaune-- as she’d known he would-- volunteers to take first watch. It’s a heartening display: Yang and Blake twined together like ivy on a wrought iron gate, but each clinging to the hands of their teammates, chained together by grasping fingers. Otters in a stream, unwilling to be separated.

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised to hear her own voice when she approaches.

...I know this can be frustrating, and it can feel like so much effort to progress such a small amount, but I want you to know that I'm proud of you. I've never met someone so determined to better themselves...

“You’ll drain your battery,” she cautions, reaching out with her mind to press the off button on his scroll. His head whips up, expression aghast, and she smiles at him softly. “I’d have thought you’d have it memorized by now anyhow; you haven’t seemed to need it in some time.”

She expects disbelief, perhaps, or shock. Joy would have been nice, but she’d have understood anger. So she’s surprised and---bizarrely proud, actually-- when instead his eyes narrow in suspicion and the first thing he says is, “Your Semblance works.”

“Well, yes.”

“Why does your Semblance work?”

“Because I’m where I’m supposed to be. A soul knows when it’s in the right place. Or the wrong one, as the case may be.”

“Or I’m dreaming.”

“Or you’re dreaming,” she agrees, keeping her voice mild, but feeling it like a punch to the stomach when his shoulders relax at the idea. Does he... not want her here? Goodness, but she’s out of practice. She’d forgotten it was like this; how talking to him had been both the easiest and the hardest thing in the world. “Would you-- prefer that? If I weren’t really here?”

“The real Pyrrha would know better than to ask me that.”

Despite herself, she laughs. “Oh, I wish that were true. I asked myself that every day. Every class, every glance, every study session on the roof. I’m afraid I was never as confident as I should have been.” It’s an embarrassing admission, but an effective one; the walled-up caution behind his eyes dissipates... only for tears to well up in its stead.

“Are you-- can I touch you?”

“I hope so.” (She’d left Torchwick and Neo behind before they’d gotten that far, for obvious reasons.)

“I--” He scrambles to his feet and crosses the distance between them, enveloping her in a crushing hug. It doesn’t feel like she remembers, but then, that’s no surprise-- he’s taller than he used to be, and her body isn’t exactly a body, per se. She’s grateful, even so. Happy just to have the chance to hold him up. She keeps quiet at first, letting him get it all out as he sobs incoherent apologies into her shoulder--

(IloveyouImissyouIloveyouImissyouI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry)

--and contents herself with playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck. Eventually, he calms.

“I like the haircut,” she says, when he pulls away. “It’s handsome. You look so grown up.”

“You look so young,” he croaks in response, and-- she supposes she must, to his eyes. It’s strange to think that she’s the same age as Ruby now; that they’ve kept going on without her, and they’ll continue to do so, once she’s led them out. “Are you--? Have you--?” He wipes at his eyes, laughing at himself a little. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where to start. I just-- I can't believe you're here with me.”

“I'm always with you,” she assures him, unable to suppress the urge to thumb away a tear he’s missed. She keeps her hand there, at his cheek, as she she speaks: “Even when you can’t sense me, I... oh, Jaune. I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far.”

He sighs and steps out of the circle of her arms, hanging his head to stare at Crocea Mors where it rests in its sheath. You’d never know it to be broken, just by looking. The scabbard hides the damage-- giving him the appearance of being armed and ready though all he carries is a shattered hilt. “Yeah, maybe. I-- I thought I had, but...” He swallows, face filled with shame.

She starts to reach for him again, unwilling to waste even a moment of their time not touching him, but forces herself to relax and drop her hands to her sides. It has to be his choice, doesn’t it? “Tell me. You can tell me anything; you know that.”

His voice falters terribly when he finally speaks: 

“I mean, I feel like you already know. For the longest time, I wanted to be this... I dunno. This warrior, or whatever. And it never fit, no matter what I did, or how hard I worked, and I just-- I resented it so much. Being...” He shakes his head. “I just felt useless. But when I unlocked my Semblance, I had to let that go. And it was hard at first, it took time, but for a second there it finally started to feel like... like I knew my place. Where I belonged; what everyone needed from me. I was good at it. But then Penny needed--” He chokes on a sob, and has to stop and take several deep breaths before he can continue. “Nothing’s changed. I’m still useless. The idiot stuck on the wrong side of the glass, out of his league and forced to watch because someone else has to be the Maiden now and there’s nothing he can do about it. Only this time it’s worse, because this time I actually-- I--”

Unable to hold herself back anymore, she reaches for his hands; he squeezes her fingers tight, like a lifeline. “I understand,” she soothes, voice heavy like a vow. “Did you think I wouldn’t? I don’t think I have to remind you that I’m the only other person who knows what that feels like. To have been the one who killed her.”

He lets out an awful, cynical noise; a parody of a laugh. “Depends on who you ask,” he says in explanation, looking askance towards Ruby. Pyrrha sadly follows his gaze. Ruby’s shifted in her sleep, curled under her cape to be as small as possible with her head nestled in the crooks of Yang’s bent knees. Her arms are wrapped around Yang’s shins in a death grip, as though she fears her sister might fly away at any moment. Pyrrha’s heart aches for her; for the responsibility she carries. Weight Pyrrha could have helped shoulder... if only she’d been a little faster, a little more clever.

She shakes off the feeling; now’s not the time for regret. “But things have changed,” she says, bringing Jaune’s hands up to her mouth and kissing the knuckles. It will be a long time, she knows, before he believes there isn’t blood on them; maybe this small act can help. And if it doesn’t... she has other options. Maybe even a little levity, for once. “You’re not useless. You’re amazing. You’re a licensed Huntsman now; you’re accomplishing things you’d only dreamed of. All the mothers of Mantle adore you. You even got to go on a date with Weiss!”

He boggles at her, wrenching his hands away. “What?! That wasn’t a date, we were just hanging out with Oscar, we--” His jaw falls open, suddenly, and his eyes narrow once more. “Wait a minute. Are you teasing me?”

She grins, sheepish and caught. “I figured it was now or never to give it a go; I didn’t want to waste my last chance to try it. Nora always said it would be good for me.”

“To make fun of me?” he squawks, indignant.

She laughs. “To remind myself it’s okay to be a novice sometimes; that there are things I won’t instantly be good at.” She bites her lip, unable to stop her grin. “...And also to make fun of you, yes.”

He surges forward, then-- wrapping a hand around the back of her neck and pulling her closer, pressing a fierce, grateful kiss to her forehead. Then he does it again; then once more, at the bridge of her nose. And then a final time, against her lips. Quick; intense. Filled with meaning.

She’s got not breath in her, and still she’s breathless.

“I miss you so much,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his forehead against hers. His fingers thread themselves into the hair at the back of her skull, tangled into the base of her ponytail. “So much. I think about you all the time. Every day. Wondering how different things would be, if only...”

“I know,” she says, because she does. There’s more that she should say, probably-- that it’s good that he’s started to move on; that none of them can hold onto her forever. But she can’t quite bring herself to voice the words.

“It’s not fair,” he mutters, then sighs at the sound of it. “I mean, none of it is fair, but-- I feel like a jerk, I guess. That I’m the one who gets to see you, of all of us.”

“You’ll tell them I love them, won’t you? Ren and Nora. They...” They’re doing things she never did, is the thing. Maturing in ways she’ll never have the chance to. Learning that responsibility doesn’t mean putting it all on your own shoulders; that love doesn’t mean giving all of yourself away. It’s overwhelming, how proud she is of them for that. “They were on the right path, in Atlas. Don’t let them convince themselves otherwise.”

He nods, the movement of it levering her own head in shared agreement. “Anything else? Anyone else you’d like me to...?”

So many; too many. But one rises above the rest. “Tell my mother to stop leaving flowers,” she murmurs, wishing she had more to offer than that. “Tell her they belong in the garden; that I like to watch them grow. That’s-- the way it should be.”

“Okay,” he says, and relief rushes through her. “Okay. I will.”

Slowly, they both become aware once more of the gaggle of Huntresses sleeping just a few yards off. Pyrrha could leave dozens of messages with Jaune, if she wanted, but the people she most needs to speak to are right here, within arm’s reach. They need her guidance; it’s selfish not to provide it. She’s taken so long already. And yet...

Jaune beats her to voicing the thought: “I know we should probably wake them, but-- can it be just the two of us, for just a little longer? Please?”

She smiles, and brings a hand up to caress his cheek. “I thought you’d never ask.”

#Anonymous #arkos #jaune arc #pyrrha nikos #rwby #fic what i wrote

[ironmandeficiency]

accidents happen

pairing: kix / mechanic!reader (afab here)

word count: 2163

summary: accidents happen even to the most careful people.

a/n: can be read as part of the kix/mechanic!reader universe i accidentally made (here, here, and here). made some tweaks to the og req but stuck to the general theme. sprinkled in a few of my oc boys for ✨flair✨

warnings: speeder crash, prego!reader

you don’t remember much of the speeder crash. it was a blur of lights, a cacophony of twisting metal and the screams of passersby as they worry about the wellbeing of those involved. that is, until your head slammed too hard against the controls and knocked you out cold.

the sensations of latex icicles checking your pulse roused you from your unconscious state. your eyes struggled against the bright lights of what you knew was the five-oh-first medbay, the foggy yet familiar voices of frantic clones being a dead giveaway. they were worried about many things—your condition after the wreck, whether you would be able to return to field work with them once you recovered, kix’s reaction once he catches wind of what happened...

kix hadn’t kept his cool when your arm was slightly crushed by general skywalker’s delta-7 aethersprite, how was he going to handle his cyare being in a speeder crash?

answer’s simple: he wouldn’t.

kix had just left the operating room when he heard the commotion of a new patient being brought in. jogging to the cot where they lifted the patient, he pushed his way through the unusually tight crowd of vode until he got to the foot of the bed. “alright boys, what do we got?”

“speeder crash just outside of 500 republica, two broken ribs, a—oh we got it taken care of kix, go get some rest-”

“you just left surgery, take a break!”

“this’ll be easy peasy, we got it!”

the voices of his brothers were agitated as the crowd was damn near trying to push him away. with a few well-placed nudges and shoulder bumps, kix realized that they indeed were trying to push him away. this just made him all the more intent on figuring out why they were trying to boot him out. he was a medic for kriff’s sake, bronco had no business trying to shove him out of the way like that!

“easy peasy my shebs, bronco! i…”

it was you.

you were lying unconscious on the bed in front of him, surrounded by brothers on all sides as the other medics, clone and civvie alike, were taking care of you. there was an oozing, bloody gash along your temple and a growing knot that was already grossly discolored.

it was instinct for kix to want to take point on this. it was you, he didn’t want anything to go wrong. and if something did go wrong, he wouldn’t want to have the scapegoat of blaming a vod for anything. it had to be on him, he had to be the one to take care of you.

the protests of several vode immediately follow kix’s insistence, multiple hands starting to pull him from your bedside. he begins to struggle against them and they immediately start to grip him tighter as they guide him towards the exit.

“you can’t do this! i need to-mmph! be here! let me go!”

“you know why we can’t do that, vod.”

“bantha karking shit you can’t! i need to be there, you don’t understand!”

arguments continued and tension mounted in the medbay, kix still fighting to get to you while the others were either treating you or holding him back. all other conscious thought ceased to be, the gut instinct of taking care of you being his only purpose.

then a firm voice booms through the chaos with enough force to wake the dead as he calls the medic’s name.

“leave, kix. that’s an order.”

rex’s heart was being smashed by his own boot as he spoke. he hated having to be the one giving the ultimatum to the frightened medic in front of him, but as captain, the burden fell onto him. kix was clearly not able to separate you from what needs to be done for the patient and he was not going to allow that kind of responsibility on his vod’s shoulders.

not if he was going to be able to sleep tonight.

rex’s eyes betrayed how much it hurt him, but the bristling of his words showed no such emotion. he couldn’t show any of this inner conflict, not as a captain and especially not as ori’vod to nearly every man surrounding your bed. but the men know that their captain isn’t heartless, that he views you as one of the best things to happen to the five-oh-first, that he has a reason for everything he does.

it takes a hell of a lot more convincing (read: sedative) to get kix to back down. rex and fives carried the medic to the barracks, taking care to lay him down gently. the proximity to the younger trooper told rex that a sedated kix was having more of an effect on him than he let on.

even though fives had other duties to take care of while on leave, rex knew that a distracted fives would not be able to complete any of them to his regular standards. so, like a good captain and ori’vod, he excused the younger brother from his tasks.

“you can stay with him,” rex could read the arc trooper like a datapad; fives was tense and afraid, two feelings that only his closest brothers would recognize on him. “he’ll probably feel better if someone’s here when he wakes up.”

“but rex—“

“i know you stayed with him the last time his cyare was injured, fives. he would be grateful to have someone with him during this.” fives nodded his thanks grimly, taking his perch at kix’s bedside.

rex returned to the medbay with haste, hoping against hope that your injuries were mild. his return to the medbay was met with you awake, recounting the story of how you were rammed by a rogue speeder that ran their traffic light.

“we’re just glad you’re okay, gotabor.”

“yeah, no speeder can keep you down.”

a wave of peace rushes over the tired captain and he takes his leave. you were okay, kix would be okay, the five-oh-first would be okay.

queen and starchild continued to praise your resilience (“the toughest mechanic in the gar” is what you’ve been dubbed) before they’re cut off briskly by morticus, whose face was sporting a strangely lighter expression, like some of the burdens he carried were lightened for a moment.

“but we also have some news, gotabor. some that you really should be told in private.”

your first instinct is to tell morticus that you trust these men with your life, that anything he had to say could be said in front of them. but something in his eyes told you that pushing the matter wouldn’t end well. “i’ll be here when you get back, boys,” you give the remaining troopers soft smiles and a gentle squeeze of their hands, reassuring them that you were okay now, that in the hands of the five-oh-first you were the safest you’ve ever been.

they took a reluctant leave, looking over their shoulders one last time as they left the medbay. it wasn’t that they didn’t trust morticus, no not that at all, it just seemed that you had a penchant for getting injured and when brothers were repeatedly injured in increasingly severe ways, they didn’t always stay around much longer.

morticus is quick to say what he needs to, privacy being a very rare luxury in a five-oh-first medbay whether on leave or otherwise. “now that we have some privacy, gotabor, i have some news.” again, there was this happier lilt to his voice that he just didn’t have. morticus was stoic, cynical, even a bit dickish on the right day. to see him smile and sound happy about something was abnormal but pleasant all the same.

“is everything alright?”

“more than alright—you’re expecting.”

your face warped in your confusion, eyebrows crinkled and lips slightly pursed. “expecting what, morti?”

this man laughed—genuinely laughed—at your reply and if you weren’t so distracted by your perplexion, you would have said something about how nice his laugh is.

“a child, gotabor’ika. you’re pregnant.”

a sly grin made an appearance, morticus’s voice slightly teasing. the air was lighter around him than it has been in a long time and he was going to enjoy it with everything he’s got. “i’m going to assume that the baby belongs to kix—“

“of course it’s his, di’kut! but we had been so careful, always using protection! i don’t know how this happened…” racking your brain, you tried to remember a time when the two of you were a little less than careful but came up empty. “we weren’t trying for this, morti. it just happened, it was an accident.”

he patted your thigh with a smile. “sometimes accidents happen to even the most careful people. just take this as a win and keep going.” something to your far left beeped—another brother’s machine—and morticus quickly reverted back to tense medic mode, scrutinizing the readings before taking notes in their datapad and returning to your side.

“you got this, gotabor. you’re made of the stronger stuff.” he flurries around you, making sure you’re as comfortable as possible before telling you to rest and that kix will be with you soon. it didn’t take a seasoned member of the resolute to know that kix was so devoted and bent on protecting you however possible, and you knew that he was probably sedated yet again. he would be here when he’s up, you know he will. you just hoped that he liked what he was waking up to.

rex made sure to stop by kix’s bunk to tell fives that you were conscious and by all accounts, appeared to only be mildly banged up. the way the tension fell from his vodika’s shoulders comforted rex, glad that he could give the arc good news to depart onto the unconscious medic before them, the smile on his face genuine as he departed from the barracks.

it wasn’t very long after rex left that kix began to stir. as predicted by fives and the rest of those aware of the situation, his first waking thoughts and concerns were for you. the arc was quick to console his vod and encouraged him to go to the medbay to see you as if kix could have been stopped. fives had to bargain (and trade some of his favorite candies from his stash) to convince kix to let him walk to the medbay with him, the medic still on shaky legs after being sedated.

everyone with a lick of sense knew to steer clear of kix until he was able to see you again. they made a path for him and fives without hesitation, knowing that all hell would be let loose if any of them tried to stop their advancing to the medbay.

“special delivery for gotabor’ika!” fives shouts as he enters, promptly getting shushed by coric and morticus.

you laugh from your cot when you hear your second favorite trooper before you see him. “over here, fives!” he follows your voice and soon, kix is being deposited on the foot of your bed with a smile.

fives grins and pokes his cheek, signaling for a small peck in return for his services. “now if you’ll just sign here-ow!” honestly he should expect the light slap you deliver to his face instead. “you got him from here, gotabor. get better soon, i don’t trust those kriffing ships without ya!” he leaves with a smile and a wave, comforted to see that you’re truly okay.

kix still hasn’t laid down with you and you’re slightly worried. by now, he’d be wrapped all over you like a tooka to lothnip. you nudge him with your foot to get his attention and when he finally meets your gaze, his eyes are wet. it looks like he’s trying his best to not cry but it’s soon to be a losing battle.

“kix, baby what’s-“

“you’re pregnant.”

the datapad with the reports of your injuries and conditions is cradled in his palms. bloodwork has never lied to him before but every nerve is on edge, like this would all be pulled out from under him the moment he let himself indulge in the what-if’s.

you weren’t sure how he would react to the news and he isn’t exactly giving you any hints as to how he feels about this which slightly worries you; kix has never been one too shy away from telling you his thoughts and the fact he’s doing it now has your stomach in a knot. “honey, what-“

your question can’t even leave your lips before the datapad is tossed on the bed and he’s wrapping his arms around you, face buried into your shoulder and failing to hold back the tears. at least he doesn’t seem to be angry, that’s a plus. “i love you so much, ner gotabor,” he raises his head to meet your eyes, one hand resting on your stomach with a teary smile. “i love both of you.”

kix taglist: @blue-space-porgs @leias-left-hair-bun @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @olluea @catsnkooks @simping-for-fives @captainrexstan @mackstrut @battletales @stardustsunrisekisses @darthadeline @artemis61003 @majorshiraharu @getdookuedon @capricornrabies @jedi-mando @whovianwar @hornystarwarsbisexual @bo-kryze

#kix x reader #kix #clone medic kix #star wars the clone wars #star wars #star wars imagines #star wars reader insert #star wars fanfic #swtcw #clone trooper imagine #captain rex #kix x you #tw pregnancy #pregnant!reader #afab!reader

[one-boring-person]

Could you write something about Iceman and a reader who doesn't like Valentine's day please, I know you're a little swamped so no rush

I hope you like this!😊💛

Red Roses.

Tom "Iceman" Kazansky

Warnings: none

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day!😊💛💛💛

Masterlist

"I just don't see the point in caring, when there's nothing to care about!" I repeat myself for what feels like the hundredth time this week, turning and walking back up the corridor, away from my two companions.

"What do you mean "there's nothing to care about?" You could just enjoy the sentiment!" Slider argues back, he and Iceman following me up the corridor.

"Yeah, it's a good time to get wasted in the bar, if nothing else." The pilot chips in, making me roll my eyes.

"What, with all the happy couples around?" I scoff, waving them off, "Not for me."

"Why? What's wrong with happy couples?" Iceman questions, catching up to me with Slider in tow.

Groaning, I turn to them briefly, hoping my irritated expression will get them to leave me alone.

"Nothing, ok? Valentine's day just isn't my thing, so can we leave it at that, please?" I respond, trying my hardest to avoid looking too much at the blonde pilot in front of me, knowing I'll give myself away if I do.

"I guess." Slider replies, though he doesn't look too pleased about it.

Iceman only nods, watching me quietly as I turn and go back towards my room, glad that I have the next couple of days off for once.

*

Yet another cheerful-looking aviator steps past me in the corridor, a few roses in one hand, a card in the other, a nervous grin pushing at his lips as he nods at me. Returning the gesture, I try not to roll my eyes at the cliche of it all: doesn't anyone have any more original ideas than the red roses and soppy cards? 

Adjusting my uniform, I suppress the slight feeling of loneliness that has developed over the day, having witnessed many happy people receiving and giving Valentine's wishes, each person more joyful than the last. Both Maverick and Goose had made a loud point of showing their tokens off, especially when Slider had challenged them with a few of his own, having gotten more than one from the many girls he's spoken with in the surrounding area. It had been hard enough to avoid getting involved in the lead-up to this irritating tradition, and now that it is actually here it's even worse. Naturally, the commanders had been cynical about the whole thing, giving their best deadpan insults and witty remarks the entire time, making the day somewhat bearable, though there were of course some that couldn't hide the slight pride when they themselves received gifts from their own partners. Even going out on missions today was a trap of painful comments.

Now, however, as I find my way to my bunk room, I can feel the effects of the isolation I've put myself in, the generally low mood I've had all day finally starting to show for real. Watching some of the others has, for the first time, made me aware of some kind of emptiness within me, like a pit just waiting to be filled by the affection I've denied myself for years. I did my best to ignore it, but it's persistent, keeping me quiet and cold all day, as it usually does. 

Sighing, I shake my head of these thoughts, arriving outside my door, which I unlock quickly, going inside, into the comforts of my own familiarity. Closing the door behind me, I go straight to my desk, pulling open the drawer where I usually keep my supply of (technically forbidden) beers, only to groan to myself when I find it empty, having used them up last week, when I'd had a few of the other aviators over. Slamming the drawer, I mentally kick myself for not replacing them, going instead to flop onto the lower bed, sprawling across it with my eyes closed. 

My thoughts quickly stray to images of the one person I would actually be inclined to spend time with today: Iceman. 

The blonde pilot had received many cards and roses today, most of which came from anonymous admirers, though he had laughed them all off, stating clearly to me that they meant nothing. Surprisingly, I was more affected by these different tokens than I wanted to let myself believe; I was never one for jealousy, especially not for jealousy over a friend. In recent months, however, my attitude towards the pilot has become noticeably different to me. Inexplicably, I'd find myself spending more time with him, doing my best to impress him and make him smile or laugh, something that I've never done for anyone else. It wasn't long before I realised that I had, in fact, developed a crush on said pilot, though I did my absolute best to suppress it and get over him.

A knock at my door snaps me from my reverie, my body jolting as upright as I can in the confined space. 

Thinking I misheard it, I wait a couple of seconds, frowning when the knocking happens again. Shouting a quick "coming" to them, I get up and check my uniform, straightening it before going to the door. Hesitantly, I open it, looking out at the person standing there.

"Ice? What are you doing here?" I instantly question him, confused as to his presence - he and Slider had said they were going to the bar tonight.

The pilot smiles at me slightly, looking a little sheepish as he shifts where he's standing, his hands held behind his back.

"I came to see you. Figured you'd be on your own." He replies, grinning crookedly at me.

"Thanks." I roll my eyes at him, looking over him carefully, "What've you got with you?"

"Er, well I got you something." 

"You got me something? That better not be a red rose, Ice." I warn him, though I can feel my ears heating up at the thought.

Chuckling, he shakes his head.

"Don't worry, it's not."

"It's not?" I'm almost disappointed, but I don't let him hear it.

"No."

"What is it then?" 

Smirking, he takes his hand out from behind his back, brandishing a six-pack of beer cans, which he most definitely had to sneak in.

"Didn't think a rose would go down as well as these would." Is all he says, waiting for me to let him in.

"You're right." I grin, stepping aside to let him in, closing the door behind him, "Where's Slider? I thought the two of you were going to the bar?"

"Changed my mind. He's still gone, but I wanted to spend the night here, with you." Iceman explains, putting the beers down on my desk, before turning to face me and coming closer.

"But...why?" I ask, my face heating up at the turn of the conversation.

He shrugs, coming even closer to me, backing me into the wall, blue eyes trained on me with an intensity I've never seen before. As he nears, a smirk appears on his face, lips parting slightly as my back hits the wall, confusion and intrigue filling my body.

"Because," He murmurs to me, breath fanning out over my face, "I wanted to do this."

And with that, he's kissing me, mouth moulding perfectly to mine, hands going to my hips, pulling them into his own. Pressing his body flush against me, he smiles slightly as I kiss back, my own hands going up to wrap around his neck, holding him close as his lips move with mine. Almost seamlessly, he manages to slip his tongue out to trace my upper lip, a gasp escaping me as it lightly dips into my mouth, before it pulls back again, butterflies exploding in my stomach at the new sensation. His grip on my hips is tight, his fingers pressing into my skin slightly, drawing a groan from me. Swallowing the sound, he kisses me for a little longer, before pulling back for air.

"Happy Valentine's Day, (Y/n)." He mumbles, dipping his head back down to mine as he resumes the kiss, happiness flooding me as I return the gesture.

Maybe Valentine's Day isn't so bad after all.

#top gun iceman #top gun #top gun imagine #iceman x reader #Valentine's day #val kilmer

[perriewinklenerdie]

Married (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Claire Herondale

Word count: 2,4 k

Summary: Parts of Ines’s wedding told from Ethan’s perspective feat. E&C dancing, staring at each other during the wedding, basically being a married couple and everyone calling them out for it. OH3 Chapter 11 added content.

Warnings: None, it’s fluff town all the way

A/N: I feel scammed by PB. All the golden opportunities - wasted. So I fixed it.

His shoes sank a bit in the sand as he began walking towards the venue. More and more people were beginning to arrive, sounds of conversation and laughter increasing by the minute. He recognized his coworkers with ease and approached them. The first to notice him is Tobias, his eyebrow arching slightly at the sight of him.

“You came alone? Where’s Herondale?” he asked, looking over Ethan’s shoulder to search for the blonde resident.

“She helped me fix my tie, then kicked me out of our room. And refused to let me see the dress.” He explained, shrugging with a helpless laugh. Harper laughed along with him, clapping her hands gently.

“That’s wife behavior. Are you sure you two aren’t married?”

“Dude, if you two eloped, I’m not going to be working out with you anymore.” Bryce chimed in, acting as though he was offended, a serious look overtaking his face.

“Where would you- why would you- “ Ethan started stumbling over his words, realizing only after a moment that everyone was smirking at him teasingly. He huffed, fighting a blush that creeped onto his cheeks anyway. “I see. You all think you’re funny.”

“You make it too easy, Ethan.” Harper giggled, shaking her head.

“And we know we’re funny, Ethan.” His mentor put his hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

“Hilarious, even.” Baz added.

A small sound of an incoming message caused everyone to stop talking. Sienna unlocked her phone, her eyes scanning the screen.

“Claire just texted me a photo of her in a dress.”

Immediately, everyone jumped to her side, long before Ethan could even move his finger. Once he woke up from the daze, he took a step towards the young doctor that he considered his friend. Zaid stopped him in his tracks with a hand pressed to his shoulder.

“She said to not let you see the photo.”

“Why?”

Her voice rang from behind him. “I wanted to see your reaction myself.”

Ethan turned around and, at once, his breath caught in his throat. His gaze dropped to her shoes and dragged up her body slowly. The gentle flow of her skirt, pink silk that he knew for sure would almost spill through his fingers. The bodice, snug against her chest, accentuating her curves and making his male brain run wild. Careful to not linger on her chest too long – he would not get crap from their friends for this – he finally looked at her face. She was grinning smugly with a bit of a nervous spark.

He stepped up to her, resting his hand on the dip of her waist, tracing the floral patterns under his touch. With his other hand, he grasped hers in a gentle manner, raising it to press a warm kiss to her fingers.

“You’re taking my breath away.” he muttered, staring at her intensely.

“Hypoxia is dangerous, maybe I should go.” Claire teased, leaning away a fraction of an inch. He immediately pushed on her back to stop her, their personal spaces merging.

“Not having you by my side is fatal.” He dropped his voice to a low rumble, her grin melting into the soft smile. Their lips met in a slow kiss, no heat to it, just pure emotions.

They remained like that for a prolonged moment, his hands carefully pressing her to his chest. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, making their bodies move in a swaying motion.

Jackie burst their bubble. “You, lovebirds, the brides are about to arrive, cut it out.”

Ethan pressed his lips to Claire’s one last time, then leaned away. Their noses brushed against one another as their eyes met. He whispered gently. “I’ll come find you after the ceremony.”

She pecked his cheek sweetly. “Can’t wait.”

--

He wasn’t particularly a fan of weddings. He wasn’t invited to a lot of them, either. If combined with his dislike for big social gatherings, one would come to the conclusion that Ethan Ramsey was miserable right in that moment.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

As Ines and Angie exchange vows and talk about their love for each other, his eyes find Claire. Sitting in her chair across the aisle, she’s holding Sienna’s hand and passing her a tissue. She’s all anyone could ever ask for, and the mere sight of her makes him fall down into the void of memories.

How far he’s come as a person. A cynic that dreaded what a new year would bring along with a new batch of interns. A man that had only two people in his life that he could call friends. A man that went to the bar every night to forget the day behind him, only to go back to his empty apartment. All of that was so long ago that he barely recognized that version of himself anymore. He was so different now.

He smiled more. Laughed, even, and found that he didn’t find stupid jokes Lahela made all the time half as annoying as he once did. He didn’t spend every waking moment at work. Instead, he enjoyed his time off. Still at a bar, but not to drink away his worries. Not alone – not anymore.

Now, he had someone to come home to.

Claire shook her head as she laughed at what Zaid said and Ethan’s heartbeat quickened. They grew together as people too, and along with that, their relationship evolved.

From the night they spent together in the NICU, when her head slowly fell onto his shoulder and he couldn’t find a single cell in his body to tell him to lean away. Because he wanted her to be close. It was the first moment in which he thought that maybe this brilliant woman was meant to be more to him than just an intern – and right after that, he squashed the idea back down.

Every hold of her hand, every silent sign of support, he cherished it all. Unknowingly falling deeper for the woman that would become the center of his universe before he realized what was happening.

Their kiss in Miami would be at the forefront of his mind in his every living second until he kissed her again. Growing stronger with each time his resolve broke and their lips met, softly or with wild abandonment.

The first time he could call her his – the first time he had her to himself. He knew in that moment that he was ruined for everyone else. No one would ever make him feel that way, ever again. He knew it damn well – and yet, he still fought against it.

Absence makes heart grow fonder. He now knew it was true. Months he spent away from her, keeping her at arm’s length, taught him as much. How could he deny those words when the moment he pulled her closer to him outside his apartment and their lips touched, he felt his mind go blank and his heart stop. He vowed to never let her leave again. To never lose her.

And then he almost did.

The thought alone made his muscles spasm, and he was a millisecond away from running to her side, just to feel her warmth and hear her heartbeat. Leaving her side now, even if only for a moment, even to do their job, caused a silent voice to go off in his head. A wave of panic usually followed, staying with him until he saw her again.

Thankfully, nowadays, she was within his reach most of the time. She never asked why he sometimes needed to pull her close and just hold onto her – she knew.

He felt the corners of his lips rise on their own accord. She was radiant in every second of every day. In that moment, she was the most beautiful person there. The idea that it was him that she continuously chose to be with, day after day, only made him smile wider.

This was it for him. He found his one and only, as cliché as that sounded – he knew it for sure. Guess weddings really did make people reflect on love after all.

Ethan was very much aware of how lovestruck he must have been looking in that moment. With his eyes on Claire, he was a picture of a man in love – and he was finally ready to admit that he was. He loved her.

Almost as though she could hear his thoughts, she turned around to look at him. Their eyes met and a brilliant smile bloomed on her face. His lips moved as he mouthed the words, her smile becoming gentler.

“I’m yours.”

She mouthed it right back to him.

--

Music wasn’t as obnoxious as he anticipated it to be. That didn’t, of course, mean that he condoned every dance move he saw the guests do. He decided to not complain, though – it was a day to be happy, he wouldn’t bring anyone down with his opinion on their questionable choices of moves.

Currently, he was seated by the table, nursing his whiskey. Mirani twins, Tobias and Naveen sat beside him, all five men watching their colleagues party with wine glasses in their hands.

“How long, do you think, will it take for one of them to break a glass?” Baz asked, leaning out of his seat to see his friends better. Zaid grinned, taking a sip of his drink.

“Any second now. And my bet is on Varma.”

“Why?” Tobias’s face twisted in confusion as he turned towards him, intrigued. Zaid shrugged.

“Because she can.”

Ethan tuned their conversation out, choosing instead to look at his girlfriend. She danced with Sienna, laughing as they sang along to the song. Her dress moved with her, flowing through the air elegantly. He felt the urge to stand up and walk up to her.

“Ramsey, you do know you can just walk up to her instead of sitting here and pining for her, right?” Tobias snickered, punching Ethan’s shoulder playfully. He scoffed, leaning away with a hint of a burn in his cheeks.

“I’m not pining for her.”

“You are.” All four of his companions replied.

He was so distracted by their words that he failed to notice an approaching form. Her hand landed on his shoulder softly, the tips of her nails scratching the back of his neck. Knowing who it was, he leaned into her touch, breathing out deeply.

“Sorry, gentlemen, but I’m stealing him.” she mused happily, dragging her hand down his arm until her fingers tangled with his. Ethan let her pull her up, looping his arm around her waist.

“Stealing is bad, Herondale.” Tobias shot back, moving his eyebrows suggestively at the couple. Claire opened her mouth to speak, but Ethan beat her to the punch.

“She can’t steal something that’s already hers.” He grinned at them, then turned towards her. Claire’s jaw dropped in surprise at his boldness, her posture softening enough for him to pull her away from the table, smirking. Faintly, he heard Tobias’s words.

“Married. For sure.”

Ethan’s arms wrapped around her, fingers hooked onto her hipbones. She threw her arms around his neck, staring up at him with a soft smile. A slow song began playing and one look at where the DJ was situated told them who was behind this change. Ines grinned at them, giving them thumbs up and a cheeky wink.

“Is it just me, or is everyone trying to tell us something?” Claire giggled, nuzzling her nose against his jaw. He kissed her nose gently.

“So, you noticed it too?”

“Kinda hard not to. Girls said we’re acting like a married couple at least twice today.” she traced the lapel of his jacket, laughing quietly at the recognition in his eyes.

“Guys did it too.” Ethan muttered, tightening his hold on her. She laid her head on his shoulder.

“And how does that make you feel?”

He was silent for a long while. They swayed to the song, tuning out everything else. To her surprise, he didn’t tense up – nothing about his posture spelled out the doubts he once told her he had.

“Not as terrified as it did before.”

Claire leaned back to look at him. Their eyes met, tender understanding in them. Ethan leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss, perfectly soft and not nearly deep enough. She clutched his lapel in her fist, creasing the fabric with how strong her pull was. His fingers dug into her back, skipping past the coarser material of her bodice and gripping the soft silk of her skirt. A voice in the back of his head told him to loosen up the hold or he’ll mark the fabric, but the overwhelming need he felt for her overshadowed everything else and he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

The song ended and with it, their kiss. Foreheads pressed together, they caught their breath, standing in the middle of the dancefloor. Blissfully unaware of how much attention they gathered with their tender moment.

Ethan opened his eyes and finally allowed his mind to register the music again. Some sort of a fast tune that made people around them go mad. His girlfriend stared at him with an unspoken question, and he got the meaning perfectly well.

With a definite move, he dipped her onto the floor. She giggled, the sound breaking through the loud music to reach his ears. Ethan smirked, throwing her back into his arms. With his lips against her ear, he mused hotly.

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Her leg wrapped around his thigh, pushing their bodies closer. His voice broke off and his breath shuddered at the way their bodies clashed and the suggestive smirk she sent his way. His hand fell to her ass, all inhibitions gone.

“Ethan!” she exclaimed, laughing at the carefree smile he gave her. He moved his hand a bit, albeit begrudgingly.

“Can you blame me? You’re irresistible.” He muttered, kissing the shell of her ear. Claire hummed, then twirled out of his hold and back into it, jumping into his arms with her legs wrapped around his hips. Ethan groaned deeply in his throat, making her smirk.

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve too.”

Notes

This is a part 2 to the Mile High Club fic. As I said, PB could have made the chapter so good with all the wedding themes that I’d lose my wig. Writers apparently don’t know how to do basic research into fiction themes, but that’s okay (kinda). It just means I have more material to work with.

Round two smut is coming soon. 

Thank you for reading! <3

Tagging separately

#ethan ramsey #open heart #playchoices

[nanasparadise]

“Your musketeer in a blue tunic” Yan! Polnareff x female reader (musketeer AU)

Hiya everyone! As promised, here is a Yan! Polnareff writing, since he was in the top four of the poll for the special but hasn’t reached the top three. I thought it might be a fun idea to make him a musketeer and now I’ve realised this fic turned out to be low-key a Belle and Gaston situation from Beauty and the Beast lmao. Anyway, there might be historical inaccuracies in the story, I’m sorry for that.

Summary: You’re a farmer woman in 18th century France and a certain musketeer keeps crossing paths with you…

TW: toxic relationship, noncon kiss, low-key harassment, forced marriage, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

Word count: 3900

“Just about half an hour and I’ll be there”, you mumble to yourself. 

The pouring rain drenches your whole form, an icy cold having already nested deep in your bones. But you can’t stop now, even if it’s raining cats and dogs. You know you have to arrive to the main market place, which is located a good three hours from the farm you live in. If the wool – which you hope isn’t too wet, knowing the burlap bags aren’t protecting it well from the rain – won’t be sold today, you don’t know how you could afford some bread for your family. You think of your little siblings, how they always stare at you with big eyes, expecting at least some crumbs of stale bread in order to satiate their hunger a bit. Your heart aches painfully at that mental image. No, you’re going to sell the wool at all cost, no matter if it means you get sick due to the weather. You owe it to your loved ones, needing to protect and provide for them as the oldest sibling. 

A chilly wind blows intensely into your face, making you shiver even more. Lucky for you, no other person is currently on the road, meaning you’re in safety. You’re aware about how many sketchy men lurk in these streets by the countryside, just waiting for a young woman like yourself to pass by and to do God knows what with her. As a protection measure, you always carry a knife with you, hidden in your boot. Fortunately, you haven’t needed to use it, yet…

Suddenly, you hear the footsteps of a horse approaching you, the characteristic sounds of its hooves drawing closer to you. Your first instinct is to immediately pull out your knife, but you refrain yourself. 

“It’s probably just another merchant who wants to go to the market, too”, you think, comforting yourself. And even if that shouldn’t be the case, it would be wiser to take your possible aggressor by surprise with an attack if needed. 

The steps are now dangerously close to you, too close for your liking, until they come to a halt. Surprised, you stop your walking as well and look up to the person on the horse. Next to you on his steed is a man around your age, probably a few years older, with peculiar silver hair and bright blue eyes. Through his uniform, consisting of a characteristic blue tunic with a white cross on it, you immediately recognise the stranger as a King’s musketeer. You hastily curtsy and meekly avert your gaze, given that he’s of a higher social rank. Why would a musketeer want from you, a farmer? 

“Good day, Monsieur”, you greet the musketeer politely. 

“Good day, Mademoiselle”, the stranger answers jovially. “Please forgive my intervention, but what does a young lady like you travel alone on such a dangerous road?”, he asks you, sincere concern marking his voice. 

Why would he care? And why would he refer to you as a lady when you’re clearly just a commoner? You get the sudden urge to grab your knife again, but of course your rational brain side hinders you from doing so.

“I’m only going to the market place, good sir. I’d like to sell some wool”, you explain shortly, your eyes still not meeting the stranger’s. 

“All alone?”, the Frenchman wonders. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice, Monsieur. My father has to work on the farm and my mother looks after my younger siblings”, you reply truthfully. Honestly, you’d prefer not giving too much information away to the stranger, but lying doesn’t seem like a safe option either. 

“I see, Mademoiselle,” the musketeer utters politely, “in that case, I’d be pleased to escort you to the market place. After all, my heart couldn’t handle if something happened to a damsel.” 

“Thank you for your generous offer, Monsieur”, you answer civilly, curtsying gracefully again. Though internally, you sigh and roll your eyes at the Frenchman’s words. 

“More like his ego couldn’t handle getting rejected by a common woman”, you ponder cynically. You’re about to continue your walking as the stranger stops your action abruptly. 

“Wait a moment, Mademoiselle,” he shouted hastily, “I’ll take your bags and settle them on my horse.” The silver-haired man dismounts from his white horse and takes the bags filled with wool from your hands, placing and tying them on the animal’s back. 

“You are far too kind, Monsieur”, you say with an overly sweet voice. Lucky for you, the stranger doesn’t seem to notice the hint of sarcasm hidden in your tone. Instead, he smiles brightly at you, revealing a row of impeccable white teeth. 

“As a musketeer, it’s my duty to help a lady in need”, he boasts proudly. Again, you fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Ah, how rude of me, Mademoiselle, I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Jean-Pierre Polnareff, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss…?” 

“Y/N L/N”, you reply meekly. 

“What a lovely name, Milady.”

~

The pair of you have been walking silently side by side for a while. You simply wish to arrive as fast as possible to the market place, wanting to get rid of Polnareff’s present. After some time, the stormy weather has changed into a brighter, more pleasant sky. Though some sun rays peek through the clouds, the cold from the previous rain remains. Upon seeing your slightly quivering form, Polnareff offers you a blanket he has in his supplies with him. Politely, you decline his offer. You certainly don’t want to be more in the debt of such a high ranking man. 

“I apologise if this may come across as rude, Mademoiselle Y/N, but I couldn’t help but notice that there isn’t a ring on your finger”, the musketeer suddenly mentions. The hairs on your arms stand up at his observation and you instinctively straighten your back. If Polnareff has seen your discomfort, he still chooses to continue speaking. “And you’ve said previously you’re living with your family on a farm. How come such a fair maiden like you isn’t married yet? I reckon you must have many suitors.” Something about his tone and the dangerous gleam in his blue eyes sets you on edge. 

“Oh, I do have had some suitors in the past,” you answer truthfully, but cautiously, “but I’ve chosen to not marry. My family needs me and I don’t wish to let them down.” Polnareff gives you a tender glance, the prying shimmer being replaced with sympathy now. 

“Maybe you’ll soon find a wealthy man who’s able to help your family out”, he mumbles softly, though you still could hear his words. 

“I’d rather not base my life on such an improbable dream. After all, I’m just a common farmer,” you say, slightly amused. “He doesn’t have a clue how life’s for a commoner, does he?” 

“So you’d like to marry? It’s your dream, didn’t you say that, Mademoiselle?”, Polnareff counters, hope swinging in his voice. Why is he hopeful? But you decide to not voice this thought. 

“Well, that’s quite a difficult question, Monsieur Polnareff,” you retort,  feeling unsure now “it would be the wisest choice for me to marry, but at the moment, I feel content to take care of my family.” For some reason, the musketeer’s face falls at your last sentence. Disappointment takes over it instead, his lips turning into a bitter, thin line. 

“Ah, I see”, he replies wearily. You immediately notice the change of atmosphere, though you don’t comment on it. Instead, you two continue strolling in silence.

Eventually, the pair of you arrive at the market place. During your travel, none of you spoke further, the mood being too tense and awkward. You settle your burlap bags on the floor on a free spot after the silver-haired man has removed them from his horse for you. 

“My sincerest thanks, Monsieur Polnareff.” You bow politely. Even though your eyes have been trained on the floor for only a matter of seconds, some stealthy thief has been able to snatch one of your bags. Immediately, your head leaps up. 

“Hey, this belongs to me! Give it back!”, you scream angrily. You wouldn’t let some trickster take your wool, not after working so hard for your family! You’re ready to run after the knave, but a hand on your forearm hinders you from doing so. 

“Let me handle this, Mademoiselle Y/N,” Polnareff says confidently, “you’ll have your merchandise back in no time. Just wait for me here.” Quickly, the musketeer dashes into an alleyway after the thief. Confused, you’re left alone at the market place, the man’s horse being your only companion. A sigh rolls off your lips. 

“Guess I’ll have to do what he says if I ever want that wool back”, you exclaim exasperatedly. This is the last thing you’ve needed today. First, you’ve been drenched by the rain, then a weird musketeer has started following you and asking you eerily invasive question and now your precious goods have been stolen. In the meantime, you try your best to sell the remaining wool.

After half an hour, you still haven’t sold any wool at all. Though you were definitely drawing attention on you by shouting out some offers, no one has seemed to be interested yet. No one even cared enough to look towards your direction. 

“I guess I’ll just have to stay all day, then”, you think gloomily. From the corner of your eyes, you notice an all too familiar form approaching you, though this time with a bag in his hand. 

“Mademoiselle Y/N!”, Polnareff shouts excitedly, “I’ve retrieved your bag from the thief!” A sincere expression of gratitude appears on your face. Yes, the man is more than annoying to you with his clingy behaviour, but at least he was chasing the trickster for you! 

“Thank you so much, Monsieur Polnareff!”, you exclaim happily, relieved to have your wool back. Now there’s only the matter of selling it left… 

“Of course, nothing to thank for, Mademoiselle! I’d never want to see such a charming lady like you in need.” 

Purposefully, you ignore his statement, an awkward feeling bubbling up in you. Instead you’re thanking him again. All the while, the Frenchman keeps staring at you with a look of fondness, a huge and proud smile adorning his face. In his mind, he’s just proven to you how capable he is of taking care of you and your family. How could you refuse him now? He’s literally your knight in shining armour! Or your musketeer in a blue tunic. It doesn’t matter, he’s practically your hero! 

Polnareff’s grin only widens at the thought of you swooning over him. The silver-haired man doesn’t know why he feels like this towards you. Maybe it’s because you just looked so pitiful when he saw you on that road, soaking wet from the rain. Maybe it’s his pride that doesn’t let him relent. Maybe it’s the way your eyes sparked with determination and love when you talked about your family. Maybe it’s your radiant atmosphere, which draws him in like a moth. Maybe you’re secretly a witch who put a love spell on his poor self, making him a fool for you after having only met you. Maybe, maybe, maybe…  

Polnareff quickly stops his pondering. “It’s not of importance,” he muses, “as long as she’ll realise I’m the best choice for her.”

“I see you haven’t sold any of your goods yet”, the musketeer says, trying to sound casually. Though in his thoughts, he already has a plan schemed. 

“No, unfortunately not,” you reply, an exasperated sigh following swiftly, “but there’s still some time left until I have to return home. Surely, I’ll be able to sell some.” 

“You know, Mademoiselle Y/N, I’d rather not see you standing here all day, maybe even for it to be in vain,” Polnareff utters, concerning coating his voice, “let me help you, I’ll buy the wool.” Your eyes grow big at his proposition. Even though it’s more than a generous offer, especially after all he’s been through for you today, you can’t help but feeling alerted. Why would he go all these lengths for you? He can’t be that kind, there must be something he wants in return. 

“You’re far too generous, Monsieur Polnareff. I can’t accept such an offer”, you tell the musketeer, hoping he’ll actually drop his suggestion. But the Frenchman remains stubborn as a mule. 

“Ah ah Mademoiselle,” he tuts you condescendingly, “I’m a man of my word. How much would you like? Are two livres enough?”

Your eyes widen so much at his offer, you wouldn’t be surprised if your eyeballs fell out. Two livres? Is that man insane? The wool is hardly five sous worth! 

“I think you must have meant two sous, Monsieur Polnareff,” you answer him, still shocked. 

“Pas du tout, Mademoiselle. Two livres is what I said and what I meant. Or would you maybe want more?” 

Vehemently, you shake your head. Two livres… That would feed your family for at least three months! “No Y/N, you can’t take this offer!” Your thoughts interrupt you suddenly. Not only does your conscience forbid you from doing so, your parents would also wonder where all that money comes from. They might assume you’ve stolen it as no one would believe a stranger to be so kind to just give a random farmer way too much money. 

“Monsieur Polnareff,” you try again to change his mind, “I really don’t think you should-“ 

“Ah, there’s my pouch!”, the silver-haired man exclaims happily, ignoring your previous words. Eagerly, he takes two shiny coins out of it, pressing them in your palm. Admitting your defeat, you curtsy and express your deep gratitude again. Though a small part inside you does enjoy the fact of getting provided for.

After your exchange, Polnareff insisted on bringing you home again. You dislike the idea of him knowing exactly where you live, but that man’s stubbornness and pride is bigger than the Palace of Versailles. Which is why the two of you are walking back to your farm, the wool resting on Polnareff’s horse’s back. 

“What are you doing with all the wool, if I may ask?”, you say with a questioning look on your face, “Surely, a musketeer doesn’t need to fabricate his own clothes.” The Frenchman rubs sheepishly behind his neck and offers you a smile. 

“Ah Mademoiselle, you see, I might just donate it. I’ve just wanted to help you out, I don’t need it myself.” Even though you still cannot bring yourself to trust him, your heart warms at his statement. 

“That’s indeed very noble of you, Monsieur Polnareff”, you reply candidly. The musketeer sends you another bright grin, a subtle blush forming on his pale cheeks.

The sun has begun to set as the two of you arrive on the farm. With a polite curtsy, you’re ready to finally return home, excited to tell your family the good news regarding the money. But Polnareff stops your goodbye. His hand finds its way to your wrist, halting your movement. 

“Before we must depart, Mademoiselle Y/N,” he counters hastily, “I’d like to be assured that we’ll meet again soon. I find myself enthralled by your presence.” 

Your heart beats faster at his proposition. Suddenly, you realise the dangerous situation you’re in, the big hand capturing your smaller wrist. Could you really deny him without facing consequences? Thoughts like these rush through your head as the man in front of you keeps waiting for your reaction. Still, you’re going to try. If something should happen, you still have your knife with you and your father would surely rush out once he hears your screams. 

“Monsieur Polnareff,” you start hesitantly, “I’m deeply flattered by your words. You are truly an admirable and honourable man whose kind actions shall always carry my most sincere gratitude. Though I must admit, I don’t think it would be a wise idea to meet again.” The Frenchman makes a crestfallen face at your words. You feel almost bad for him. “Ah, I think I should explain myself further. Well, Monsieur Polnareff, we are of two different social classes, continuing mingling with me would put a bad reputation on you. I cannot offer you something of interest. Plus, I like staying with my family so far, this is my home.” 

“Y/N”, Polnareff whispers affectionately, his thumb rubbing softly on the inside of your wrist. You shoot him a surprised look, confused by him dropping the formal title. If anyone would have heard this, they’d turn it into a scandal. 

“I know my offer might appear strange to you, but I wish to marry out of love one day. I’m aware it’s fairly uncommon and even looked upon with scorn to marry below someone’s station, but the matters of the heart outshine the matters of the mind in my case. I have more than enough money, a comfortable estate and an honourable title. So you’re correct by saying you can’t offer me anything. Though you forgot one important thing, dear Y/N: you can offer me companionship, love, a meaningful bond between two souls.” Upon his last sentence, Polnareff tenderly grabs both of your hands in his, admiring how they seem to fit perfectly. Too astounded by his words, you let the man do as he pleases. Quickly, Polnareff catches on with his speech. “Please Y/N, let me see you again. Let me court you properly. I can give you and your family a beautiful life, a life you deserve.” The silver-haired male’s form moves now closer to yours, his blue eyes fixated on your lips. This action breaks you from the spell you’ve been caught in previously as you abruptly rip your hands off his grip and step back. 

“I’m sorry, Monsieur Polnareff,” you manage to say, your voice sounding breathless from the adrenaline rushing in your veins, “I don’t think I’m the right woman for you. I do not wish to disappoint you further, that’s why I’m being direct with you. I’m going home now, please do not seek out for me. Have a good evening, Monsieur Polnareff.” You give him one last glance, noting his furious facial expression, before you eventually walk rapidly the path up to your family’s farm. 

“I’ll be coming back, Mademoiselle Y/N!”, you hear the musketeer shouting behind you, “I’m not giving up that easily!” His sentences only make you pick up your pace as fear makes itself present in your body. Why couldn’t he just respect your choice? You’re sure there are enough suitable ladies in his rank pining for him, so why would he bother you? Finally, to your happiness, you arrive at the front door. Quickly, you enter your home, locking the door from the inside. Still, it feels as if a pair of blue eyes continues burning holes in your back…

The following month had been both positive and negative. Positive, because your family didn’t need to worry about food thanks to the two livres Polnareff gave you. Negative, because the latter had been true to his word and kept showing up at your place. Every time you told him you won’t change your mind, the musketeer only seemed to be more encouraged to prove you otherwise. 

Today isn’t any different. As you make your way to the market to buy some food, you hear the familiar hooves approaching you. Annoyed, you let out a sigh and roll your eyes. 

“Bonjour Y/N! What a pleasant day to see you again, mon amour!”, Polnareff exclaims happily while he dismounts from his horse to walk next to you. 

“Bonjour Polnareff”, you reply politely. In the meantime, you’ve dropped the titles when you two were alone, not seeing the point of them anymore. Plus, the Frenchman even decides to call you pet names, so why showing him respect? 

“Ah, ma puce, no need to be so cold today! After all, I bring some splendid news”, the Frenchman replies excitedly. You eye him suspiciously, brows knitted together. What on earth is he planning now?  

“And that would be?”, you answer matter-of-factly. “You’re finally leaving me alone?” 

“You see, before I came to meet you, I’ve finally talked with your parents.” At these words, you immediately stop your steps. A feeling of dread emerges in your stomach, making you feel sick. 

“Oh no,” you think desperately, “this can’t be good.” 

“Very lovely people, indeed. It hurts my feelings knowing you haven’t invited me to them, mon cœur”, Polnareff continues his talk, a hand put on his chest in mock concern. 

“And why should I have done such thing?”, you reply coolly, though internally you’re freaking out. You already know you won’t like the answer… 

“My dearest, how come you act so cruel? Don’t you think your future husband should see your parents? After all, we’re betrothed now!” 

“No”, you retort without thinking. Your palms grow sweaty, a deep fear manifesting in your body. The silver-haired man smirks at your reaction. 

“Non? I think your parents disagree with you, ma chérie. In fact, we’ve already picked out a date for the ceremony. Can you believe it? In two months, we’ll be finally one.” Panic overflows your mind, your breathing becoming laboured. How could your parents decide on such a matter behind your bag? After everything you’ve done for your family? Polnareff notices your stress as he softly wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you close to his chest. The musketeer tries to comfort you by shushing you and gently brushing over your back, though his actions only fuel your terror. You squirm in his grasp, trying to escape him, escape this situation, but his grip on you only strengthens. 

“Let me go!”, you scream all while tears stream down your cheeks, “I don’t want to be with you! Why can’t you just accept that?” 

“My little Y/N,” Polnareff mumbles calmly, “if you hadn’t  been so stubborn, we could have discussed the wedding plans together. I know you think our union is not favourable, but if even your family agrees to it, it surely can’t be that wrong, hm? You’re so blinded by your little provincial life that you can’t see what’s best for you. And trust me, my dove, I’m the best choice.” The Frenchman grabs your chin, staring lovingly in your by now puffy eyes. “It’s fine if you need some time to realise that. As long as you remain by my side.” With these words, the silver-haired man puts his mouth on yours, his hand now wandering to your cheek. You wriggle harder in his grasp, though your attempts to escape remain futile. Tenderly, Polnareff caresses your face as his lips finally leave yours. 

“Je t’aime de tout mon cœur, mon ange*”, he whispers adoringly, pressing your face against his chest again. Your tears smudge the blue fabric of his tunic, your voice hoarse from screaming. And even though you wish this is but a nightmare, you start comprehending you’re truly trapped in Polnareff’s oh so loving arms for the rest of your life.

*former French currency. 2 livres are about 30 euros, which was a lot of money back then

*former French currency. 5 sous are about 3,70 euros, which was still quite some money back in the day

*”I love you with all my heart, my angel”

#JJBA #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #yandere jojo #yandere jjba #yandere x reader #yandere jjba x reader #yandere polnareff #yandere polnareff x reader #minors dni #tw: yandere #tw: arranged marriage #tw: noncon touching

[ohmightydevviepuu]

the part of a swan

for @cshistfic​ (an extension of one of my august prompts)

--

It should be clear that Emma did not, by any means, regret her ruination.  She did not miss the person she had been before that night; the eager, naive girl, brought up always to behave a certain way, to speak softly, to do as she was bidden, to be what she was told.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

But Killian Jones is not concerned with who she was--he's interested in who she is. And he might be the only one smart enough to uncover the truth.

AO3 part 1/? ~2.6k

--

Emma was twenty-eight years old when she stepped into a ballroom for the first time since she was ruined.  The first time she was present for the judging stares, the awkward silences.  For the public shaming and the elaborate ritual that surrounded it.

It should be clear that Emma did not, by any means, regret her ruination.  She did not miss the person she had been before that night; the eager, naive girl, brought up always to behave a certain way, to speak softly, to do as she was bidden, to be what she was told.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

Lady Emma Nolan—for that was who she was, though she barely deserved the descriptor and never claimed the surname—delighted in her ruination, and had done for years.  It had given her freedom.

It had given her Henry.

Emma had faded into the background as she was expected to after her fall, after her scandal—watched the man she thought she loved continue to live his life as the toast of the ton, the darling of his father, the scion of a powerful family—and swore to herself it was the last time she would do what society expected her to do.

Until tonight.

Emma stood before the crowd, acutely aware of all of the eyes upon her, assessing her, from the style of her coiffure—a ridiculous confection of curls and white feathers—to the tips of her shoes.  Surely, they were saying to themselves, surely it is her brother’s money that supports her.

Emma could read them as easily as if they were speaking.

But they were wrong, and that was her secret.

Still, they whispered to each other, muttered remarks hidden discreetly behind fans and glasses of Champagne, and their eyes followed her.  Judged her for her past.

And for her presence.

They knew why she was here, and they hated it.

(So did she.)

“Lady Emma.”

The voice was lush and warm with roughness at its edges.  Dry—acerbic—the syllables drawn out.  He seemed to appear out of nowhere and Emma could do nothing but hold his stare, watching him as he watched her.  Dark hair, blue eyes, sharp cheekbones unfashionably marred by unshaven shadows.

It suited him.

“Sir,” she said.  “We have not been introduced.”  It was both a rebuke and a lie, for she knew who he was.  Killian Jones, the son of no one of name, who had made his career in the navy, nearly cashiered out of the service but not before making his fortune in captured prizes; now the writer of several prominent newspapers.

More importantly, a broker in the most potent currency of all—information.

“And you are lurking in the dark.”

“Then do allow me to rectify that on both counts,” he said, stepped forward and bending low over her hand.  His breath tickled her skin even through the elbow-length gloves as he looked up at her through his eyelashes.

She pulled away.  “What need has Killian Jones for an introduction?”

His eyes glittered.  Blue, like the place on the horizon where the sky met the sea, made brilliant by sunlight; Emma held her breath and prayed he would not notice her slip.

Lady Emma Nolan was not the kind of woman who should know—or recognize—Killian Jones.

Finally, he said, “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Emma exhaled.  “Why should mine be the only one?”

He laughed, a short bark that seemed to escape him unwillingly, and Emma smiled.  It was a small, tight smile.  She gestured at the ballroom and said, “I should return to my sister-in-law.”  “How is the Duchess?”  His tone was conversational, his eyebrow raised.  “Not dancing, I hope?  In her condition?”

Emma’s smile tightened.  She shifted, uncomfortable in the ill-fitting corset her sister-in-law had pressed upon her, and started to walk away.

He followed her movement, his gaze traveling from her neck to her navel, and Emma blushed.

“Let’s not play games, Lady Emma,” he said.  “You’re here for a husband.  You’re here for your son.”

He leaned in, coming closer, and Emma held her breath.  Anywhere but here—now—she might have welcomed this battle, this back-and-forth—welcomed him, for he was devastatingly handsome—

But she had felt that way before, and fallen for it; left broken, and alone, though it had not been Neal who had destroyed her.  She had never said his name aloud since the day he’d left, never told anyone the identity of the man who had, however unwittingly, given her freedom.

Fathers’ sins, after all, never stuck.

It had been them—the gaggle, the gossips, the matrons.  The glittering ballrooms of the beau monde.  She had chosen not to play by their rules, and paid the price for it.  Emma’s scandal became both entertainment and a cautionary tale.  She’d been exiled by all save her brother and sister-in-law, the duke and duchess married in a scandal of their own, the stars of a different tale.

Love.

But even that had come at a cost:  The respect of their late father, and of the ton.

And now, ten years later, here she stood.  “Do not,” Emma said, stepping forward and nearly baring her teeth at him, “mention my son.”

He stepped back, slowly.  His eyes did not move, and neither did hers.  His tone did not change when he said, “Lady Emma, I understand your urgency.  With the duchess increasing—”

Emma did not answer, but she made no move to leave this time.

Because he was right, the perceptive bastard.

All of the joy she felt for her brother and sister-in-law did not assuage her suddenly urgent need to see that Henry was properly taken care of—by a father.  Someone with a title—someone who needed an heir, now that her brother no longer did.

“There are other dowries, Lady Emma,” he said.  “Why yours?”

Emma’s eyes widened.  Perceptive, and too clever by half.  Maybe that was she answered him honestly.  “There are none so large as mine.  And none that come with as much freedom.”

“Freedom?”  For an instant only he looked confused.  Then he spoke, softly.  “Ah.  You have no expectations.  No dreams of a convenient husband turning into a love match.  You’re awfully young to be so cynical.”  He chuckled, a sound utterly devoid of humor; his eyes once more took her measure.  “But then again, wounds made when you’re young do tend to linger.”

He, too, spoke honestly, as if he knew.  As if he, too, had wounds.  He lifted his hand as if he was going to touch her again—and if he touched her, she was going to like it.

“No one has ever done what you’re about to do,” he said, his hand falling.  “And I wish for you to succeed.  In fact, I want to help you.”

Their eyes locked.

“You do?” Emma challenged him.  “Why?”

Some of the scandal sheets that had delighted in her fall had, after all, been his.

“My reasons are my own,” he said.  “There is little love between me and Society.”

She should end this conversation, Emma knew.  She’d been away from the crowd, and from Mary Margaret, her sister-in-law, long enough to be noticed.  Another black mark for the record-keepers.

But Emma stayed.  Said, “You keep them entertained.”

He smirked.  “And you, Lady Emma, are the entertainment in question.”

—

Killian Jones stood on the edge of the ballroom and watched them.  Watched her.

Emma Nolan was every inch an aristocrat, born and bred into this world; a true diamond of the first water.  Everyone in this room should be on their knees at her feet and instead they whispered, waiting to pounce—waiting to destroy her all over again.

He shouldn’t care.  He should stay focused.  

“You should not have flirted with the girl.”

Killian did not turn.  “What do you want with her?”

The answering chuckle was dry and unpleasant. “Let’s just say I’m keeping my eye on young Miss Nolan.”

“Lady Emma,” Killian corrected, only to be granted with another chuckle that had him biting back a curse.

“Of course.”  Robert Gold’s words were soft, delicate—silk wrapped around a knife.  

“What do you want with her?” Killian asked again.

Gold tutted.  “So cold a greeting from my oldest friend.”

Killian had known Gold—now Lord Boyle, Baron Ross, Earl of Glasgow—for almost fifteen years, and hated him for every moment of it; one of the King’s most trusted advisors, with tens of thousands of acres that earned him close to thirty thousand pounds per annum.

The man was as rich as a fictional king, but that was never enough for him.

No amount of power was enough for him.

“I could kill you right here,” Killian said.

“You could,” Gold agreed.  “And you would hang for it.”

“At least it would be for a crime I actually committed.”

“Big words, Captain.  You and I both know that you are not in any position to move against me.”

Killian finally turned to face him, ignoring the shiver of fear that went through him as he did so; hating it.  “I won’t ask again.”

“And I won’t answer.  Your only concern is that she interests me.  It is so tiresome, having to threaten you.  You would do better to just accept our arrangement.  I command, you act.”

As though Killian could ever forget.

But Killian was not the only one with secrets—Gold had them, and deeper and darker than any one man should.  Secrets that would see Gold, not Killian, at the end of a rope.

If only Killian had proof.

Snarling, Killian backed away from the earl and made his way through the ballroom for the exit.

And found—

“We meet again, Mr. Jones,” said Lady Emma Nolan.  Her bright green eyes sparkled and her voice—somehow it brought light with it.  Killian was helpless to do naught but smile back as he inclined his head in greeting.

“My lady,” he said, and enjoyed the surprise in her eyes at the honorific.

The night was still young and they were the only two preparing to leave.  Emma’s maid stood discreetly behind and the duchess, her chaperone, was nowhere to be seen.  “Are you for home already?”

Her nod made the feathers in her coiffure tremble.  “Believe it or not, Mr. Jones, I am unaccustomed to this sort of evening.  I find myself quite exhausted.”

“I noticed you found the energy to dance,” he said, and wished he hadn’t.

She had stood up for every dance, had played her part brilliantly; Killian had noticed several of her brother’s titled friends called in to do a set with her in the hopes that all of their combined wealth and power might blind Society to the lady’s sins.

She was all anyone talked about, but it was neither her brother’s chosen champions nor her beauty that fueled the whispers in the ballroom.

If Gold wanted her—

“Did you?” She adjusted her wrap around her shoulders but could not hide her smile.  “And yet you never thought to ask me?”

“Lady Emma,” he said, affecting shock, “when we have not even been introduced?”

Her laugh seemed to reverberate; as if the street lamps themselves would dance to her tune, and for a long moment there was silence between them, neither of them moving to break the moment.  The sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels emerging from the neighboring mews was both an irritation and a welcome distraction as she made to leave him.

“The duchess does not accompany you?”

The feathers trembled again as she shook her head, still smiling.  “I’m for home, Mr. Jones.  I wonder, what shall you write about this evening for your Scandal Sheet?”

She meant the words to amuse, he was sure—a perfect combination of wit and boredom—but underneath it all, Killian heard something else.  Something, he thought, no one was meant to hear:  Sadness.  Loss.  Frustration.

“You don’t want it, do you?”

She watched him, weighing, calculating, as the carriage waited before them to take her away from this place and this life, if only for an evening.  If she was surprised by how easily he read her, she gave no sign of it.  “This is my bed, Mr. Jones.  I must lie in it.  And to do that—it seems I need you.”

The words landed, harder than she ever could have intended, his silly promise of social redemption echoing hollow.  It was cold comfort to know that the earl was already married and could have no designs on Emma’s dowry.

The man had a terrible track record when it came to his wives.

Killian thought that it must be her family—her brother—that interested him.  The young, golden-haired duke had clawed his way back from his sister’s scandal and his own marriage based, as best Killian could ascertain, solely on his charm.

“Lady Emma—” he began, but he did not know what else to say.

“Good night, Mr. Jones.”  She was already moving, down the steps to the waiting carriage.  

He watched her, the way she moved, fascinated by the way the pale fabric of her skirts seemed to swirl in the night air, the way her arm balanced as she smiled at the footman handing her in, a glimpse of ankle in a silver slipper before the door slammed shut and her outrider climbed onto his perch.

He imagined what he might write about her as his curricle pulled up to the mounting block and he took the reins, so lost in his thoughts of her that he did not realize he still followed the lady’s coach until they were well past the turn out of Mayfair and toward her brother’s town house.

He followed her down Bond Street toward Piccadilly and then St. James before he allowed his curricle to fall back, watching the lanterns on the carriage as they navigated the back alleyways behind Duke Street toward the men’s clubs of London.

Lady Emma Nolan, sister of a duke, with a dowry big enough to buy a palace, desperate for a restored reputation and a father for her son—that he had determined to secure for her—was in a parked curricle behind the most exclusive men’s club in Britain.  More than a club—the most expensive, high-class gaming hell in London.

Lady Emma Nolan, behind Killian’s own destination, behind his club, The Swan.  A club run by some of London’s darkest men on behalf of the club’s owner, who went only by the name Swan.  Killian had never seen nor spoken to Swan in spite of their years-long profitable relationship in the trade of information.

Of secrets.

Just the person, Killian had decided, to turn to in order to free himself from Gold’s yoke once and for all.  If anyone could access Gold’s secrets, it would be Swan, and Killian was willing to pay any price for what he desired.

Emma’s outrider—a giant of a man, Killian suddenly realized—was stood in front of the heavy steel door that marked The Swan’s back entrance, banging in a specific pattern to gain entry.

He should stop her.  He moved to, just as the carriage door opened and Killian strained for a glimpse of her pale slipper, her white skirts.

But that was not what he saw.

The slipper was high-heeled and dark—the skirts a silk the color of the purest red rose—a corseted bodice that put on display a décolletage of perfect proportions.  Painted lips, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a dark wig that hid every golden hair.

Killian Jones watched her disappear into the club’s back entrance and he smiled.

Here was a story.

And—just maybe—an answer to all of his problems.

--

@katie-dub @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @pirateherokillian @stahlop @onceratheart18 @kmomof4 @mariakov81 

#cs fic #cshistfic #regency AU

[teawaffles]

The Fugitives from the Fire: Chapter 2

As the driver urged the horses on, Lestrade got straight to the point.

“You know about the attack on the department store the other day?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yeah, it was all over the papers. It seems you were quite involved in this one?”

He’d said that with a slightly teasing tone, and Lestrade smiled wryly.

“You’re probably referring to the time I caught the men rushing out of the store, though strictly speaking, I can’t take credit for that……. Anyway, that’s not the issue here.”

“I bet, since the papers continued like this: ‘Bobbies make big blunder! The criminals they caught suddenly escape!’”

“…………”

Sherlock had said that in a rather grandiose way, and Lestrade’s expression turned grave.

“It’s exactly as you said…… Back then, various events led to half the criminals suffering burns. While they were being transported via carriage, one of the men began to show signs of distress, and the officer in the same carriage tried to render first aid. But the moment he did so, the criminal used that chance to flee.”

As he listened to the inspector’s story, a slight smile rose to Sherlock’s lips.

“What a kind public servant. But the papers said “criminals” with an ‘s’. It seems more than one person escaped, huh.”

Hearing that, Lestrade remained in a frown as he continued his explanation.

“……When that man fled the carriage, the other carriages behind it had to stop. Amid the chaos, another man also managed to escape. We did everything we could to track them down, but we ran out of time before we could find them. In the end, our ineptitude allowed two of the criminals to get away.”

Lestrade had said that last line with a pained look. To that, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and simply hummed in acknowledgement. Due to an act of carelessness, two of the criminals they’d worked so hard to arrest had escaped: certainly, this was a pressing situation. But the parties involved were clearly doing some soul-searching, so there was no need for an outside party to reproach them any more than necessary.

Therefore, anticipating how the events from here on would play out, Sherlock expressed his own view on the situation.

“However, after an arduous search, the Yard managed to pinpoint the fugitives’ location. But before you could arrest them, something happened, and you all had no choice but to request my help…… Something like that?”

The detective’s powers of deduction left Lestrade completely astounded.

“I don’t know if I should be amazed, or whether I should’ve expected this…… Anyway, you’re right — but the search didn’t lead us to their location. This morning, we suddenly got an anonymous tip-off on where they were hiding. Officers have already been sent to the scene.”

“A tip-off? ……Hmm.”

Sherlock seemed to have taken a slight interest in that word, but he promptly urged the inspector to continue.

“The tip-off said that the two fugitives seemed to be working together; when the officers arrived at the specified location, it appears they quickly found and apprehended one of the men. But they couldn’t find the other fugitive, so right now, they’re interrogating the man they arrested about the location of his accomplice.”

Lestrade’s tone had been solemn. After nodding a few times, Sherlock shot him a question.

“You kept saying things like ‘seemed’ and ‘appears’; so, you haven’t been to the scene yet?”

“At the time, I was at headquarters. After receiving all kinds of reports, I sent my subordinate officers down to the scene first, and paid a visit to 221B to seek your help.”

Sherlock nodded firmly.

“Both fugitives were in the same place, but one was immediately discovered, while the other remains at large. Could it be that he just wasn’t there when the officers raided the place?”

“That’s one possibility, but we also don’t know his exact appearance. As I said earlier, the first man to escape had burn injuries up to his face, so he was wrapped in bandages to avoid exposing his wounds to the air. As such, we don’t even have a rough idea of his features. Nonetheless, the man who escaped afterward didn’t have any obvious injuries, so it appears we’ve found him in the area we were searching this time.”

“In other words, the one who got arrested was the one who took advantage of the chaos to escape……. But from what you said, he’s still being questioned at the place where he was caught, isn’t he? Why didn’t they take him to the station right away?”

“A valid point, but the place the fugitives chose to hide is a little troublesome.”

Lestrade grimaced as he’d said that, and Sherlock gazed at the townscape that sped past the carriage window. From those clues, he could tell where their carriage was heading.

“I see. The East End?”

As he’d predicted, Lestrade nodded gravely.

“It’s a dreadful place, located further into the slums.”

“A right bother, that is. Though, after the Jack the Ripper case, I thought you’d both managed to reach a compromise.”

A cynical smile rose to Sherlock’s face.

The case of the phantom serial killer that rocked Britain had, in the end, been resolved after both Scotland Yard and the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee joined forces. In reality, that had been an outcome orchestrated from behind the scenes by the Lord of Crime — though Sherlock was still keeping that fact to himself.

At the detective’s words, Lestrade shook his head in regret.

“About that: we’ve continued to cooperate with one another, but there’s still a sense of mutual hostility. Of course, there are those who have resolved to trust us, but the overall wariness towards the officers who patrol the borough just can’t be eliminated.”

The police, who worked to maintain public order, and the residents of the slums, which were a hotbed of crime: it was inevitable that friction would ensue between them. There would be some within the rookery who were abetting the criminals, and perhaps an innkeeper who was harbouring them in exchange for money.

In such a place, there was a good chance that while one of the criminals was taken to the police station, the other would end up getting away. Hence, it was necessary to elicit the other fugitive’s location from his accomplice right at the scene.

From that, Sherlock could understand why they didn’t even have the leeway to wait for John to return. In all likelihood, the officers at the scene were presently awaiting their arrival; on top of that, there would be a hostile crowd surrounding the policemen, making it dangerous to keep them waiting. As such, it was imperative to solve the case and leave as soon as they could, before any unnecessary trouble was stirred up.

Once he’d understood the predicament the Yard was in, Sherlock spoke up with a smile.

“I’m well aware this is an emergency. So you want me to be present at the interrogation, and use the information obtained to find the other fugitive as fast as possible.”

“Exactly. Thank you for catching my meaning so quickly……. Though, it is a little different from the mysteries you love.”

Lestrade looked a little pained as he said that, and Sherlock cocked his head slightly, as if he was in thought.

“Certainly, it doesn’t sound like the kind of case I’d go out of my way to pursue…… But from my experience, the simpler a case looks, the less easily it gets resolved. I might just find an interesting ‘riddle’ here, so for now, I’ll just go along with you.”

As the conversation reached a pause, the carriage stopped in a street within the slums, and the two men promptly got off. Since the path up ahead was both narrow and complicated, it seemed they would travel the rest of the way on foot.

At present, it was just past noon. But in this warren-like district, it was dark enough that it seemed as though dusk had already fallen. Glancing left and right, they could see vagrants sitting listlessly by the roadside, as well as children clothed in dirty garments. Occasionally, a horrid smell would assault the very depths of their nostrils, and something bitter would rise up from the pits of their stomachs.

This place was almost hopelessly uninhabitable. As that hollow thought surfaced in Lestrade’s mind, in complete contrast, Sherlock’s expression remained unchanged as he continued walking.

“It’s always a labyrinth here, huh. I know some guys who’re familiar with this place — why don’t we get them to show us the way? Though, we might get ripped off for a fair bit of money.”

As Sherlock made that proposal, the intelligent grins of the Baker Street Irregulars came to mind — but Lestrade promptly turned it down.

“It’s alright: I know the way. It should be just a little further up——”

Breaking off mid-sentence, Lestrade stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes fixed forward. Puzzled, Sherlock followed the inspector’s gaze — and he, too, froze where he stood.

“……Is it, that?”

Lestrade did not answer.

Before their eyes, behind a row of derelict buildings, a plume of black smoke billowed. At the same time, they noticed a faint smell of soot permeating the air.

“No way…… You’ve got to be kidding me.”

All the colour had drained from Lestrade’s face, and the moment he mumbled that, he broke into a sprint. Sherlock too felt an uneasy premonition; gnashing his teeth, he rushed to chase after him.

The two men arrived at their destination in less than a minute, but it seemed they were still too late.

As Lestrade stood stock-still, before his eyes, the building they were supposed to conduct the interrogation in had been engulfed in flames.

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #the girl who sees rainbows

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Hold Me Close

John Constantine x Original Female Character, Angst/Hurt Comfort

A/N: So this little bit of self-indulgence turned into a thing, because it's me and of course it did. I'm still in the early stages of developing Evie and her relationships, so please let me know what you think.

Warning: Mentions of child neglect, lots of crying

Summary: After an emotionally draining day, Evie finds herself with some unexpected company.

Word Count: 2.6K

The Waverider was completely silent, a rarity on the best of days, and a blessed relief to Evie.

She sat in the kitchen, holding a warm cup of tea in her hands. She hadn't taken a single sip in the fifteen minutes since she made it.

All the emotions of the day were simmering to the surface. A tightness clung to her throat making it hard for her to breath. She needed to cry. She needed to sleep. She needed to scream. She needed so many things, all she could do was sit and stare into nothing.

"Are you ever going to drink that?"

Evie blinked. Looking up, she finally noticed John leaning against the doorway, fully dressed in his usual white shirt and tie.

"John? What time is it? Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

She wanted to say something smart. On any other day she might have, but she was just too tired to be clever. Instead, she raised her mug to her lips and finally took a sip.

It was warm and did its job, loosening the lump in her throat, but it did little to help with the one in her chest.

"Need something stronger?" John suggested.

She shook her head. "This is about as strong as I can handle right now."

"Fair enough."

She expected that to be the end of it. But he surprised her, walking into the kitchen and pouring himself a drink.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Well, you know what they say, misery loves company."

"And what have you got to be miserable about?"

He gave her a cynical smile. "Oh don't you worry love, I’ll think of something."

He took a seat beside her and raised his glass in a toast.

Evie obliged, clicking her mug against the tumbler before drinking.

They sat in silence for a moment. It was comfortable, but there were questions hanging in the air that needed to be addressed.

"What are you doing here, John?"

"I told you."

She shot him a skeptical look.

He let out a sigh. "I don't sleep most nights. I saw you in here and..." He met her eyes, his expression softening. "I saw the look on your face when you saw your mum."

The tightness came back in her throat. Quickly, she turned back to her tea and took a long swig. All it did was stall the inevitable.

"How much did Michael tell you?" she asked, with a twist in her stomach.

"Not much," he admitted. "Just that his dad died before he knew him, didn't talk to his mum and that his sister was about the only parent he ever really had."

Evie huffed out a short laugh. It certainly sounded like the description Michael would give, and a more accurate one than she was willing to admit before.

"I take it there's a bit more to it than that," he continued.

She nodded. "Just a bit."

She took a drink, once again assuming a natural end to the conversation.

"You're just going to leave me with that?" he asked.

Her brow furrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

"You seem to know most everything about me, whether I like it or not,” he answered, casually. “I like to work on an even playing field."

Evie considered him for a moment. It seemed like a reasonable answer. Still she couldn't help but feel her problems were childish compared to his. There was a reason she kept them to herself. Nobody actually wanted to know.

She turned her head away, her fingers rubbing absentmindedly against the mug. If she kept her mouth shut for just a few moments, he'd forget the whole thing.

She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes. Her grip tightened. She willed herself to breathe.

"Evelyn..."

She stopped.

Looking down, she finally noticed rough fingers pressed gently around her wrist. She followed the line connecting the fingers to a hand, then to an arm, moving her gaze ever up until she dared a glance at the man they were attached to.

John’s expression was not soft, but his eyes held something she had not seen in a long time; a need to understand. How could she say no to that?

“My dad died when I was eight,” she began, swallowing the roughness of her voice. “My mum took it really hard. She might as well have been dead that first year. I’m not sure she even left her bed. Gran watched after her and didn’t want me or Michael causing trouble.

“Eventually though Mum was able to leave the house and Gran even got her a job at a pub not far from where we lived. But, it didn’t last long. Mum just...wasn’t there anymore. She’d forget to go into work or mess up orders or any number of other things until eventually they had to let her go. She didn’t work after that. Dad’s life insurance kept us afloat and Gran helped so, it wasn’t like we were starving. Even so, she would still...forget. By the time I was ten I was cooking most of the meals and made sure to stop by the shop on my way home from school, that sort of thing. And Mum would just...drift. It was like living with a ghost.”

Evie paused, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts.

“I can remember my dad, before he died. I can see his face. I remember bedtime stories and how he called me his little Evie Rose. But, for whatever reason, any time I try to remember what my mum was like, I draw a blank. Every memory I have of her is as this...corpse. It was easy for me to believe she was always like that. I convinced myself she couldn’t help it. She didn’t choose not to be there. She was trying and I just needed to pick up where she couldn’t. That was my job.”

Her throat tightened. She sucked in a breath and let it out with a slow quaver.

“But seeing her today, before...everything. She was real. She was real and alive and...there.”

Warm tears spilled down her face. She wiped them away, trying and failing to keep them in check.

“I know grief affects people differently. I know it does. I can’t imagine losing the love of my life like that. But I was her child. Michael was just three years old. We were alive and scared and confused, and we needed her. I needed my Mom and she wouldn’t…”

There was no stopping the tears now. Anger and resentment and grief twenty six years in the making poured out of her. It burned her skin, even if she tried to hide it, ever aware of the man watching her in careful silence.

“I spent so long telling myself it wasn’t her fault. I blamed myself for not doing better by her. But she never cared. I know she was grieving, but at some point she decided her grief was more important than her own children.”

She stopped, forcing herself to fill her lungs with much needed air.

“And I would get so angry. I used to think Michael was just being selfish, that he only cared about himself. But he knew. He knew what she was doing was wrong. He just wanted me to see it too. God, I said so many awful things.”

Guilt weighed in her stomach as she pushed away her straggling tears. She could still feel the prickling behind her eyes, but she didn’t want to spill any more than she had. She had no right to them.

“I’m just a horrible mess of a person.”

A scoff came at her side.

She turned, to see John shaking his head.

“Something funny?”

“Aye, everything,” he said, sardonically. “Trust a Catholic to come to that conclusion.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh c’mon Evie, you’re not a horrible anything. You looked after your brother and your mum when no one else would. When you should have given up on her is a matter for yourself to deal with, but you’re not a bad person for holding out hope. As for Michael, I have a feeling he’s not as resentful as you think he is. Besides, he definitely had some of it coming.”

Evie couldn’t think of what to say, but the corner of her lip did quirk up, just a little. Still, guilt lingered and exhaustion was now taking the place of her anger. The prickling was back, reminding her of the tears still left to shed.

“Now, how about that drink,” John said.

Evie let out a long sigh, rubbing her hand across her face. "Not a bad idea. Honestly, what I could really go for is someone to just hold me for two or three...hours." She tried to make it sound like a joke, but the strain on her voice made her attempt at laughter come off as forced and awkward.

The look on John's face only made her feel worse. He had been uncharacteristically kind to her already. Now, she just made an embarrassing situation down right uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry I laid this all on you,” she said. “I should just go to bed.”

She stood quickly, not even bothering to grab her mug as she headed towards the exit.

She barely made it two steps when a hand grasped at her own.

“Wait.”

She turned.

He was still sitting. His eyes focused on their intertwined fingers. The expression on his face was unreadable. For a moment, she thought he’d let go and forget the whole thing. But then, he came to a decision.

Standing, he took a step toward her, never dropping his grip for a moment. He watched her, carefully checking she had no objections to how close he was.

Her stillness was his answer.

Reaching out his free hand, he cradled her head and guided her to him.

For a moment, neither of them knew what to do.

His hand slipped from hers, but found no place to land, as if he wasn't sure where exactly to touch her. All the same, the intent was felt.

Taking initiative, she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him.

His clothes still held the scent of detergent with just a bit the tobacco smoke she secretly loved. She let herself breathe it in, enjoying the warmth against her cheek and the firmness of his body.

Slowly his hands found purpose. One wrapped tight around her waist while the other curled gently in her hair.

For a while, they just stood there, neither of them daring to break the quiet calm that had settled in the air.

"It's alright Eves," John whispered into her ear. "I've got you, love. It's alright."

It was only then Evie realized she was crying again. The tears and emotions leaked out of her, spilling over the side like an over filled sink. She was starting to shake, trying and failing to keep her breath in check all the while John held on, pressing her even closer into him.

"You're alright," he promised. "I've got you, Eves. You're alright."

The tears weren’t as violent as before. This was catharsis. The last breath of emotional release she needed. So, she let herself feel.

She cried for her brother. She cried for her father. She cried for what might have been and what was. All of it came out in gentle sobs made bearable by the man who wouldn’t let go.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but after a while she had nothing more to give. Her breath returned to something manageable. Her heart, no longer quiet as heavy. Still, she couldn’t pull away from John just yet. She was too tired and he felt too good. She could see herself closing her eyes and staying right there until her legs gave out.

“Not that I’ve got anywhere to be,” he said, gently. “But were you serious about the two to three hours thing?”

She laughed, a real one this time; short, but bright and welcome.

“No,” she assured. “I wouldn’t do that to your reputation.”

He didn’t say anything back, but she took the hint.

With a great effort, she pulled herself from him, leaving her skin colder for it. Now that she had a proper view, a sudden spike of embarrassment shot through her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, immediately reaching to brush away the obvious stain on his shirt.

John looked down as if just noticing himself.

“Oh believe me, I’ve been covered in worse. Besides, holy woman’s oughta be good for something.”

“I’m not that holy,” she said, with not as much annoyance as that sentence usually carried.

“But you are good,” he countered. “You can’t be anything else.”

Again, something was missing from this usual exchange. The irony had somehow disappeared. The way he was looking at her now, she could believe he meant them.

Then, something happened. His expression became pensive. His eyes shifted away as he took a small step back, putting some visible distance between them.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, his tone now back to its usual guarded self.

Her brow creased in confusion. “You sure you don’t want company?”

“I think if this whole exercise has taught us anything it’s that you need to stop worrying about other people all the time.”

His tone was curt, but there was something performative in it, making it land awkwardly on its intended audience.

All the same, Evie knew rejection when she heard it and felt the intended hurt in her chest.

Apparently it showed on her face as John gave a long sigh. “Look just, get some rest and you can worry about me tomorrow, yeah?”

She nodded, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave just yet. She didn’t know what she had done to make John’s mood shift so abruptly, but she needed to fix it. He had helped her, after all. It didn’t feel right to end the night like this.

With cautious determination, she took a step forward, effectively closing the gap he had created.

John appeared frozen in place, his brow creased in confusion.

Taking the opportunity, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. She was met with rough stubble and the smell of whiskey, a combination she was surprised to find she liked. But couldn’t appreciate it as John turned his head, meeting her eyes.

“Now, why would you do something like that?”

Evie swallowed, a sudden dryness coming to her throat. His lips were much closer to hers than she anticipated.

“I just wanted to say, thank you,” she said, softly. “You’re a good man, John Constantine.”

He looked down at her, his throat and lip tightening as he shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

She smiled knowingly. “Yes you are.”

She kissed his cheek again, this time lingering just a moment as if touch would convey the truth of her statement more than her words could.

“Goodnight, John,” she whispered.

To her surprise, he didn’t push her away. His eyes lingered, floating between her eyes and lips and back again.

She held her breath, wondering if he would lean down and feel her lips for himself. She wondered if she would let him.

But he hesitated. A breath was drawn in and his gaze settled on her eyes.

“Sweet dreams, Evie.”

She nodded, feeling the moment slip away as quickly as it had come.

She settled back down on two solid feet, turned and walked back to her room without looking back. Only when the door closed did she allow herself to linger on the burning of her lips and the hard thumping in her chest.

She didn’t know what truly happened between her and John, but there was no use denying it. Something was different and time would only tell what that meant.

#legends of tomorrow #legends of tomorrow oc #arrowverse #arrowverse oc #john constantine #john constantine x oc #john constantine x reader #evelyn doyle

[hela-avenger]

To the Stars Who Listen- Part 8

Author: hela-avenger

Word Count: 1789

Summary: When Loki desires to never fall in love, he casts a spell to prevent such a thing from happening. Except, well, in the matters of love and magic, you never know the result it may have in the end. Loki x Reader

A/N: I’ll have a special update on Saturday in celebration of my favorite holiday ever Halloween! I hope you enjoy this part though it was a toughie to write. Tags are open! (Send me an ask/message/response.)

TTSWL Masterlist

Loki was surprised when the artificial voice alerted him of your current whereabouts. It hadn’t led him to the pasture you claimed as your outside training area. Instead, Loki was led towards the gymnasium that resided indoors in the building next door. 

He finds you seated in the middle of the floor mats. You are tucked into yourself as the gold siphons rested on top of your knees. You stared at the distant unknown very unaware of his presence. It was obvious that something was currently occupying your mind but he had no idea what it could be. 

Loki’s curiosity over you makes him desire to know the inner workings of your mind but he was nowhere prepared to start what he expected to be a personal conversation with you. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. It doesn’t matter in the end as you finally snap into focus and turn to look at him. 

“Oh, Loki,” you greet as you jump to your feet. “You’re here.” 

“Hi, little mortal,” Loki nods in return, deciding to ignore the previous cause of concern for you in preference of remaining distant overall. “Did you practice with your siphons for the day?”

“Yes, I did,” you answer. “Did some target practice with Sam actually. He wanted to practice evading airborne attacks and I needed to practice sending those same attacks.” 

“Sounds dangerous,” Loki scowls. 

“Well, Wanda was there too just in case things went wrong and nothing did,” you explain. “No falling bodies or unnecessary confessions. I expelled my extensive power for the day and I’m ready for my lesson with you.”

The excitement you had the day before is gone. In fact you seemed a bit hardened and slightly colder. 

Something had shifted in you and Loki hated that he was aware enough to notice it. 

He is still unsure of how to initiate such an emotional-riddled conversation. It wasn’t exactly a strength of his but he had been at the receiving end of them enough to know the benefits of them. Loki thinks back to his mother and how she pulled him aside for these exact talks. 

Perhaps you just needed the same. 

Except Loki was nowhere near as experienced or caring as Frigga. 

“Is uh… Are you…” Loki stammers out unsure. “Did something…” 

You stare at him expectantly and Loki is annoyed at the growing frustration within him. 

“What is wrong with you?” 

Those were not the words that Loki had wanted to choose and yet they topple out of his mouth so graciously. 

You smile though. 

It’s not as warm as the one you had offered him previously but it was a smile nonetheless. 

“I didn’t realize I was that obvious,” you answer. “Sam and Wanda didn’t even notice.” 

“I’m more vigilant than most,” Loki states a bit proudly. “Will your melancholic mood disturb my lesson?” 

You start to shake your head and feel a sharp sting run down your spine. 

“I take that attempt of a lie as a yes.” 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “Ever since I’ve got this power it’s hard to ignore all of my emotions.” 

“The downside of the truth, I’m afraid.” 

“I really am sorry, Loki,” you apologize again with a sigh. “I guess we’ll have to postpone my lesson.” 

You start to move away and Loki hates himself for speaking up. 

“Wait.” 

You stop and turn back around surprised to find him perturbed. 

“Just…” he hesitates once more. “Just tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I don’t think…” 

“Everyone, including you, have a tendency of burying their emotions when they don’t want to deal with them,” Loki states. “And it leads to catastrophic results… I should know.”  

You watch him closely now making unnecessary connections of his personal experience. Loki clears his throat and continues on.

“Perhaps it's a good thing that you have to face them. Saves you time and energy in the long run.” 

You register his words and let out a sigh knowing he was right. 

“I guess I’m still stuck on the love spell we did yesterday,” you confess. “I know you were hiding something from me which then reveals the truth you were trying so hard to avoid admitting. The love spell… It didn’t work because my soulmate doesn’t exist.” 

Loki regrets initiating the conversation now, but the tension you held in your body is slowly released with every word said. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you laugh lightly. “With all the glamour and glory we get as heroes, there are a lot of things we sacrifice in order to keep the world safe. We take punches, we bleed, and we… we can’t love without putting them in danger.” 

You move to run your hands through your hair but are stopped by the golden gauntlets you wore. 

“And I mean… how am I supposed to find someone when I have to wear these 24/7 and I can tell when they lie,” you exclaim. “Love was not in the cards for me. It’s not in the cards for any of us.” 

You stare off into the unknown then and your smile fades away. 

“We’re not promised happy endings,” you whisper. “Those are reserved solely for fairy tales.” 

This cynicism was so unlike you and yet you spoke the unfiltered truth. 

“Your friends have found love. I’m sure you can…” 

“This isn’t the best time to tell me a lie, Loki,” you interrupt him.

“I’m not lying to you,” Loki argues. “I’m trying to offer you hope.” 

You frown at his response. He’s being honest but you still sensed that something was off in his words. 

“Hope?” 

“Yes,” Loki answers. “Hope.” 

He steps towards you and oddly enough you don’t shift away from him like many do. You stare up at him waiting for him to continue.

“It can sometimes feel like a lie,” Loki explains. “Hope is a fickle thing. A hard thing to keep honest since it's based on uncertainty.” 

You hum in response as you ponder his words. You watch as Loki waits for you to make up your mind, but something pesters on.

“Why don’t you want to fall in love?” 

“Why do you?” Loki spins the question back to you. 

You’re both at a standstill waiting for the other to break. 

Loki doesn’t. You do. 

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.” 

Loki is surprised at your response and it shows.

“What?” 

“I have friends. Great friends,” you correct yourself. “But I can’t help but want more. I want to come home to someone. I want to hold their hand as I tell them about my day and hear about theirs. I want to be challenged and I want them to help me continue to grow as a person. I… I want to do the same for them as they do for me. I just… I just want to matter to someone.”

Loki doesn’t know how to respond but you didn’t expect him to. 

“You don’t have to tell me why you don’t want to fall in love,” you whisper. “But maybe you are right… about holding onto hope, I mean. Maybe my soulmate isn’t ready for me yet and that’s ok. I’ll wait until they are. However long it takes.” 

You smile at him again and it is filled with warmth once more. 

“So your lesson?” you shift the subject. “What is it?” 

It takes Loki a second to register the emotional backlash he’s having. The way you shifted from one emotion to another was hard to keep up but Loki followed along with it. 

“Right, my lesson,” Loki stammers out. “I want to try something out so bear with me.” 

Loki closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He concentrates the little power he still held and extends it outward. Your sharp gasp proves its working and that’s when Loki decides to open his eyes to find his copy standing next to him. 

He felt tired and it took most of his concentration to withhold his clone. 

“Your power…” Loki breathes out with slight difficulty. “It should allow you to discern which one is the clone and which one is real.” 

Your smile widens as you approach him. 

“This is amazing. Loki… I…” 

“Can you or can you not tell the clone from it’s maker?” Loki grits out. 

Noting the sharpness of his tone, you look between the two Loki’s and reach out for the clone. Like a stretched out rubber band, the extended magic snaps back into him at it’s release. Loki staggers back and you are quick to reach for him. 

“That took up a lot of your limited power, didn’t it?” you ask him in which he nods. “Then why would you still do it?” 

“To test you,” Loki answers. “And I was right, wasn’t I?” 

“It wasn’t worth the risk, Loki,” you answer. “You have to take better care of yourself.” 

Loki opens his mouth to respond. Most likely an annoyed retort to push you away but you stumble back without prompting. 

The room grows colder, but not by your repulsed actions. 

No, it had to do with the patch of skin on his wrist that revealed itself blue. 

“Loki?” 

The dark prince in question pulls his long sleeve down trying to shove down the array of emotions that were threatening to burst out. 

“It seems your power can reveal illusion spells as well,” Loki states quietly. “I should have known.” 

“Loki,” you call out to him, sensing his incoming retreat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to expose something you weren’t ready for.” 

Your sincere apology is real but Loki can’t register it at the moment. He had involuntarily placed himself in a position of weakness which you had taken advantage of. 

“I really am sorry.” 

Loki takes a step back and averts his stare from you. 

“Lesson’s over. We’ll start up again tomorrow.” 

Before you can say anything, Loki makes a haste retreat. You wish to follow after him but FRIDAY chooses this time to capture your attention. 

“Now that you are free. Mr. Stark sent you a message.” 

“Not now, FRIDAY.”

The AI doesn’t register your command as a hologram appears at the nearby wall displaying Tony tinkering away in his lab. 

“Hello there, my favorite agent! And please don’t tell anyone I called you that. People will grow jealous. Anyway, this is your favorite Avenger speaking and I am cordially inviting you to the party I’m having this weekend for Halloween. I’m sure Reindeer Games has got you in a tizzy so I thought a break would do you some good. The whole gang is invited so be ready. I’m sending all of you a jet. Study hard, play harder. Iron Man, out!” 

TTSWL Tag: @catsladen @is-it-madness @manyfandoms-marvel @mejusttryintogetby @illogicalfangirl @ariel-snow-tmnt @islinglivesinshire @musicconversedance @missmadwoman @smaranshakthi @adaydreamingdragon @poetic-fiasco @like-a-wildfire @jasminecalia @ha-tep @charbokbok @setsuna-meiou31 @ms-blvck @country-cowgirl-101 @bepo-is-sorry @hufflautia @waitforthehurricanrose @fictionalhoomanofnowhere @sanniegirl1214 @telenari @anonymouscastiel12

Loki Tag: @unicorniorosacomefrutillas @thesilentbluesparrow @oddly-drawn-muse @josiehosiedaninja @hp-hogwartsexpress @sadwaywardkid @wolf-lover74 @sizzlingbarbarianglitter @sigyn-nightshade @aoirohi @horsesandwolvesaremyanimals @just-a-donut-who-reads @day-dreaming-fox @heykathchuu

All Works Tag: @jmb959 @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @hellocookiecutter @steve-rogers-personal-hell @buckybarnesyard @not-zari-tak @strangersstranger @thefridgeismybestie @ariel-snow-tmnt @badhollandfluff @what-a-flammable-heart

#loki x reader #loki x ofc #loki x you #loki x oc #prince loki x reader #prince loki x ofc #prince loki x you #prince loki x oc #to the stars who listen part 8 #ttswl #Prince Loki of Asgard #loki odinson #Loki Laufeyson #marvel au #thor au #loki series #loki fic #loki fanfic #fluff #angst #magic #love spell #practical magic au #reader-insert #reader fic #you fic

[dontcare77ghj]

Skin

Natasha x reader x Bucky

When a person was born, the name of their soulmate was printed onto their skin. It made new parents relieved to know that their child had a perfect match in the world.

Your parents were not soulmates. Neither had ever met theirs and fell in love with each other. Their union had produced you, and when you were born, you had two names printed onto your skin.

Natalia Romanova and James Barnes.

Triads were not an uncommon occurrence in the world, but not everyone was as accepting of fates design. 

Your father didn't believe in triads, he thought by having two names you would choose one and abandon the other. As you grew older, it became clear to you your father did not believe in soulmates.

You didn't like the notion of abandoning one of your soulmates. The idea made you a little sick, to be honest. You thought yourself to be very lucky, you had not one but two soulmates. It wasn't something everyone could say.

As a child, your only dream was to find the two tattooed on your skin. You had no idea how soon you would be meeting them.

Non-reader POV

The Red Room did not often associate with HYDRA. There was no grudge, just a case of not having the same goals. Today was one of the handfuls of times they had to meet.

"It's come to our attention that you have something we want." The HYDRA director said, lounging in his chair.

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about." Madame B. mused, staring the man down.

"Natalia Romanova." He clarified. "And we have James Barnes."

"You seem to believe that means something to us." Madame B. smirked. "We don't encourage soulmates, and we certainly aren't going to let you take one of our girls."

"We don't want to take one of your girls." The director informed her. "We've been having some issues with our boy. He's not freezing as he used to, and when the asset is awake, it seems to believe it has control."

"What does my girl have anything to do with your solider?"

"Your girl could help us control him. Allow them to meet, form the bond, and it will serve as a reminder for them to follow commands. In return, we will provide her with extra training." The director bargained.

"She is already getting the best education she could." Madame B. scoffed. "What better could you possibly provide?"

"From James Barnes himself. The Winter Soldier." The man smirked as he spoke the ghost tale's name.

"This all sounds well and good, but my girl has a third soulmate." 

"As does the asset," The director assured her. "We've already planned for her extraction. She'll ensure the asset and your girl understand there are consequences. What do you think, Madame? Shall we continue negotiations?"

"Yes. Yes, I do believe we shall." Madame B. smiled.

Reader POV

"Happy birthday, sweetheart." Your mother greeted you that morning with a smile. "Big, big day. You're eighteen, maybe you'll meet your soulmates." 

"Soulmate." Your father cut in from over his newspaper. "You only need one soulmate."

"Perhaps I'll never meet either of them. Like the two of you." You said, sitting at the table.

"Ignore your father. He's especially cynical before his coffee." Your mother rolled her eyes.

"And you're especially bubbly with it." He muttered.

"Do you have any plans for today, sweetheart?" Your mother asked in a loud tone as she flitted about the small kitchen. 

"Not really." You admitted, feeling uncomfortable. "I was just going to work on my painting." 

"You should go outside more." Your father told you gruffly. "You're so pale, you need more sunlight."

"Leave her alone, Jack." Your mother sighed.

"Whatever, Marie." He said, standing from the table. "I'm going for a smoke."

"Your father is a difficult man when he wants to be." Your mother commented.

"Why do you stay with him?" You asked her. "He's not your soulmate, and half the time he acts like that."

"It doesn't matter, I love him, and he loves me. Love is complicated, my darling." She explained.

"What would you do if you did meet your soulmate?" You quizzed her.

"Talk to them." Your mother smiled. "I would get to know them, sit with them, and I would explain why I married another."

"Would you leave dad for them?"

"I don't know." She answered. "I truly don't know."

You had left the kitchen shortly after your conversation with your mother. Returning to your room, you had fitted in your headphones and drowned out the world.

You weren't sure how long it had been since you zoned out. The sun had shifted across the room many times by the time you turned off your music.

With your music silenced, you heard screams, crashes, and gunshots coming from downstairs. A part of you wished to run downstairs and fight whatever was attacking your home, but the intelligent part of you won out.

With haste, you rushed towards your desk and shoved the item in front of your door. Barricading yourself in, you rushed for your phone. As several booming thuds hit the door, you dialed 911 with shaking hands.

A shriek left your lips as the door splintered. 

"Hello? My home is being broken into. I live at 890 Real Street. Please hurry, I think my parents are dead." You said quickly, letting out another scream as your door was thrown open.

You had no weapon, making it very easy for the men to knock the phone out of your hands and push you into the wall.

"Get off me!" You cried, struggling against a burly man. "Please, let me go! Let me go!"

None of the men seemed moved by your pleas as one passed over a rag to the one holding you. You tried to hold your breath as the cloth was placed to your mouth and nose but failed.

The world went dark quickly, and you collapsed into the man's arms.

With a loud gasp, your body shot upwards as you finally awoke. Your eyes widened as you took in your unfamiliar surroundings, and continued to grow as you noticed people sitting in front of you. In front of you, sat a man, maybe ten years older than yourself, and a girl about your age.

Once they saw you were awake, the girl made to move towards you. Before she could get close to you, you pushed yourself into the corner behind you.

"Vse normal'no. My ne sobirayemsya delat' tebe bol'no." The woman said, raising her hands.

"Vy v bezopasnosti s nami." The man added.

"I, I don't speak Russian." You stuttered, praying they could understand. "Please, I don't know what's going on. Do either of you speak English?"

"You don't have to be scared with us." The woman said in perfect English. "We're not going to hurt you."

"Where am I? Why was I taken?" You asked her.

"Unfortunately, we're the reason you're here." The man sighed, lifting his shirt to reveal your name and Natalia's.

"James." You breathed. "I take it, that means you're Natalia." You said, turning to the woman.

"I'm sorry." Natalia apologized. "Neither of us thought they would take you."

"Where exactly am I?" 

"You're in Russia. In a HYDRA facility." James informed you. "I'm sorry, but this is to be your new home."

Seven years. You had been trapped in this HYDRA facility for seven years.

You had attempted escape three times, and each failed. The results of said attempts were nightmares you did not wish on your worst enemy. 

James lived in the compound but was often out on missions or frozen for months at a time. Collectively you had spent two months with him per year.

Natalia, on the other hand, was stationed in a place she called the Red Room. She told you, you were her reward. If she did well during the week, she was allowed to see you for a handful of hours during the weekend.

For the first few months, you had been terrified. You barely spoke to anyone, let alone your soulmates, and you were too scared to sleep. You overheard some of the soldiers talking, telling each other the director was mad at the lack of bonding between the three of you.

After your fourth month in the compound, you had been dragged out of your room and into another room. A place you would call hell.

It felt like a decade had passed when the torture stopped. You were barely conscious when James lifted you into his arms and took you back to your room.

Imprinting is what Natalia called it. They thought by hurting you and having Natalia and James fix you up, you would turn to them and eventually garner feelings for them.

The three of you had a real conversation that night. They explained their lives or revealed what little they were allowed to. You spoke of your previous existence, a lump in your throat the whole time. The two were allowed to stay much longer than they had in past months, and you felt you finally knew who your soulmates were.

Seven years later, you were still trapped. Still locked away, under a much stricter lock and key than at your arrival, in this hell hole. 

"Look who's awake," Natalia said, entering your cell, pulling James behind her.

"You're back." You sighed happily, jumping from the bed and throwing your arms around him as the door closed.

"I'm back, kotenok." He confirmed, tightening his arms around you.

"If you're back, that means you're going on a mission." You said as the two of you pulled apart.

"Both of us are," Natalia said, sitting on the small bed. "We're going on a mission the day after tomorrow."

"They've never let the two of you on missions together." You commented. 

"We were surprised too." James nodded. "But orders are orders, and we do what we're told."

"You don't need to tell me that, James." You said. "I'm well aware of how orders work around here."

"Sorry, kotenok," James said, looking away from you. 

"No, I'm sorry, that was rude." You apologized, squeezing his hand. "You don't deserve that."

"Are you okay, kisa?" Natalia asked you. "You seem on edge."

"I got new guards today." You admitted, not looking at either of them. "They just put me on edge."

"Did they do something to you?" James questioned you, lifting your chin.

"No, they didn't do anything." You mumbled.

"We've spent too long together for that to fool either of us." Natalia snorted. "What did they do?"

"They actually do anything." You insisted. "One made a couple comments about taking me off your hands, and the other is very dedicated to HYDRA. A little bit too much."

"I'll kill him," James growled. 

"No, you can't." You told him. "If either of you does anything, you're going to get punished. They're going to hurt you, I'll be fine. I don't see people often, I won't have to see them."

"I should gut him. Give me the name of the one who said it." Natalia demanded.

"Nat, I don't know his name. It's fine. All the guards know not to touch me. They just like their little jokes." You rolled your eyes, sitting on the bed with her.

"It's because they all sit watching us through the camera," James grumbled, standing in front of the two of you. Blocking the camera from seeing the two of you.

"Will I get to see you when you come back?" You asked, looking between the two.

"Hopefully." Natalia smiled. "But even we're not sure when we'll be back."

"What she means is we're not sure if I'll be put back in the freezer." He said.

"You're never going to let the freezer thing go, are you?" You asked, managing a weak smile.

"Probably not." Natalia smiled. "If it makes you feel better, I've been 

given permission to stay at the base overnight."

"Really?" You asked, eyebrows raising in surprise.

"Yeah." She nodded. "I have to train with J in the morning, so it was decided it was easier for me to stay the night."

"And we were informed that they want our bond to strengthen further, so we're allowed to stay in here tonight," James said, stepping forward and taking one of yours and Natalia's hands.

"So, they want us to try again?" You stuttered, swallowing against the lump in your throat.

There were many reasons you had been brought into the HYDRA compound. To control James, join them with the Red Room, and produce the future of HYDRA.

They wanted you to breed with James.

It wasn't until you were twenty that this became an idea. The three of you had strengthed the bond, and it suddenly gave the handler ideas. 

Seven years they'd forced the idea of breeding, and for seven years, it had failed. So far, there was no possibility of children. Something you were incredibly grateful for.

"Yes, that was the implication," James said, not looking at you.

"I love that my one act of defiance is not giving these assholes any children." You chuckled without humor.

"You shouldn't have been brought here," Natalia said, taking your hand. "You should've been allowed to live a life, get married to someone else, be with your family, anything just not this."

"I'll be the first to admit, I don't want to be here." You started, looking at her. "I've never wanted to be here, but I wouldn't go back. I couldn't go back. I wasn't happy before, I'm still not a hundred percent satisfied, but the two of you are my saving light." You told them.

"You're too sweet, kotenok," James said with a small smile.

"Too sweet for your own good," Natalia added, squeezing your hand three times in quick succession.

Natalia and James were very shut off people because of what they'd had to do in life. The words 'I love you' did not come naturally to them, resulting in the three of you coming up with the hand squeezing to substitute it.

Squeezing both their hands, you pulled James onto the bed with you and Natalia.

Few words were exchanged that night as the three of you laid in your small bed. The times you were allowed to all spend together were few and far between. Instead of worrying when you would all see each other again, you were simply enjoying the time. Enjoying the comfort, you all brought each other.

"I have news from the lab." A dark-haired guard said as he entered your cell. "Unfortunately, you're not pregnant."

"Right then." You nodded, staring at the wall. Natalia and James had been gone for two weeks, and you were slowly losing it.

"You don't seem to understand how important it is for you to be pregnant." The guard growled, moving towards you. 

"I probably don't." You rolled your eyes.

"You are weakening HYDRA." The man snarled. "You are turning our soldier soft! You are not producing our next super-soldiers! Weakening us from the inside out. Are you committed to HYDRA?" 

"Not particularly." You said, narrowing your eyes at him. "You kidnapped me, and murdered my family. I'm not exactly your number one advocate."

"HYDRA will one day establish a new world order. And we will do that with the asset and the Black Widow. We do not need you." He said as he advanced towards you.

You attempted to dodge the man but were grabbed by the back of the neck. A cry left your mouth as the man's gun was brought down upon your temple until you blacked out.

The next few hours were a haze. You could briefly remember the man taking a scalpel to your soul marks, slicing the skin off your forearm only for their names to reappear. They would appear with burning pain on different parts of your body every time he would attempt to erase their names.

You could remember the man throwing the scalpel down in a fit of rage. Screaming at you and nothing in German.

The last thing you could clearly make out was the man taking you into his arms and sneaking you towards the cryotubes.

"They'll kill you." You weakly snapped as he locked you in the tube. "They'll make it hurt."

"They're not going to do anything to me. You died of natural causes." He smirked, before setting the machine. 

You raised a hand to the small window, and the world froze, leaving you in the dark for years to come.

Non-reader POV

Natalia and James never returned to the bunker. They overheard a conversation between two of the men with them, detailing the death of their Y/N.

Anyone who came across them in the next three days could only describe them in two ways. Robotic and bloodthirsty.

It was a miracle when they didn't kill Clint Barton on sight. The things he said on that mission, things about choice, making their own way, leaving their own marks, had resonated with things Y/N had said.

With one look, Natalia and James knew they were both thinking the same thing.

It had been three years since their defections from HYDRA and the Red Room. Three years since the death of Y/N, and the shattering of James' brainwashing. 

The two had joined the SHIELD first and then later the Avengers. Steve and Clint were the only two on the team to know of the two's shared soulmate. Though they suspected Fury and Wanda knew.

There was one day a year Natasha and Bucky asked for the team to leave them alone. Y/N's birthday. They asked for no contact with anyone so they could grieve privately for the loss of Y/N. 

This year, they couldn't seem to respect their wishes.

"I know it's your day off, but you're needed," Clint said, standing by the doorway.

"Unless the world is being invaded by aliens again, I think you can handle it," Bucky said, running his fingers down Natasha's back.

"Okay, let me rephrase this. There's someone you need to see." 

"Who?" Natasha asked, trying not to purr at the feeling of Bucky's fingers on her skin.

"He works for HYDRA. Fury brought him in, and he keeps mentioning the two of you." Clint explained.

"Everyone in HYDRA knows us, Clint." Natasha pointed out. "It's not a new thing."

"He also brought up Y/N," Clint said, causing the two soulmates to freeze. "Steve's got the team handled for now, but this guy seems to know a lot about her."

"Take me to him," Natasha demanded, rising to her feet. Her face was hard, and her gaze rivaled Medusa's at that moment.

Clint did not say anything as he led both the soulmates to the tower's holding area. Bucky and Natasha were clutching each other's hands as they stared into the one-way glass.

"Do you know him?" Steve asked, approaching the trio.

"Unfortunately." Natasha deadpanned before entering the room, Bucky right behind her. "I should have killed you three years ago."

"We all know you were in too deep for that." The man said, smirking at the two. 

"Lucky for me, I'm not in deep anymore," Natasha smirked, circling behind the man, and slamming his head into the steel table.

Bucky smiled as the man cried out. His face covered in blood, dripping from his clearly broken nose.

"You are the reason our soulmate is dead. I know it." Natasha snarled, tightening her grip on his hair.

"I didn't kill her!" The man exclaimed.

"Don't play dumb, Gideon," Bucky growled, stepping closer. Gideon's eyes widened as he noticed Bucky's mechanical arm shifting. "You were her guard. You were the one who reported it. There is no-one else who could have done it!" He said, slamming his fist into the table.

"I'm not lying, she's not dead!" Gideon stated, flinching at the loud noise.

"Bullshit!" Natasha yelled, slamming his head into the table again.

"She's not! I swear! She's alive! In cryostasis!" Gideon cried out, spitting out blood in his mouth.

Both Natasha and Bucky froze at the statement.

"Explain," Bucky growled.

"She was ruining HYDRA. She wasn't pregnant, and she was weakening you. She had to go. I tried to cut her marks out, attempted to bleed her out, but she kept healing. Her marks kept reappearing." Gideon stammered.

"She was injected with serums like mine. You should've known that." Bucky snarled, seeing red at what he was hearing.

"I didn't, I swear! And when she wasn't dying, I got scared! If anyone found out, I would be killed. I panicked, and I threw her into a cryo chamber! No-one ever found her!" 

"You son of a bitch," Natasha gnarled, letting go of him and stepping towards Bucky. "She's still there?" Natasha confirmed.

"Yes! Yes, she's still there." Gideon nodded.

"You better pray she's still there and alive," Bucky said. "Otherwise, you'll pray for death." He chuckled darkly.

"Oh no, you're going to pray for death." Natasha corrected. "You're going to pray for a swift death as you're choking on your blood. You're going to pray as we burn you alive." She smirked as the man paled.

Bucky took her hand and led the woman out of the room. Stepping into the corridor, they saw the team waiting for them.

"Someone deal with the piece of shit in there," Natasha said, moving past everyone.

"Do you want to explain what that was in there?" Tony asked, following after the two.

"That, was well deserved," Natasha said, not looking at the man.

"Dammit, Nat." Tony cursed, managing to stop the two. "Who is Y/N?"

"Our soulmate," Bucky told him. "Someone who we thought was dead because of that scum in there."

"Are you going after her?" Tony asked, despite knowing how dumb the question was.

"Yes." Both responded in unison.

"You're going to need help," Steve stated, coming up behind Tony with the rest of the team. "You can't go running into a HYDRA base without backup."

"We're not going to force anyone to come," Natasha said. "If anyone wants to come suit up and meet us at the jet in ten." She told them before she and Bucky walked to the elevator.

"Nat, I don't know what I'll do if she's not okay. I can't go through that again." Bucky murmured as they suited up.

"She'll be okay," Natasha assured him, taking his hand and squeezing it thrice. "She has to be."

She had to be. If she wasn't, the world would burn in the wake of their despair.

"Is there a plan here? Or are we just going in, guns blazing?" Tony questioned as the jet neared the drop zone.

"Kill anyone who gets in the way, get Y/N, and get out," Bucky stated, strapping multiple guns to his form. 

"I'm coming with you," Bruce said to the soulmates. "I highly doubt he treated your soulmate or set the chamber correctly. You'll need help." He told them, grabbing a medical kit.

"Agreed." Bucky nodded.

"I'll come with you to cover Bruce," Clint said, putting two sheaths of arrows on his back.

"Thank you, Clint." Natasha gave him a small smile.

"Alright, we've got ten minutes. Make sure you've got everything you need, there's no information as to whether or not this place is still running." Steve said. Everyone nodded before scattering in the jet, preparing for the fight.

"Nat, can I ask you something?" Clint murmured, standing next to Natasha as she checked over her widow bites.

Natasha gave him a quick nod.

"What did Bucky mean when he said Y/N was injected with the serum?"

"She was injected with the serum." Natasha shrugged. "It was a punishment for the three of us not attempting to bond during her first months there. She was tortured, and they wanted to see how we'd each react to her being injected."

"All because you didn't bond the way they wanted?" Clint asked, raising a brow.

"She wouldn't even talk to us during those first few months. I don't blame her. HYDRA had killed her parents and snatched her out of her life. But we had seven years together, I would burn the world if she asked and it would make her smile. I would do anything she asked if it meant I got to see her smile again." Natasha told him.

"You'll get her back," Clint assured her. "The two of you will get her back."

"Thank you, Clint." Natasha smiled.

"We're here," Steve announced. 

It was time. It was time for Natasha and Bucky to get their girl back.

The base had not been empty. It had been as full as Natasha and Bucky remembered it to be three years ago. Steve had led the rest of the team in a fight against the agents as Natasha, Bucky, Bruce, and Clint snuck in.

"This way," Bucky said, moving down a corridor. The HYDRA headquarters was a labyrinth of hallways. Twists and turns, and dead ends littered the base, but Bucky and Natasha knew them all.

The path to the basement was a familiar one, to Natasha especially. She would always be asked to collect Bucky after he had been frozen.

"He said she'd be in one of the last ones," Natasha said as they entered a room filled with cryotubes.

Clint and Bruce nodded at her words before they split into their own corners.

"I found her!" Bruce called. Natasha and Bucky were by his side before he could blink.

"What do the stats say?" Bucky asked Bruce as Natasha raced towards the tube. "Can we get her out?"

"Yes, but these scans are all over the place. Some wounds were pouring blood when Y/N was put in here. Even if she was given a version of the serum, she's still human. We're going to need to be ready to close the wounds the best we can." Bruce said to him.

"We'll be able to heal her?" Natasha asked the scientist.

"As best we can." Bruce nodded. "We'll have to take her to medical, so they can fix what we've done, but it should keep her stable."

"Make it work, Bruce," Natasha said, stepping away from the tube. Bruce began setting up a makeshift medical station and informed everyone as to what they would have to do when they released Y/N from her cell.

"Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three." Bruce said, before opening the tube. Bucky grabbed the woman gently before she could hit the ground and laid her on the floor. Natasha and Clint used rags on her wounds, which began bleeding as she thawed out.

Bruce quickly began stitching up the wounds, flinching at the patches where the skin had been flayed off.

Bruce had closed two of the wounds when suddenly, Y/N's eyes snapped open, and she jolted upright.

"Y/N!"

Y/N had passed out almost as soon as she awoke. Bruce had quickly closed her open wounds, and Natasha and Bucky were able to get her onto the jet.

Y/N had been unconscious for three days now. Bucky and Natasha had not left her side once, despite the multiple attempts for Steve.

"YA obespokoyen." Natasha murmured to Bucky. "Ona do sikh por ne prosnulas'." Bucky knew she must be incredibly tired to slip back into Russian.

"She'll wake up, I know she will." He told her, taking her free hand.

"No chto, yesli ona etogo ne sdelayet?" Natasha asked him. "YA ne mogu snova yeye poteryat'."

"Natasha, she will pull through," Bucky said, looking her in the eyes. "YA tebya lyublyu." He said, squeezing her hand thrice.

"YA tozhe tebya lyublyu." She smiled, leaning over to kiss him.

"I still don't understand Russian." A croaky voice said, garnering a gasp from Natasha. As she and Bucky turned around, smiles crossed both their faces as they saw hazy E/C staring at them. "I should probably start learning."

"You probably should." Natasha smiled as her eyes began to water. 

Both Natasha and Bucky allowed their tears to flow as Y/N weakly squeezed their hands three times.

Reader POV

"You're beautiful, kotenok." Bucky hummed, trailing his lips down your exposed skin. A year of physical healing had done you well. Your body had healed from the years of torment at the hands of HYDRA though, there were still scars that lingered.

Particularly the scars from where the skin was removed from your body. Those scars never seemed to fade in color, remaining a bright shade of pink a year later.

But it didn’t matter to you. After all this time, you were free. You were free and you had both your soulmates at your side. Your father would be rolling in his grave.

“And you’re a charmer.” You smiled, moving your neck to give him more access.

“He’s always been like that.” Natasha smirked, running her hands down your form. “But it really comes out in the morning.”

“So does his accent.” You smiled, leaning up to kiss the woman. “So does yours. They’re sexy.”

“Good to know, doll.” Bucky drawled, pulling you closer. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“As will I.” Natasha said, curling up under your chin. 

The three of you laid in the large bed for hours. The sun was high in the sky before you decided to move. And as you all dressed for breakfast, a smile was welcomed to your face at the sight of your name on your soulmates skins. And the sight of theirs on yours.

It was all you needed.

Taglist

@rvgrsbrns @smilexcaptainx @hopingforbarnes @starlingelliot @piper-koko-barnes-rogers @jelly-fishy-babie @skeletoresinthebasement @agent-barnes40 @reann-loves-sebstan @skadikh

Natasha Romanoff Taglist

@natasha-danvers @5aftermidnight @ohfuckno 

#Natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #Natasha x Reader x Bucky #Natasha Romanoff x reader x Bucky Barnes #Black Widow #black widow x reader #Winter Solider #winter soldier x reader #winterwidow #winterwidow x reader #the avengers #avengers x reader #avengers x you #avengers x fem!reader #avengers x y/n #natasha romanoff x female reader #Bucky Barnes x female reader

[agerefandom]

Something Wrong

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Regressor!Katsuki Bakugou (aka. Kacchan), worried!Izuku Midoriya (aka. Deku), worried!Shouta Aizawa (aka. Sensei), caregiver!Eijiro Kirishima, and the rest of 1A as background characters

Words: 4,000

Summary: Izuku notices Kacchan regressing in class and makes the mistake of following him when he leaves, intending to try and help. 

Content warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence. Dissociation. Trauma. Bullying. Prevented (unintentional) self-harm. Self-neglect. Physical abuse. Verbal abuse. Mild burns. Blood. This fanfiction raises many questions and issues and doesn’t necessarily solve all of them, although everyone receives physical care by the end. 

Author’s Note: Please note the content warnings and exercise caution when reading. I just finished the third season of My Hero Academia, and I have many emotions about the way the relationship between Katsuki and Izuku is handled by both the writers and the characters in the show. I’m also aware that their dynamic is a popular one in the fandom, and thus something I might be asked to write when I open requests again. This story was my attempt at figuring out how I felt about that. (Conclusion: I’m willing to write regressor!Katsuki with other caregivers, but not with Izuku, and vice-versa. I promise my regressor!Katsuki fics will not all be this angsty. I just had to get this one out of my system.) 

Something was wrong with Kacchan today.

Izuku spent a lot of time looking at Kacchan from day to day, since the taller boy’s head blocked his view of half the blackboard. Even in Junior High, Izuku found himself often watching Kacchan from the back of the class. He was always in motion: his leg bouncing and his fingers tapping on the sides of his desk.

Here in 1-A, many of the students had trouble sitting still. The classroom was always alive with the shifting of fabric and clicking of pens, and any students with sensory problems had to wear sound blockers when trying to get work done (Izuku himself took advantage of that sometimes, although it made his tendency to mumble a little worse).

Today, though, something about Kacchan’s tapping fingers was different. They wouldn’t stay on the desk. He kept lifting his hand to his face, tapping them against his jawline and then around to his mouth. Izuku couldn’t see what Kacchan was doing, but he knew that the other boy had often teased him for biting his fingernails in Junior High (Aww, are you sucking your thumb, Deku? I always knew you were just a baby!) so surely Kacchan wouldn’t have the same habit. And even more strangely, Kacchan kept whipping his hand down and away from his face, keeping it frozen at his side for a few minutes before his fingers started tapping against his leg and the entire cycle would restart.

There were other signs, too: Kacchan wasn’t taking notes, Izuku’s view of his notebook around his shoulder confirming that he was just scribbling random lines across the pages. As careless as Kacchan seemed, he was a good student, and his friends often asked to copy his notes. There must be something wrong, Izuku knew it.

Maybe he didn’t sleep well last night? Izuku knew that Kacchan had been having trouble sleeping since the kidnapping. He started playing loud music at all hours and snapping at anyone who asked him to turn it down, even Kirishima and Kaminari. Eventually, they had to bother Aizawa about it, and Kacchan had been threatened with his sound system being confiscated. That seemed to stop the noise, at least when it was lights-out. But Izuku could still hear him pacing sometimes.

Most of the class had nightmares about their various villain encounters, and insomnia meetups were a regular occurrence in the dormitory common rooms. It had been nice to find out that the others had been struggling to sleep since everything started. Izuku had originally assumed he was alone in the experience. Calming down after a nightmare was easier with Denki chattering about the game he was playing or Koda’s quiet presence sharing the space.

But Kacchan never came out of his room to join the others when he couldn’t sleep, and only the distant sounds of pacing and the darkening circles under his eyes allowed Izuku to notice when he was doing worse.

Shoot, Izuku had started missing some of Aizawa-sensei’s lecture because he was so distracted by Kacchan. He turned his attention back to his notes, scribbling desperately to catch up with the lecture slide before it changed. He could always borrow notes from Tenya, of course, but he didn’t like to bother his friends about things like that.

Izuku snuck another glance up and saw that Kacchan’s fingers were back up to his mouth. His head was tilted slightly down, as if he were looking at his notebook, but his pencil wasn’t moving.

Was Kacchan asleep, maybe? That wouldn’t last long: for all of Aizawa-sensei’s naps, he didn’t tolerate students falling asleep in lecture, his capture weapon quick to pull a napping student’s chair out from under them.

Just as Izuku started to worry, there was a harsh shriek of metal against floor as Kacchan pushed himself to his feet.

“Bathroom,” Kacchan blurted, and stalked for the door with his shoulders a tense line.

Confusion and worry warred in Izuku’s stomach, and he was standing before he could think twice about it.

“Same, yeah, bathroom,” Izuku said, and speed-walked out of the room before Aizawa could remind him that only one student was allowed to leave the class at a time, according to school rules.

The hall was empty, which meant that Kacchan must have taken off running as soon as he’d left the class.

Izuku paused as the door closed behind him, considering his options. There was a possibility that Kacchan had abandoned class entirely and gone back to the dorms, but he probably would have taken his backpack with him if that was the case. Usually, Kacchan went straight for the training rooms when he was upset, but they would be in use by classes right now.

In the absence of a better idea, Izuku decided to check the nearest bathroom and see if Kacchan had been telling the truth.

Izuku’s shoes squeaked quietly against the hallway as he approached the door to the boy’s bathroom and pushed it open. The sound gave him away, but he distinctly heard a gasp, followed by a sharp sniffle.

“Kacchan?” Izuku called out, letting the door close behind him.

There was no answer. Izuku walked fully into the bathroom, easily picking out the stall that Kacchan was hiding in. It was the only one with the door closed, but Izuku could see that Kacchan had pulled up his feet to avoid being seen. Something was definitely wrong, he’d never known Kacchan to be this desperate to hide.

“Kacchan, are you okay? Are you sick?” Izuku approached the door, straining his ears. He could hear Kacchan’s breathing, familiar from the years they had spent together.

“Fuck off, Deku,” Kacchan snapped.

Izuku could hear the tears in his voice, and something like curiosity unfurled in his chest. He hadn’t seen Kacchan cry in years. Izuku was the crybaby, and Kacchan was the one who got to tease him for it. What was going on?

“What’s wrong?” Izuku leaned against the line of sinks, staying in front of the stall. “Did something happen?”

“I told you to go away!” Kacchan shouted. “Nothing’s wrong, you idiot. Fuck off!”

“I’m not gonna leave you,” Izuku told the stall door. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he would get to the bottom of this. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Deku…”

Izuku could hear the warning in that growl, but he ignored it. Just as he always did.

“Come on, Kacchan.” Izuku tried a softer voice. “It’s okay! I’m not gonna make fun of you.”

Kacchan started to laugh, and something in Izuku’s stomach twisted. That wasn’t a good sound. It was strangled and getting louder, the tears abandoned for hysterical cackles. Izuku shifted to standing, but stayed in front of the stall. Maybe he was getting somewhere?

Sure enough, the lock clicked open, and the door swung inwards to reveal Kacchan.

Kacchan was standing on the floor now, his uniform even more rumpled that usual. His eyes were red-rimmed, tears still streaking his cheeks.

“You? Make fun of me?” he managed between the harsh laughter. “Deku, you wish.”

Kacchan stepped forwards, and Izuku knew what was going to happen only a second before his hand wrapped around Izuku’s neck and pushed him back into the line of sinks. Pain shot up through Izuku’s spine from where the edge of the counter hit his back. Kacchan didn’t stop pushing, forcing Izuku’s head to lean back against the mirror behind him.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Always rushing in, Izuku lectured himself, closing his eyes to avoid the furious expression on Kacchan’s face. He had only wanted to help, but he knew Kacchan, and knew that he was at his most dangerous when he felt vulnerable. Why had he put himself in danger?

Force of habit, said a cynical voice in the back of Izuku’s head.

“You don’t listen, huh? Everyone thinks you’re so smart, but you and me know different.” Kacchan’s hand wasn’t pressing hard enough to cut off Izuku’s airflow, but he could feel his quirk starting to heat up the air between them, the sting of a thousand sparks jumping from Kacchan’s palm. Not enough to hurt, not really enough to leave burns, just a red mark that would fade in a few hours. Izuku kept his eyes closed. Kacchan had set off one of those tiny sparks in his eye once, and Izuku had needed an eyepatch for a whole week. Of course, Izuku had spent that time pretending to be Peg Leg the Pirate Hero, but it had still hurt.

“I was worried,” Izuku managed, bringing up his hand to try and tug Kacchan’s wrist away. Kacchan intercepted the attempt, making a tight fist around Izuku’s hand.

“Worried about me? You should worry about yourself, pipsqueak. You know I can take care of myself.” Pop pop went the tiny sparking explosions, starting to hurt the tender skin on the underside of Izuku’s chin. Those little burns could layer up and get painful eventually.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku said. “I know.”

“Do you? Do you really, Deku? Then why did you follow me?” Kacchan shouted, and Izuku felt spittle hit his cheeks.

“I don’t know!”

Izuku pushed out with his free hand, and was surprised when Kacchan’s grip on his throat subsided, the other boy stumbling back. He opened his eyes and saw his hands sparking, the power of One For All coming to his defense.

Kacchan had only been pushed a few steps back, and he was grinning now.

“You want to fight, shitty Deku? That why you followed me here?” The same little sparks were going off in Kacchan’s palms, flashes of light that made Izuku’s throat ache just watching them. At least they were away from his skin now.

“I don’t want to fight.” Izuku dismissed One For All, feeling the buzzing energy dissipate from his body. Kacchan’s cheeks were still blotchy, his eyes wild, and Izuku couldn’t bring himself to get on the offensive against him. “I’ll leave if you want.”

“Oh, no,” Kacchan hissed. “You had your chance to leave, but you just had to see me, huh? Wanted to gloat some more. Are you happy now, Deku? Want to rub it in?”

“I… no!” Izuku waved his hands in front of his face, feeling his eyes widen. “I’m not gloating! What? Why would I be happy that you’re sad?”

One moment, Kacchan was glaring down at Izuku with sparking palms, and then his face suddenly crumpled. His eyes closed, and he curled inwards, his quirk turning off as his hands went to grip his elbows. “Fuck,” Kacchan muttered. Izuku was close enough to hear his breathing hitch. “FUCK!” he shouted, and brought his hands up to his face, sparks flying again, this time against his own skin. It didn’t affect him, of course, his skin resistant to his own fire, but Izuku automatically started forwards. Kacchan’s eyes were still vulnerable, and he could damage himself.

The movement caught Kacchan’s attention. His head snapped up again, and Izuku could see the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“Deku?” Kacchan asked, and he sounded… confused.

“Y-yeah, it’s me,” Izuku said. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t-” Kacchan shook his head, bringing his hands up to his face again.

“Careful!” Izuku stepped forward and caught his hands, keeping the sparking palms away from Kacchan’s eyes, even as the tiny explosions started to burn Izuku’s fingers. “Kacchan, what’s wrong?”

Kacchan had frozen under Izuku’s touch, but Izuku could feel his hands shaking.

“What’s wrong?” he echoed, and his voice sounded wrong. Tense and tight and young. “What’s wrong with me, Deku?”

“It’s okay,” Izuku said. “You’re okay. It’s just anxiety, I think. Just breathe, okay?”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

Izuku didn’t see the attack coming this time, as he was pushed back against the mirrors for a second time. This time, the push was less controlled, and he felt the back of his head hit the mirror with a cracking noise. Hopefully, that was the glass.

“Kacchan!” Izuku reached out, trying to grab his shoulders. “It’s just me, it’s okay.”

“Shut up!! Stop trying to… COMFORT ME!” Kacchan shouted, and backhanded Izuku across the face. The sharpness of the pain made Izuku gasp, but it was easy enough to bring his head back up. “I don’t need your help! I told you to leave!” And Kacchan hit him again. “I told you to leave me alone!”

This is familiar.

The sour smell of the bathroom, the hard line of the counter pressing into Izuku’s spine, and the surrender to the pain of blows to his face. Usually, it had been Kacchan with a number of other boys, two of them holding Izuku’s arms, but Kacchan had never really needed the physical backup. Izuku was helpless enough on his own. Quirkless, couldn’t even stand up to a friend. Couldn’t stand up to one person. The burns, the bruises, the feeling of floating above himself as the pain became sharper yet somehow more distant.

I’ve been here before.

Izuku couldn’t remember the first time Kacchan hit him. He felt like it should have been a turning point in their relationship, like it should have made him see the other boy differently. But Kacchan had always liked to hit people. Like heroes, he said, practicing his Detroit Smash on all his friends. Like heroes, he said, when he tied Izuku upside-down and left him for the teachers to find. He just wanted to be like a hero, and heroes talked with their fists.

Izuku could feel tears on his cheeks as blood filled his mouth, but he hated the tears more than the copper taste on his tongue. He hated that crying had always been his first line of defense. When he was excited, when he was sad, even when he was angry, he could barely speak through the tears that rose up and choked him. It was just more for Kacchan to mock, calling him a baby, calling him weak, calling him useless.

I’ve never been anywhere else.

Izuku couldn’t tell if Kacchan was using his quirk or just his fists. The sharp impacts felt the same at first whether his hands were on fire or not, the heat of the pain blocking out the deeper burns. He would only know later how bad the damage was, whether he would need to hide his face on his way back to the dorms.

It was a shock when the punches stopped.

Izuku stayed where he was, leaning back against the counter. He didn’t know if he could move if he tried. His arms felt numb, his face stinging, and his head was distantly aching. He could see through his eyes, but it felt like he was watching from a long way away as he watched Kacchan draw back and wipe his eyes.

They had both been crying this time. That was unusual.

What happened next was even more unusual.

“I’m sorry,” Kacchan whispered, then turned and walked out of the bathroom.

There was silence.

Izuku drew in the first breath he was aware of, and stood up. It hurt, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. He turned and saw the splintered mirror behind him, blood streaking down it. Head wound. That explained the warmth soaking the back of his school uniform. They always bled a lot. He could see the shattered pieces of his reflection, a red puffy face and tears still rolling down his cheeks. It would be a few hours before the burns and bruises really become visible. For now, he was just red all over, as if he’d gotten a bad sunburn. By tomorrow, everything would be a rainbow of white and red and green-red-brown, but for now… it didn’t look so bad.

Izuku limped out of the bathroom and walked towards his class as quickly as he could manage. He knew he would disrupt the lecture, he knew the broken mirror would be charged to his mother, he knew it was going to suck to open the door, but it didn’t matter. He needed help.

Sure enough, Izuku pushed the door open and was met with a collective gasp from the class.

Aizawa was kneeling in front of Izuku before he knew what was happening, his hands resting gently on Izuku’s shoulders.

“Were you attacked?” Aizawa demanded, his eyes flickering over Izuku’s face and back to the door he’d walked through.

Izuku ignored his teacher, shrugging under Aizawa’s hands and dragging himself towards the person he came for.

“Kirishima,” Izuku said. “You need to find Kacchan, he’s really upset and I’m worried about him. I think he might be in danger. He wouldn’t listen to me, but… maybe you can help.”

Kirishima’s face swam in Izuku’s vision, shocked and concerned.

“Did he… are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Izuku smiled. “Please just find Kacchan.”

“O-okay?” Kirishima said, and Izuku stepped out of the way to let him leave.

“Deku!” Ochaco’s hands were the next to land on Izuku’s shoulders, less carefully than their teacher. Izuku fought the urge to flinch and smiled at her. “Did Bakugou do this? Are you okay? Oh my god, you’re bleeding a lot…”

“It’s just a head wound,” Izuku explained. “They bleed a lot.”

“Do you have a concussion?” That was Tenya in front of him now. With how much his vision was swimming, it probably was a concussion.

“Don’t worry!” Izuku said, trying to wave them off, but then Tsuyu was also in front of him, looking worried. “I’m okay! I’m sorry for interrupting the lesson!”

“He looks like he’s gonna pass out,” Denki commented.

“I’m not going to pass out!” Izuku said. “I’m fine!” He had a concussion, sure, but he’d gone to class with a concussion before. He would probably miss most of the notes, but that was okay. He could catch up later. “I need to text Kirishima…”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Aizawa was there again, looming over Izuku’s classmates. Izuku winced, dropping his eyes to the ground. He was definitely going to get in trouble. “Everyone, back to your seats. Stop crowding him.” Izuku moved to obey, but Aizawa’s hand blocked him. “Not you, Midoriya, stay where you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Izuku said. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to interrupt.” He risked a glance upwards and saw Aizawa’s unreadable expression, his mouth more downturned than usual. “I should have… I thought I could help. I’m sorry.”

“You’re a hero, Midoriya,” Aizawa sighed, and Izuku had never heard anyone say the word ‘hero’ with so much weight. It didn’t sound like a compliment. “Of course you thought you could help. Can you walk to Recovery Girl, or should I carry you?”

“I can walk, sir! But I really don’t need to visit Recovery Girl. She… doesn’t want to see me anymore.” Izuku winced, thinking back to all the times she had threatened to stop treating his injuries if he didn’t stop visiting so often.

“That isn’t her decision,” Aizawa said in a tone that allowed no argument. “Her job is to treat our students. And my job is to protect them. Now, for the rest of you, I expect you to behave while I’m gone. Start any more trouble and you will be expelled when I return. I’m not lying this time.”

From the dead silence that met his words, no one doubted him.

“Come on, Midoriya.” A hand was offered, wavering in Izuku’s reluctant vision. It took him two attempts to accept the hand, his depth perception all but gone. Eventually, though, Aizawa’s fingers wrapped around his, and Izuku was led out into the hallway. Aizawa’s grip was gentle, but Izuku could still feel the callouses on his fingers and palm, the marks of a lifetime of hero work.

It was easy to focus on that warm sensation as Izuku stumbled down the hallway after Aizawa’s long-legged strides, his head spinning.

“I really am sorry, Aizawa-sensei.”

“Save it until it’s time to tell your story,” Aizawa told him. “I won’t make you go over it while you have a concussion, but we’ll talk after.”

“Okay,” Izuku said meekly.

I hope Kacchan is okay, Izuku thought as he followed Aizawa into the elevator, trying to stay on his feet as the world spun around him.

--

Eijiro leaned back against the wall, breathing a deep sigh of relief.

Katsuki was curled up with his head on Eijiro’s lap, his favourite stuffie tucked under one arm. Eijiro’s cheek hurt, where Katsuki had gotten a strike in before Eijiro’s quirk had been able to protect him. Eijiro’s quirk was what made him able to be Katsuki’s caregiver, able to stand up to the worst of his tantrums. And today had been a bad one.

The walls were scorched, and even Eijiro’s hair was blackened. Eijiro had tried not to fight Katsuki, but eventually he had to protect the room from being set on fire. It was always awful, holding Katsuki down as he screamed threats and struggled and wept. But eventually, the tension had drained from his body and left him sobbing, and Eijiro had let his skin soften and pulled him into an embrace, Katsuki melting against him.

Katsuki had fallen asleep as soon as he’d stopped crying, and Eijiro had no idea what mood he would be in when he woke up: ready for another fight or craving cuddles and nostalgic cartoons.

Eijiro thought of Midoriya’s face, all red and wounded but trying to smile, waving away Eijiro’s concern and worrying only about Katsuki.

We can’t keep going like this.

Midoriya didn’t deserve the treatment he got from Katsuki, they all knew that, but there was nothing they could do. Katsuki turned on his friends just as fast, accusing them of taking the other side. Eijiro only knew bits and pieces of the pair’s history, and it had always disturbed him, but… it had never seemed like his business. Now he wondered if he should have put his foot down sooner.

Something was wrong with the two of them. Midoriya, all bloody and raw and waving them away with that innocent smile, as if he didn’t feel the pain at all. Katsuki, desperate for affection, screaming as Eijiro’s arms had wrapped around him, struggling until he was too exhausted but accept the simplest kindness of human touch. Constantly lashing out at anything that tried to help him.

Eijiro had always wanted to stand by Katsuki, but sometimes he found himself scared of Katsuki’s actions and where it would lead them. He wanted to believe that he would stand up to Katsuki if he ever went too far, but…

The image of Midoriya’s tear-streaked, smiling face flashed in Eijiro’s mind again.

How far is too far?

Eijiro closed his eyes and tried to push away all the big questions. He needed to rest so that he could be ready for whatever mood Katsuki would wake up in.

Maybe they could figure this out. Maybe he could ask for help, explain what’s going on. Someone else must know better than him. He was only fifteen, after all. How was he supposed to help, really? Why hadn’t anyone stepped in already? It felt like something was terribly wrong, but maybe this was normal. Was he worrying too much? Was he worrying too little?

Eventually, Eijiro managed to fall asleep like that, sitting up against the wall with his thoughts running in circles and Katsuki’s head resting softly in his lap.

#bnha agere #fandom agere #agere fanfiction #tw trauma #my writing #my stories #not a request for once! #tw self harm mention #i wonder if i should have a general tag for the darker stories i write? #i feel like tw trauma will cover most of them in a general sense #anyways #bnha #my hero academia

[oohnoniall]

Hawk & Sparrow [Rowan Whitethorn x OC] - Chapter 3

WARNINGS; Fantasy violence, cursing, Mirima doesn’t have self-control and that leads to her burning out a Lot, Rowan avoiding his feelings, Mirima having no idea about her feelings, there’s a lot of feelings being avoided, power dynamics in the relationship.

Prologue.

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2

       Her body ached, her mind ached. While she had not done anything as horrible as burnout, Fenrys had put her through her paces. She had never known how hard just keeping her control could be. She had never realized just how badly she suffered from control issues. Rowan had told her time and time again that she needed to control herself. But she hadn't realized how hard it was actually going to be.

       She trudged into the kitchens, slumping onto a stool that sat just before the fire. Normally, Emrys sat there but he was at the countertop, forming some type of dough that had what appeared to be raisins in it.

       "Hard day?" The older man questioned, his eyebrow quirked up slightly.

       Mirima scowled slightly as she slipped a dagger from her belt and a whetstone from her pocket. "It didn't seem to be until this morning," she admitted as she dragged the blade along the stone.

       "Rowan goes easy on you," Emrys teased her, causing her scowl to deepen. "I haven't seen you this exhausted in twenty years."

       "I'm used to Rowan's tactics," she sat down the dagger once she was certain the point was sharp enough. She took care of her blades ritualistically most of the time. Sharpening the blades calmed her, oiling them helped ease her mind. Normally it was saved for a pre-bed ritual, but the night before she had crawled into her bed and fallen into a hard and heavy sleep. She hadn't dreamt. Instead, she had been blissfully at peace. For once in her life, she had not been aware of the dangers surrounding her. She had been aware of the pillow beneath her and the blanket on top of her.

       It had been peace she didn't know she craved.

       "Of course," Emrys' eyes twinkled as he looked away from her. Mirima knew he meant well. But it was hard to know that he was well aware that she cursed Whitethorn's name half the time and still assumed Rowan was kind to her.

       The man had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want her there. He had told her time and time again that she was not ready for any of this. Mirima wanted to prove him wrong. She wanted nothing more than to be welcomed into the cadre. Although, at this point, she was unsure if it was because of her own dreams or if it was just to spite Rowan Whitethorn. Anyone with half a brain would know that spiting him was unwise. The man was more of a monster than anything. It was one of the reasons that Mirima admired him.

       Even if she didn't admit that fact to anyone.

       "I am! He's been putting me through Hellas and back since I got here," she nearly snarled as she began to peel the potatoes for breakfast. She wasn't normally on breakfast duties, but she had figured it would be best to help out. At least while she was complaining to Emrys.

       "Have I?" His voice caused her spine to straighten, her grip on the dagger tightening just slightly. "Considering you're still here, I haven't done a good enough job."

       Mirima looked up then, her eyes catching Rowan's long white hair before anything else. Her throat felt dry, her stomach knotted up as she glanced once at the expression on his face. He looked as though he was either amused or furious. With Rowan, it was hard to tell the difference. Especially when it came to her and her training. She knew that he didn't want her there. She knew that he thought she wasn't good enough.

       That or he really hated the cadre. She couldn't actually tell.

       "I thought you'd be gone for a week," Mirima stated, her tone casual despite the racing of her heart. At least her training had taught her how to keep her composure.

       "I never said how long I'd be away," he stated as he leaned casually against the wall. Rowan never looked casual. Something was off. Mirima did not know what it was or what it potentially could be, but she was determined to figure it out. If she didn't it was likely to drive her mad.

       "You're normally away for a week," she shrugged her shoulders, turning her gaze back to the potato in her hand. She focused on how the skin felt gritty underneath her calloused fingers. She focused on the way the blade slid across the potato, the slight bit of force it took to begin the initial peeling process. How it felt to focus on something other than Rowan Whitethorn and the stare that always made her feel somewhat nervous. "I assumed that it would be the same."

       "We have something to discuss," Rowan said before she could ramble about his usual schedule. "In private."

       She knew his meaning. She wiped her dagger off on her breeches before she stood, sliding it back into its sheath in a graceful movement. "I'll be back by dinner. Tell Luca to stop taking the good jobs," she said cheerfully to Emrys. Neither man would be allowed to know how nervous she was.

       Rowan had met with Maeve. He had told her he would be. He had also said he'd be away three days but had barely been gone two. Maybe she had been declared unworthy. Maybe Maeve had given up on her. Or maybe it had nothing to do with that whatsoever. This could be something completely different, she just had to trust him.

       Easier said than done.

       Mirima followed Rowan up the steps and towards his quarters. She had been a fair amount of times. He would patch her up in his rooms, often snapping at her for whichever stupid choice she had made. She had been allowed to watch as he tattooed Gavriel once. She had been silent the entire time, her eyes never left his hands.

       His rooms were grander than anyone else's. She wondered if it was because he was a Prince or if it was all to do with the fact that he was part of the cadre. With his dark, wooden furniture and his grand fireplace, it felt cold. Uninviting. Rowan clearly hated Mistward. He had never made it into his home, unlike Mirima.

       She had turned the fortress into her own personal safe haven. She had spent so many years there that she would have gone mad if she had not. There was no reason for her to feel cold, alone. Not when the forests sang with the early morning sunlight. Not when she could smell the sea whenever a fresh breeze blew through the fort, always making her ache with need. The need to control it, to harness it. To be part of it. She knew there was a lake hidden somewhere nearby, she had been able to sense it from the moment she had stepped onto the grounds. Yet, she'd never had the time nor opportunity to go off and search for it.

       Rowan was not fond of letting Mirima near large bodies of water. He seemed to believe it would be the quickest route to a burnout. Mirima thought he was too cynical. The water was part of her. As much as the air was part of him.

       She stood in front of his desk while he took up space in front of the fireplace. The fire crackled, albeit not merrily, spreading slight warmth through the cold room.

       "What did you want to discuss?" Mirima's voice came out softer than she had expected it to. She hated sounding small around him. Hated that he might see her as someone meek, vulnerable. She knew that she was a warrior. Someone who would one day stand beside him in battle. She couldn't let him see her as anything else. It would risk the only future she could see for herself.

       "I didn't speak to Maeve about you," he didn't look at her as she spoke. Despite his words, she did not feel relieved. "I didn't have the opportunity to."

       "What happened, Ro?" Normally, he would have glared at the use of the familiarity. He would have told her how inappropriate it was. When he still didn't look at her she realized just how horrible things must be. Rowan never missed a chance to show his disapproval.

       "We'll have a visitor during our training sessions," the words seemed forced. She could practically taste the tension in the air.

       Mirima worried her lower lip as she took a cautious step toward him. "What do you mean? Is Fenrys going to stick around for a bit?"

       "No," his voice was clipped. At least that was normal. He wasn't dying or sick. Mirima hated to think that he would never get to see her successes. She didn't know why she wanted his approval, why she aimed to please him in some fashion. Maybe it was just because then she would know she had done it. She'd beaten the odds and become the member of the cadre she had always wanted to be.

       "Tell me," she rested her hand on his shoulder. He flinched away, causing her to drop her hand. It felt as though a shock had gone up her arm from the brief second her fingertips had brushed against his neck. But that was stupid. It was probably just her being far too familiar with her trainer.

       "Maeve wanted me to train another girl."

       "For the cadre?" Mirima's eyes grew hard as Rowan finally turned to face her. There was something in his eyes. Something that dulled the forest green to a grassy color. She wondered what that emotion was but found that she did not care. Anger coursed through her body. It burned too brightly and too quickly for her to care about whatever Rowan Whitethorn was feeling.

       "Hellas, Mirima, no," Rowan snapped at her. The anger that had flared so brightly quickly calmed. "I wouldn't train another damned soul for the position you want. You'd gut them than me. No, this is just a little demi-fae who never got control over their magic."

       "Who can't control their magic?" Mirima did not see the irony in her own question. She had always assumed her own control issues were rare. She had no idea where they stemmed from, just that no one else in her village had ever had trouble doing what they wanted with their magic. Neither had anyone else in Doranelle.

       "Someone who's afraid of it," Rowan stated bluntly.

       Mirima gave him a mock glare. She wasn't sure if he was completely wrong about that. It brought forth a question that she had never had to ask herself before. Was she frightened of her magic? Did she know what to do with it? She thought she did. She thought that it was as much a part of herself as breathing. But could there be something deeper? Rowan had never brought up this idea before. It was enough to temper her tongue, to make her sit and think for a moment.

       "I'm not afraid," she stated after thinking for a few moments. She didn't know if she was telling him the truth or not. But it felt like it. She felt as though she would know if she truly was afraid of the power that lived within her.

       "You're not afraid of anything," Rowan sounded as though this were not a compliment. "You'd sooner get yourself killed than listen to reason. That isn't bravery, Mirima. That's foolishness."

       His words stung her more than she cared to admit. Is that why he didn't want her fighting alongside him? He thought her nothing more than the village fool? Perhaps it made sense. Mirima had lived her entire life in the same small village. She had been stifled there but that didn't mean she had belonged elsewhere. Maybe she was just a foolish girl from Varnsway. Maybe that was all she would ever be.

       "Tell me about my new friend," she moved then, sitting on top of his desk as though it were her own. Rowan seemed not to notice, too lost in his thoughts as he stared at the mantle above the fireplace. "Will I have to play nicely?"

       "Maeve will kill you if you drown her," he said bluntly. "Besides, Terrasen would be left without a queen."

       That caught Mirima's attention. Her spine straightened, her eyes turning into the blue of a crystal sea. "So it's true then? Aelin did survive the massacre?"

       "It stays between the two of us," Rowan warned as he finally looked away from the mantle. Upon seeing her on the desk, one of his brows twitched slightly.

       "Why?" Even as she asked, she realized that it would be safer for the woman. "I mean, wouldn't she be better off with a guard surrounding her at all times? I'll volunteer for a shift."

       "Mirima," he snarled, causing a slight smile to cross her features. "She'd be in more danger if anyone knew. Adarlan is after her. If they manage to kill her, you know they'll have some advantage over Wendlyn. It'll break their spirits."

       "Which means we're next." One didn't have to be a military strategist to understand the risk the wrath of Adarlan. Mirima was not afraid of anything, Rowan had not been wrong about that, but the idea of bending the knee to the tyrant of Adarlan.

       "You'll help me train her. You know what it's like to be uncontrollable. Help her get used to life here," he looked older. His eyes darker than she had ever seen him, lines beside his eyes showing his half-century of life. She wanted to make things easier for him. She wanted to give him a moment's reprieve. But she couldn't. Mirima knew that they needed to keep some sort of wall between them.

       Even if she gave him nicknames.

       "Ro," she picked at her fingernails, "are you certain that's a good idea? I could drown her. Or you. Or I could accidentally kill her during swordplay or something."

       "I trust you."

       He'd never said that to her before. Rowan had never made her feel as though she could do anything she wanted. Half the time, he was trying to get her to abandon her dreams. Half the time, it felt as though he wished he could snap her neck and be done with her. Having his trust was something that she had never dreamed of. She had always thought that he would turn his back on her the second he was done training her.

       Maybe there was hope for them yet. Maybe Mirima would be able to prove herself to him through this whole damned thing. Or maybe it would just ruin whatever trust she had managed to build. Maybe she would never truly be able to live up to her expectations of herself. But that was okay. Rowan trusted her and that was all that mattered.

       At least for now. Mirima knew she still had a very long way to go when it came to proving herself.

       "So what's our plan?" She looked him in the eyes, ignoring the way her stomach knotted when the forest green met hers. It had happened every single time her eyes met his. Thirty years, thirty long years of feeling something odd whenever he looked at her. It was no wonder she tried to force that away, to tell him jokes when she shouldn't and to make light of things when she was terrified.

       "I don't know yet," Rowan admitted as he stepped over to her. His steps were light, never making a single sound. She wondered how often he had prowled around, silent and always listening. How many times had he caught her talking about him with Luca and Emrys? How often had he heard her curse his name?

       Despite both of them having the heightened senses of a Fae, Rowan had always been more of a predator. For years, he had been walking that line by himself. He had been alone with only the bloodlust and the killing that Maeve had made him do. Mirima saw it as glory, despite not knowing the truth of any of it. It was Rowan's business. She knew better than to ask him about any of it.

       She would take the stories told by others over the haunted look in his eyes whenever he pinned her any day. She didn't want to relive her own moments of glory. She supposed it would be the same for him.

       "Rowan Whitethorn not knowing something?" Mirima teased, a gleam in her eyes as she looked up at him. Her head tilted back, blonde locks cascading down her back in a waterfall while a playful smirk found a home upon her lips. "Now that is something I never thought I'd see."

       "When will you learn how to talk to a superior?" His brows furrowed slightly as he looked down at her. She had to ignore the overwhelming scent of pine and snow that clung to him.

       She hated that stupid scent. Hated how she dreamed of it at night, how she felt both enraged and comforted by it. None of it made sense to her. Nothing about Rowan Whitethorn would ever make sense to her. He was horrible and kind, the worst and the best. He was everything to her and nothing all at once.

       It was a miracle she had managed to keep his name out of her letters to her parents.

       "When will you learn that I'm not inferior to you?" Mirima turned her head away from him, wanting to break free from his gaze and that disgusting scent.

       "No one said you were," his fingers twitched. She wondered briefly if he wanted to run his fingers through his hair or strangle her. Either option seemed reasonable. "But you can't hope to make it any further if you don't listen to your commanding officer. They're not all as friendly as me."

       "Or Fenrys," Mirima interrupted.

       "I heard that he made you nearly flood our practice space," he snorted. "That doesn't seem as friendly."

       "So I'm not great at breathing exercises," she shrugged her shoulders. "I still managed to go without burning out." She was surprised that Fenrys had not told Rowan of her disappearing act. She would have been made to run laps until she vomited, would have been reprimanded hundreds of times had she done the same to Rowan. He would never have let her just walk away. Perhaps Fenrys had taken pity on her, perhaps he had seen something that Rowan did not.

       That or she had looked as though she were on the verge of burning out.

       "Don't joke about that," his voice hardened as he stared down at her. She looked back at him, hating the way he stared at her as though she was nothing more than a piece of glass. "Your burnouts are serious. If you die on my watch, I ..."

       Mirima didn't want to know what he would do. She didn't particularly care either.

       "I am not going to die, Rowan. I know myself better than any of you seem to realize," she crossed her arms in front of her chest, looking more like a petulant child than she realized.

       "You're not invincible, Mirima. You never will be," he told her, looking down at her with a gaze that she could not comprehend. Rowan Whitethorn gave her several incomprehensible looks. She often wondered if he hated her based on those looks, wondered if he even knew the fire that blazed in his forest.

       She doubted it. Rowan was too busy with his own problems to worry about how he looked at her. That wasn't something either of them thought about. It was always about training, always about Rowan teaching her everything she needed in order to be part of the cadre. Part of everything.

       "I'm capable though," she breathed softly, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll help you train her. Just ... Just don't let my training fall to the wayside. I expect to be in the cadre by the end of the year."

       Mirima shoved herself off of the desk, brushing against him as she did so. Rowan quickly backed away, his spine stiff and his gaze hardening to one she knew so well. She began to leave. Her gait smooth and steady unlike the pounding of her heart.

       "You'll never be ready," he called after her. "Lorcan would eat you alive just from your recklessness."

       "Then I guess you'll have to enjoy the show," Mirima stated without ever looking back at him.

       She kept up appearances as she headed back out of Mistward, a smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes that normally meant trouble. If Rowan thought she was nothing compared to this would-be-queen she would just have to prove him wrong.

       She slid a dagger out from the sheath on her thigh, twirling it between her fingers as she headed deep in the forest. If Rowan was giving up on her, she would train herself.

       Hellas save them.

#rowan whitethorn #rowan x oc #rowan whitethorn x oc #rowan is running out of patience #mirima floros #mirima is trying #rowan x mirima #mirima doesn't believe in feelings #celeana sardothien #throne of glass fanfiction #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass oc #soulmate #mates #mate au #I ship them no one else does but I do and that’s what matters #are they soulmates or are they both just depressed #cadre

[tipsydipsydo]

Prompts

➳ "We’ve been at it like rabbits, how are you still horny?!"

➳ "Don’t give me that look."

Pairing: Jungkook x Noona! Reader

Gender of the Reader: female

Word Count: 960

Rating: 18+

Genre: Smut (+ Comedy)

Warnings: Dirty Language + Dirty Talk; Noona-Kink(?); needy and bratty Jungkook; Pet-Play; Bunny-Kink; Breeding-Kink; Breeding Dirty Talk; stupid pun leads to more xD; my poor comedian-abilities...

A/N: Well, let's say this drabble here shouldn't be the first writing for the BTS Noona Net and the Golden Closet Net to celebrate my acceptance in there (thank you💕).

Officially it should be the fic I'm working on right now but I'm stucked and not happy with it until now... so I think the fic has to wait until I've found better connection to it.

Let's say this drabble is like a gift card and the actual fic comes later as the "real" Network-Celebration gift 💕🎁🎉

[Links]

BTS Smut Drabbles

My official Masterlist!

「© tipsydipsydo」

This following story is my intellectual property and belongs only to my blog tipsydipsydo.tumblr.com!

I’ll not accept any kind of reposting, stealing or using/editing my work!

That includes reposting my content on other social media platforms too, even when you link me as the original author.

Thank you.

"Jungkook. No."

"-but Noonaaaaa! You can't be serious after such a long time of abstinence!", pouts Jungkook, stands with crossed arms and an angry frown between his eyebrows behind you, looks like a little child what didn't get his favourite sweet in the grocery store.

A deep sigh leaves your lips as you turn around to him in your office chair. On your face had manifested a kinda tired or even annoyed expression, after arguing for already ten minutes with your two years younger boyfriend about this thing.

Okay yeah, you have to agree, that you couldn't see each other much in the last weeks, caused by Jungkook's exam weeks and the master thesis you have to write. Thanks to these unfortunate circumstances it wasn't able for you to fufill the usual routine of sexual interaction.

Jungkook knows that your studies are really important for you and anyway, he's younger than you after all, so has absolutely no idea how it is to write such a long thesis with such a complex topic.

But there is also an other thing he's very aware of, for example that the previous weeks and all this studying drained him completely out. He missed you a lot. More than a lot.

Well, to name the topic of the discussion you two have:

You just want to write on your thesis, while the one and only thing, that's on Kookie's mind right now, is to fuck you senseless, stuff your pussy up with his cum and making you squirt at least two times.

In the last week of his tests, he reached to the point where he thought he'd go insane because he craved so much for you. Jungkook wanted nothing more than to fill your wonderful pussy balls deep with his cock again, to pound all the stress and frustration he had kept over the weeks right into you and turn them into satisfying pleasure.

Thankfully this weekend is the first one without any studying and Jungkook looked forward to this date with one specific thing in mind. Only this one thing and nothing more. At this saturday morning, you already relieved the needs that couldn't be calmed the night before. You are happy and satiesfied after the second round, definitely ready to work on your thesis again.

Just the fact that you Boyfriend wasn't satiesfied as you let you have this conversation now. There seems to be a lot more tension and desire in him that has to be freed.

"Jungkook, we had two rounds of sex just thirty minutes ago and last night, you fucked me four times! Four!! We’ve been at it like rabbits, how are you still horny?! Did you even thought about that I could be a little bit sore after six rounds of sex in the last 12 hours? Hm??", you fire back, sounds more pissed of than you actually are, thanks to the cynical comment.

Just after you spoke these words out, you realize the irony in your comparison. Since childhood, the nickname 'bunny' stucks to him like Duck Tape and even now, here on College, his friends use this term often to tease him and to get one of his famous 'completely triggered and are-you-serious' looks. The thought let a little giggle bursts out of you while you shake your head with rolling eyes over this weird situation.

"Noona, did you even thought about that I am literally a bunny for everyone? It's spring time and because I am a bunny, I'm in mating season and that means, I have the official right to be damn horny! That are just my pure instincts that I want breed you!~", answers Jungkook with a cocky and smug grin on his lips. Proud of himself to finally had an opportunity to use his damn nickname for his own benefit against you.

In the first moment you look at him completely dumbfounded, not really sure if he's serious. In combination with this super proud smirk as if he knows that he had won with this statement, let you squeeze the bridge of your nose. You try your best but you can't hold back one little chuckle in disbelief.

"God, Jungkook. Don't give me that look while saying such weird stuff!"

His smirk just goes even bigger and he cocks his eyebrow in such an inappropriate and bold way. Jungkook knows that you're slowly about to give in when he tease you in such a sassy way with your weak spots.

"Why not, Noona?~ You think it's weird that your young buck wants to breed little bunny babies into his Noona? His Noona, who's so fertile, just in the perfect age to get her womb stuffed full with my cum, so full it'd spill out gaping hole... but only so long until I mate you again and bury my cock deep into your wet pussy...", purrs Jungkook softly and comes slowly over to you while he filth your mind with nasty thoughts and promises.

God, you hate him right now to misuse your pet-play and breeding-kink against you. They're always able to make you weak and trembling in no time, giving Jungkook this what he wants.

"Do you allow your bunny to breed his noona and filling her up with his cum? Just want to make you feel so good and so full...pretty please?"

"Fuck you, Jungkook. You're such a nasty bastard sometimes!", you complain in an slightly angry tone, voice trembling and stuttering. It's obvious that you're caught in his trap of the dirty words he's saying.

"Don't say such mean things! ...or do my Noona want a rough breeding session?~"

#btsnoonanet #goldenclosetnet #btswritersnet #bts smut drabbles #bts smut #jungkook noona kink #bts x reader #jungkook bunny #jungkook smut #kpop smut #bts jungkook x reader #bts smut fanfic

[septic-skele]

UF - Out of Reach

Summary: Classic and Blue have it good with their brothers. They make displays of love and affection look so easy. Red can’t help but feel bitter about it. He stands no chance of ever having anything like that with his boss.

Well, not with that attitude about it, Blue says.

Red couldn’t understand it. Logically he figured it was because Classic and Blue came from drastically different backgrounds. They weren’t living with eye sockets in the back of their heads or half-formed, sharpened bones under their pillows like he and Boss did. They were probably just as baffled about him and his behavior, but there was something Blue had said once that wouldn’t leave his mind.

Red had walked in on a private moment and for reasons beyond him, he hadn’t taken a hasty shortcut back out. He stopped and stared and couldn’t help being taken aback when he saw Blue cradling his Papyrus’ skull against his shoulder, murmuring comforts to him. Red had never seen that casual, laidback Papyrus so drunk, weak and vulnerable, much less Blue so solemn.

“I love you, Papy,” he soothed. “I’d love you no matter the ‘reset’, whatever that may be—no matter the world, no matter the universe. A good, proper Sans would never give up on his brother, and I am just that.”

Good, proper. Red had no illusions of propriety but the idea of it nagged and frustrated him. Any time he had tried to console Papyrus in recent memory, it had ended with all the wrong things being said and door hinges buckling under the strain of being slammed.

Red already knew what Blue would say if he heard of this. “You can always try again! I believe in you, pal! You simply need to persevere! You’ll get through to him, I know it!” Disgusting.

The worst part of it, however, was that even Classic did it better than he could. Classic—depressed, cynical, apathetic, a liar to Papyrus’ face more often than not—still loved his brother better.

Somehow the six of them had survived a night in together, though the argument over the TV remote had almost come to blows and the throw pillows may have sacrificed some of their stuffing. Now that they were all retiring, Red wandered down the hall to hear strains of Classic’s voice from one of the nearby bedrooms. He didn’t sound anything like the blasé character Red usually knew; he was lighter, actually putting effort into this.

“…Peekaboo had become a game of hide-and-seek! Where could her friends have gone? Fluffy Bunny wondered, bounding across the green, green field to look for them. She searched high! She searched low!”

“She searched near and far,” Papyrus chimed in.

“You bet she did. She searched east and west, under rocks and up in trees. But Fluffy Bunny couldn’t find her friends anywhere! Wherever could they be?”

Maybe they ditched her for wantin’ to play such stupid games, Red mused with a snort, although as Classic continued he was distracted by an old, old memory fluttering forth.

He had spent hours poring over the dump, fishing out as many old, damaged books as he could find. Drained and shivering, he’d lugged them back to the nook where he’d left Papyrus, safely out of sight. Before he could find sleep, Papyrus had thrown himself over Red’s back and pitched a fit about learning how to read.

“Show me, brother! I want to do it like you do, I want to try! It doesn’t have to be the long one! Just show me how, please! Please, please, please, plea-a-a-ase!”

Red had capitulated only because he didn’t want the tantrum to draw unwanted attention, but that wasn’t the part that stuck with him. Papyrus had curled up against him, half-tucked under his coat, watching him trace letters with intent focus. As he haltingly sounded out the words, every small success made him light up like a star, clutching eagerly at Red’s ribs for his approval.

“Did you see that, Sans?! Did you hear me?! I did it!”

“Yeah, yeah. Pipe down, kid, I saw. Nice one.”

Red’s opinion and praise had still meant something to Papyrus back then. Stars, he was still willing to cuddle with him, despite the filth and the damp clinging to his clothes from the river.

Had Boss ever really been that hopeful, clingy little baby bones or was Red trying to convince himself that was how it had happened? It was so long ago. Pap could have just fished those books out and taught himself while Sans was away, trying to find work. That sounded far more likely.

“G’night, bro,” Classic concluded, sliding the book onto the nightstand and giving his Papyrus an affectionate squeeze of the hand.

Balking, Red ducked back toward the stairs before he could be found snooping, all too well aware of what Boss might do if he ever dared reach out that way. He’d probably end up losing a few fingers.

It wasn’t fair, something small and spiteful in the back of his mind huffed. The idea nearly made him miss one of the steps, torn between shock and scornful amusement. Since when had fairness ever been part of the equation? If things were fair…

If things were fair, they would probably look a lot like the scene he had just left, as well as the scene he was walking into now. Blue perched prim and proper on the end of the couch, surfing idly through channels. His brother was stretched across the rest of the cushions, head propped against Blue’s lap, swaddled up in blankets, the whole nine yards.

Jerks. They were intent on showing off now; they knew exactly how good they had it. Sparks of irrational anger crackled along Red's jaw and spine. If he had something immediately on hand to hurl at them, he would have, but he had already shucked off his boots and summoning a bone would be a waste of magic.

“Edgy me?” Blue called in a faux whisper, making him tense. “I would have thought you’d be asleep already.”

“Yeah, well, it’s kinda hard to rest easy with Classic jabbering on about fluffy bunnies through the wall!” Red snarked, louder and sharper than necessary. He took little satisfaction in the way Blue winced, resting a hand on Papy’s skull as if to muffle the noise.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” So genteel, so polite, he still offered an inviting smile. “If you’d care to come and join us, any of the chairs from the dinner table are free! Mweheh, I honestly have no idea how Papy sleeps like this; the side I sit on is the only one without mangled, broken springs. It’s probably all of his tossing and turning that’s done it. I’ve been meaning to get them repaired, but he hardly ever leaves the couch to let me at it! He really ought to—”

“Shut up already, would’ja? I don’t care! Besides—Tch, wouldn’t want to interrupt your cute little ‘brother bonding’ time.”

“Oh, no, y-you’re not interrupting anything! Did I imply that somehow? I’m sorry! If you want part of the couch, I can wake him and ask him to scoot over—”

“How d’you make it look so easy?” It broke free before Red could fully comprehend how irrational it would be to ask. Jaw clenching so tightly that his teeth squeaked, he drew back from his own brash demand. Blue tilted his head.

“I’m sorry?” That counted three times in this conversation that he’d apologized for nothing. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He should have retreated. He should have spat, “Never mind!” and transported to his room to seethe in privacy. Instead his foolish, fat mouth blundered on. “How d’you get him to do that?” He threw an irritated gesture at the sleeping lump on his lap. “How d’you make him…relax, with you there? It’s as if he likes having you around!”

Even that was saying too much and yet just enough. Realization dawned in Blue’s eyes, followed by—oh, stars, there was pity.

“Well, I…I’m not really sure. If there are no other comfortable surfaces around for him while he sleeps, I’m happy to help! The last thing he needs is a cramp in his neck. Heh, I’m not tall enough to fix that for him so why not try to prevent it entirely? We’ve huddled up ever since we were baby bones; it’s always been this way.”

Of course. Cheekbones flaming, Red ducked his head. They never had raging fights that lasted until dawn (or until they started losing their voices, whichever came first.) Blue and Stretch had it all sorted out from birth, cozy and coddled.

“…Papy always caught cold too easily. I’d make up some rather impressive beds for him with grass and water sausages so he wouldn’t have to sleep on the rock, but the dew would leave him shivering all night! I couldn’t let that stand! Those chattering teeth of his kept me awake too so I made the noble sacrifice and slept on the damp side while he nestled up to me.” Blue chuckled, an uncharacteristic note of something laced through it. “With our two shirts tucked together, we could almost imagine a full hoodie like he has now!”

“Wh—You? That’s rich.” That was decidedly not what Red had been picturing as a life that could spit out someone as sickeningly sweet as Blue. “You’re not tellin’ me you two were homeless.”

“I preferred to think of us as explorers!” Blue corrected. “I told Papy that we were on an adventure to find the perfect place for a new start. We experienced all that the Underground had to offer a couple of wandering baby bones: scavenging, hide-and-seek, games of chase with older monsters, who were rather poor sports when they couldn’t catch us. I grew strong and magnificent thanks to all of that exercise and my brother…well, he tried very hard!”

Red shuffled uncomfortably in place. Funny, how familiar all of those experiences sounded—but from someone else’s mouth?

“Then Papy fell terribly ill. He was poisoned, in fact. It was the first time I really wondered if I’d lose him.” Ignoring how Red startled, Blue glanced pensively down at his snoring brother, smoothing his fingers more gently over his skull. “It may have been an accident, but I was responsible for his safety; I should have been paying closer attention. In part it was my fault.”

“And he…forgave you for that?” An accident like that, caused by a slip in Sans’ attention, could probably get him disowned.

“On the contrary, he blamed himself! He blames himself for a great many things and he thinks most of them can’t be helped. I try, I always try to help. What’s infuriating is that he acts as if he doesn’t deserve it. Despite what you may think, there are plenty of times he doesn’t want me around. He shuts down, he pushes me away, he tells me I’m wasting my time.”

Red’s eyelights flicked off.

“Shut up, Sans. I don’t want to discuss it.”

“You idiot! Get away from me!”

“Useless. What a waste of time.”

“I think he’s scared of what might happen if he lets his guard down…Perhaps he thinks I’m not strong enough to face whatever is underneath,” Blue continued. “Perhaps he thinks that if he lets me too close, it will be the thing to drive me away for good. Nevertheless! With time and patience, I know I’ll convince him.”

“But how?! How am I supposed to—I mean, how do you keep trying when it never does any good?”

“It does do some good, I’m sure of it! I keep pushing to help him so he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that I won’t be driven away so easily. Maybe Papy just isn’t ready to show me the good it’s done yet. He has to learn to trust himself before he can trust me, but he can never say that I don’t care about him. I’ll show love to every part of him, even the bad, and it will be an influence for the better. I will break down those barriers!” Blue concluded with a fiercer grin.

A good Sans would never give up on his brother.

“Doesn’t it…suck?” Red ground out, hoping it wouldn’t be interpreted as an admission of weakness. Doesn’t it hurt? “When he shuts you out all the time?”

“Of course. I never said it was an easy task but it’s not within me to accept defeat!” Blue stopped up short then, holding his breath as Papyrus shifted against him. Neither Red nor Blue had been particularly careful about their volume.

After a few moments of adjustment, Stretch settled deeper into his blankets with a sleepy hum of contentment. Blue softened, eyelights aglow with such fondness that Red could almost feel a ripple of it in the air between them. It made his soul turn.

“He’s my only brother. We only have each other in the end. Isn’t that worth the effort?”

_____________________________________

If Red hadn’t been passing his boss’s room at precisely the right moment, he never would have heard it: a string of low, ragged gasps, followed by a rumble that could have been a groan or a growl. Sans grimaced at the sound, already aware of what was happening. Boss never made noise in his sleep unless he was injured, pain slipping through the cracks of his subconscious, or he was fighting a nightmare. Seeing as the last few days had been highly uneventful, it would be the latter.

Welp, that’s his problem. I’m not about to get impaled ’cause he mistakes me for his sleep paralysis demon.

That was habit speaking. Better reasoning caught him a few steps later, slowing him to a halt.

It would be easy to swan off, mind his own business and let Papyrus suffer on his own. It would have been easy to do it years ago too, when Pap was nothing but a scrawny baby bones who couldn’t have done anything about it.

If he hadn’t then, why should he now? It was Boss’s shouts in the morning that often woke him from dark dreams…He could return the favor and feel less indebted to him for it.

It was only fair.

Cursing his newly planted seed of a conscience, Sans pivoted with great difficulty and kicked a foot at the door with a small thump. No answer. He kicked again. The gruff breaths from within quickened.

“…Boss?” he ventured, clearing his throat roughly. “Hey. Boss.” Belatedly he realized that he had no proper excuse ready if Papyrus awoke and asked what he wanted. That might not go over well, but the circumstances were making it hard to focus. Those strangled groans were slowly but surely chipping away his first instinct of self-preservation.

He was definitely going to get impaled. One shot, -9999 damage and his life would be over, all for an attempt to be considerate, but he could hear it now in Papyrus’ voice. There was a scared little brat trapped inside the intimidating commander and that brat clearly still needed a big brother to drag him out of trouble.

Steeled for his impending doom, Sans jostled open the door. “Boss,” he began again as he poked his head in. “You’re makin’ noise, alright? You gotta—Whoa, whoa, whoa, that’s not good—”

Papyrus was a writhing, tangled mess in his blankets, some already torn where his claws had caught. Sweat and magic bled down his face, eye sockets sputtering and smoking in a flurry of colors as he choked for traction to cry out.

“Ngnnh—No, no—stop!”

“Boss?!” Sans stammered, surging forward. Of their own volition his hands got busy, dragging at the blankets to rend them free of Papyrus’ kicking legs. “Bro, hey! It’s okay, it’s just a dream!”

From there it must have only been a few seconds but to Sans it felt like an eternity before Papyrus lurched upright, already scrambling. He didn’t lunge to attack as Sans had expected but recoiled; it was only when he smacked his skull against the wall behind him that he came to a lurching stop.

“I-It’s just me, Pap,” Sans stated cautiously. He wouldn’t have dared use the old nickname under any other circumstances, but it seemed to clear some of the wild haze in his brother’s eyes. It took a beat for him to formulate an appropriate response.

“Get out,” he rasped. It didn’t hold a candle to its usual bite. He was still panting, disoriented. “What are you doing here?”

Which d’you want, an answer or me getting out? “I heard you…Well, I didn’t know if somethin’ was up. Maybe someone…broke in or somethin’, trying to get to you.”

“Oh?” Shoulders shuddering in what could barely be masked as a laugh, Papyrus shook his head minutely. “And what could you do to save me? L-Look at you. You’re not even armed.”

“And look who didn’t even wake up when I barged in here! The big, bad boss could’ve gotten killed in his sleep because he was too busy cryin’ like a—” By the greatest restraint he cut himself off, foreseeing how that would be received, but he’d said enough already.

“Get. Out,” Papyrus snarled, rediscovering vitriol enough for Sans to cringe.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Get out, you fool, this instant, or I’ll—!”

“I’m sorry, okay? I was worried!” That word felt taboo aloud. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright and you weren’t so I stayed to help.”

“There’s nothing you can do here, Sans; as always, you—you prove to be utterly inadequate! Your best course of action will be to close the door behind you.” Judging by the way his chin jutted out, he was clearly expecting that to be the last word.

“…No.” Tossing the blanket’s edge back to the floor, Sans squared up. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” The incredulity that flashed in Pap’s eyes should have cowed him but he had resigned himself to that already at the door. “I’m not just gonna leave you here, all jittery and crunched up against the wall. I can’t leave you like this. You’re not fine and I know if I try to say somethin’ to make it better, I’ll screw it up. Like you said, I always do. So let’s just skip that part where I do it wrong and get to the bit where you tell me what you need. What d’you need to feel better and get back to sleep okay?”

The following silence caught him off guard. Papyrus was never at a loss for further scathing remarks so why was he just staring at him? Moreover, where had his anger gone? He looked smaller without it, less like the Great and Terrible Papyrus and more like…

Papyrus. Red’s only brother. Hunched down, hands fisted into the mattress, micro-tremors trailing down his ribs as he breathed, he looked exhausted.

A minute passed. Maybe it was two.

Sans fidgeted, his nerve failing. “Boss, listen, I—”

“Tea,” he muttered, hooded eyes darting away. “If you really want to make yourself useful.” Sans hadn’t expected his soul to fill his throat at that response; something must have shown in his face, as Papyrus’ next grumble was even quieter. “You’re acting uncharacteristically generous with your work ethic. Why would I pass up this opportunity to make you work in the kitchen for once?”

Sans felt oddly light at the words as he nodded, turning for the door. “Gotcha.” He had never thought this day would come. For once in his life, he saw doing more work as a victory.

If it did some small modicum of good, if it made one miniscule chip in those walls between them, it would be worth the effort.

#undertale #underfell #underswap #fanfiction #sans #sans undertale #fell sans #papyrus #papyrus undertale #fell papyrus #swap sans #swap papyrus #dysfunctional family #angst #feels #emotional baggage #nightmares #brotherly love #blue shares some wisdom #red and edge take baby steps

[flowercrown-bard]

A new us will begin (7/ 11)

word count: 9k

AO3

part 1   / part 2 / part 3  / part 4  / part 5 / part 6 / part 8

Content warning: being overwhelmed by being in a crowd, (implied character death (kind of?))

Geralt stared at him, his mind simultaneously freezing and racing. He didn’t even realise how long he must have just stood there unmoving, until Dandy shifted uncomfortably.

Geralt shook his head to snap out of his stupor.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rougher than intended. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to scare you before. I- “ His fingers twitched, suddenly unsure what to do with himself. “I’m sure you want to leave this place.”

A look of relief flittered over Dandy’s face and he nodded curtly. “Yeah, that would be for the best.”

He shuffled again, the hand that wasn’t holding the cane fiddling with the hem of his doublet. “I… I know you just saved me now, but could you…”

He trailed off, pressing his lips into a thin line. His discomfort was so blatantly obvious that Geralt instinctively took a step back, holding his hands out in front of him out of habit, even though he now knew how nonsensical that gesture was. It was all he could do to show people that he wasn’t a threat to them. It wouldn’t work on Dandy.

“Of course,” Geralt rasped out. “I won’t force my presence on you. I understand that you’re uncomfortable with me after I just –“

He was interrupted by a sharp huff coming from Dandy. “What? No, that’s not – I asked you to stay, didn’t I?”

“I…yes?”

Dandy’s throat visibly bobbed as he swallowed. “Well, you see, the thing is… gods, I can’t believe how stupid I was that I didn’t notice that something was wrong earlier, but I usually don’t really go places alone if I don’t know my way around.” His hand tightened around his cane and his tone became slightly cynical, when he added, “Fillip – if that even was his real name – told me where he was going to take me, but somehow I doubt that’s actually where we are now.”

“Oh.” Geralt blinked, his brows drawing together like storm clouds. Of course. That must have been why Fillip had taken that long and undoubtedly complicated route to get here instead of taking the direct way – so that Dandy wouldn’t be able to just flee and find his way back. “Do you want me to take you home?” Dandy flinched and Geralt cursed himself. “I mean your home.”

An abyss opened up in Geralt’s chest that widened with every second that Dandy hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said softly. “I would go back to the tavern and tell one of your friends to come get you, but I don’t want you to be alone out here. Just in case –“

“Yeah, no, I really don’t want that either.” Dandy gave a strained laugh.

But he didn’t say he wanted to come with Geralt. Not that Geralt could blame him. He took a shaky breath.

“I know you don’t have any reason to trust me. Especially after what just happened.” Geralt clenched his fists to keep them from trembling with fury and left-over terror again. “But I swear on my life, I won’t hurt you. I would rather die than let any harm come to you.”

Dandy’s lips twitched weakly. “That’s quite the declaration for a stranger.”

A stranger. That was all Geralt was, all he was going to be, after the sort of first meeting they had. No one in their right mind would want him to stick around after something like that. It was a wonder Dandy hadn’t already scrambled back to get away from him.

Geralt forced all restrained hurt out of his voice, when he replied, “I had a friend who loved dramatic speeches. He always told me to speak more.”

Dandy let out a surprised laugh. “He sounds like a smart man. You do have a lovely voice. It would be a shame not to use it.”

Geralt’s throat went dry. “He was. A smart man. And the biggest idiot I knew.”

“Oh.” The tension that had slowly ebbed away from Dandy, returned in full force. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Well, I guess he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to let himself get lured away by some charming man, huh?”

It was clear that Dandy was aiming for a joke, but judging from the strain in his voice, he was well aware that he missed by a mile.

Geralt softened. “Yes, actually, he would. You wouldn’t believe how often he got in trouble because of a pretty face – sometimes his own, sometimes other people’s.” His voice took on a more serious note. “But not a single time that he was attacked for it, was his fault. Just as what happened today wasn’t yours. The men who attacked you are to blame and no one else. You’re not stupid for trusting people and if anyone tells you that it’s your own fault if someone tries to take advantage of you, you tell them that they are dead wrong.”

Dandy’s face did something complicated, but then he gave Geralt a crooked smile. “I really have no idea what those men were talking about when they called you a monster. If you ask me, you sound more like a hero. Act like one too.”

Geralt’s heart sped up at those all too familiar words. After years and years of being spat at, being insulted and chased away, hearing words so similar to those Jaskier had always told him, was like rubbing a soothing balm on a wound.

“I’m no hero. Just tried to do the right thing.” He shifted on his feet. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to do the right thing again and bring you home safely. Judging from your clothes, you must be living in the richer part of town?”

Dandy let out a startled laugh. “No. Absolutely not. But I’ll tell Clarisse that you said the costumes she makes look expensive. But I probably should stop wearing them after rehearsals, huh?”

Geralt’s brows shot up. “So you weren’t lying? You really are an actor?”

Dandy’s grin got wider. “I would be offended that you haven’t heard of our troupe, but since you so gallantly saved me, I shall forgive you for now.” He hesitated, his plastered on confidence wavering a little. “But I would appreciate if you could bring me back to the tavern? I just…I’d really like to be with my friends again.”

Geralt led him back without further delay. He didn’t take Dandy’s arm as Fillip had done before, but he made sure to made his footfalls louder and to keep talking so that Dandy would now always know where he was and how to follow him, while his cane moved before him, sometimes catching on irregular cobblestones or the walls of houses.

As they walked, Dandy visibly relaxed, even reciting his big monologue of the play they were going to perform the next day, when Geralt asked about it, more to distract Dandy from any dark thoughts than anything else. He tried his best to follow Dandy as he told him about what it was like being an actor, but most of it was nothing Geralt could find a meaningful reply to.

Dandy didn’t appear bothered by that. In fact, by the time they were close enough that even Dandy could hear the noise coming from the tavern, he looked almost as happy as he had back with his friends.

Despite the terror that had brought them here, Geralt wished he could stay in that moment forever; just the two of them walking together, talking and him being allowed to watch Dandy brighten when Geralt managed to say something the actor deemed funny.

He wished he could stay with him, wished that when they entered the tavern and his friends hugged Dandy close, Geralt could be one of them. But as the red-haired woman from before took Dandy in her arms, the actor began trembling again, a piercing reminder of what had happened. He had been apprehensive of asking Geralt to walk him back, there was no doubt in Geralt’s mind that now that he was surrounded by his friends again, Dandy would want Geralt as far gone as possible.

So Geralt explained what had happened to the redhead, Nadine, as quickly as he could and left Dandy in his friends’ care, without forcing him to say another word to him. Part of it was the selfless need to see Dandy throw off that discomfort from before. The bigger, selfish part of Geralt knew he would break, if he had to listen to Dandy say goodbye to him, final and cutting like a knife.

Still, Geralt didn’t go back to Roach again as he had planned, neither did he search for a cheap inn. He lingered in the shadows near the tavern, making sure no more danger would come near Dandy.

Shortly after Geralt had left the tavern, Dandy and his friends followed, going back to their home, where no harm could to him.

It should have calmed Geralt to know that Dandy was in caring hands and yet he couldn’t banish the worry and the memory of that short terrifying moment when he had thought he might be too late again.

This night, Geralt didn’t get a wink of sleep, patrolling the streets and thinking of how, no matter how briefly, Dandy had seemed to be happy to be in his presence. It was a memory Geralt would treasure when he was out on the Path again, lonely, but comforted by the knowledge that Dandy wasn’t just as alone.

--

Geralt told himself he would stay away, that it would be better for Dandy that way. He had everything he could want. There was no need for a witcher to come in and mess his life up.

And yet, the next evening, Geralt found himself staring at one of the numerous posters he found in the city, impossible to miss, now that he was looking for them. Colourful letters and a quickly drawn picture advertised a play. Right front and centre of the rough drawing was a man in a hat, leaning on a cane and giving a roguish smile, teasing Geralt and tempting him to throw caution and reason in the wind and come see him again.

He should resist. No good would come off going to see Dandy again, but Geralt’s feet carried him to the spacious marketplace, as written on the poster, even while his mind told him that he would find nothing but disappointment and hurt if he saw Dandy again.

In his hand, he clutched the hat Dandy had lost in that alley, when he had been hit. Geralt had gone back there, just to see if his attackers were around, and his heart had stuttered when he’d seen the hat lying there on the ground, dirtied and discarded. Without thinking, he had bent down to take it. If nothing else, he should return it to the players. It didn’t even need to be to Dandy directly. He could just go to the woman sitting behind a small desk at the entrance of the marketplace, hand it to her and disappear again.

But he needed to see. He needed to know for sure that Dandy was feeling better. That was the only reason why he went to the woman selling tickets for the play and pulled out one of the precious few coins in his possession.

His stomach nearly growled at the thought alone of how little coin he had left. Watching a play wasn’t an expense he could afford, not if he wanted to be able to eat anything warm and nutritious.

His fist closed around the silver coin and with determined steps, he walked towards the woman.

“One ticket, please.”

The woman looked up at him with a welcoming smile. A smile, that froze on her face when she took him in. Her eyes widened and he could hear her sharp intake of breath.

His jaw clenched. Out of instinct, he hunched his shoulders and tried his best to relax his face, but he was painfully aware of the fact that he couldn’t hide who and what he was. Decades without Jaskier’s songs to soften the public’s opinion hadn’t done the way he was treated and perceived much good.

Pointedly casually, Geralt held out the coin.

He told himself that he didn’t panic when the woman shook her head.

“We won’t take your coin.”

His heart sank. He should go. He should just give her the hat, excuse himself and go. The last thing he needed was to cause a scene.

“It’s as good a coin as anyone else’s.”

He cursed himself even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had known that there was a very real chance that he wouldn’t get to see Dandy again, but being told that he should go when he was so close, was like a punch in the gut.

He could feel more than he saw the people behind him in the line growing impatient, some even starting to whisper to each other in irritation. It wasn’t hard to guess whose side they would be on if Geralt kept insisting to be allowed to pass.

The last thing Dandy needed was Geralt chasing away other audience members with his presence.

An icy chill ran down his spine. Dandy. What if he had asked the rest of his friends to keep him away because he didn’t want Geralt anywhere near him? Yesterday, Geralt had been able to make himself believe that Dandy looking happy around him had been real. Now, he was forced to confront the truth: That the actor had just been relieved that nothing worse had happened and if he had smiled at what Geralt had said, that had likely just happened out of a sense of obligation or fear of what would happen if he pissed Geralt off.

Geralt wouldn’t blame Dandy if he had wanted to make sure that Geralt stayed away from him.

A taken aback “Oh” from the woman in front of him interrupted his grim thoughts. “That’s not what I meant. Of course your coin is just as good. I meant that you don’t have to pay to watch our play.”

Geralt’s brows shot up. He couldn’t have heard this right. “What do you mean?”

The woman tilted her head to the side and eyed him critically, before nodding to herself and leaning closer.

“You’re the one who helped our Dandy yesterday, aren’t you? Nadine told me what happened and said if a man with white hair and…well, she pretty much described you and said if you came by, I shouldn’t make you pay.”

“He’s alright then?” The idea of a witcher being allowed entrance anywhere without pay felt surreal, but the only thing Geralt’s mind latched on was that brief mention of the person he wanted more than anything to be close to again. “Dandy?”

“He’s fine. Thanks to you.” The woman’s lips twitched and she gave Geralt a conspiratorial look, as if he’d have any idea what she wanted to tell him with that. “A bit nervous, though. More so than the usual nerves before a performance. He’s been fidgety all day.”

Geralt’s face fell. “He’s still afraid? Did anyone bother him again?” Is it me he’s afraid of?

The woman waved her hand through the air dismissively. “Oh no. He keeps telling everyone who’s willing to listen, how he has a mysterious protector now.” She winked at Geralt. “But you can ask him about it after the play yourself. Now, not to be rude, but you’re kind of holding up the line.”

Geralt startled. He had almost forgotten about the people waiting impatiently behind him. With one last grateful nod to the woman, he went past her and joined the crowd that was already gathered on the marketplace.

Geralt’s nerves spiked up and his breath started to come short. There were too many people around him. He pushed his way to the back of the crowd, but even there, he was surrounded by chattering, pushing and the smell of sweat that clung to the mass of bodies.

Geralt had avoided crowds for so long that he had almost forgotten how much he hated it. The only thing that had always soothed his mind and had made being in a crowd worth it, had been Jaskier’s hand in his, grounding him, and the smile he would always give him for indulging Jaskier like that.

Only now, he didn’t have Jaskier with him.

Geralt was left to grow more and more anxious, as he tried to focus all of his senses on finding Dandy, but he couldn’t catch so much as a glimpse of him, even as he stared at the colourful wagon that had been converted into a place where actors could hide until they had to make their entrance onto the stage.

Finally, the play began. Geralt perked up, only to sag in disappointment, when it wasn’t Dandy presenting the prologue, but the red-haired woman from the day before. She was good, as were the other actors that soon joined her, but Geralt paid only half-attention to them or the plot, too distracted by trying to spy Dandy somewhere.

He shouldn’t have worried about missing him. As soon as the doors to the wagon opened and Dandy pushed the curtain separating it from the stage to the side with a dramatic flourish, he drew all eyes onto himself.

Geralt couldn’t help but suck in the air sharply, when Dandy strode over the stage, all confidence and cockiness. He navigated the stage perfectly, his cane almost melting into his motions with how self-assured he presented himself. It was clear that he knew his place as well as the other actor’s places like the back of his hand. Nothing was left of the scared man from yesterday, who had been lost and reliant on others to guide him through the labyrinth that was the city. No, the person who was on stage now, was someone completely different. This was who Dandy was meant to be. He commanded the stage, wrapped the audience around his little finger as if it was nothing.

Some of his expressions still looked a little unnatural and he didn’t always look at where the other actor’s eyes were perfectly, but somehow Dandy managed to turn that into a look of arrogance or shy avoidance. It was clear how much he had practiced to perfect this performance and how much he loved playing the cocky pirate captain.

While Jaskier had been able to get any crowd to clap and stomp in rhythm with his songs, Dandy had the gift of making a hush fall over the crowd. Not a single person in the audience dared to risk missing even a second of his performance by talking. Geralt fared no better. He couldn’t have looked away if he had wanted to. He was mesmerised.

And how could he not be? Up there on the stage, Dandy was beautiful, confident and so breathtakingly and unapologetically happy.

A warm and fuzzy feeling spread through Geralt’s chest as he watched, though he winced and felt a spike of guilt shoot up, when he noticed that Dandy did his best to take it easy on his back when he danced through the fight-choreographies or had to bend down.

But even so, there was no doubt that Dandy gave it his all. Even with the hat missing from his costume, he melted into the role of the pirate. So much so that even Geralt found himself invested in the play, and not only for the need to see what exactly it was that Dandy did that he loved so much.

And he could see why he did. The story was enrapturing. A pirate playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse, with constantly changing roles and stakes. He evaded the knight searching for him time and time again, more often than not with a flirty quip on his lips and a wink for the knight before the pirate escaped just in time.

Dandy played the pirate pouring all his heart into it. And with it, he played the audience as easily as a child’s recorder.

When Dandy acted ruthless and lifted his voice to a furious shout, gasps went through the audience. When Dandy spoke softly to the knight in a rare moment of vulnerability, Geralt noticed more than one pair of lovers search for their partner’s hand or share a look. When Dandy tilted the knights chin up with the sword he held in the hand that wasn’t occupied with his holding his cane, Geralt felt an unexpected tingling down the back of his neck and he had to swallow to get himself to stop imagining himself in the knight’s place.

But then the scene shifted and Geralt felt as if a rug was pulled out from under him. The pirate got captured by the knight and thrown into a prison. The set design was only minimalistic and had Geralt been less invested, he might have scoffed at how nothing like an actual prison the stage looked, not without the cagey walls that made you think you were suffocating or the lack of light that made it impossible to tell what time of day it was.

But none of that mattered. Because there Dandy was, cowering on the stage all alone, shackled and trembling all over. In that moment, he looked so damn similar to how he had been yesterday, that it took all of Geralt’s will power to remind himself that Dandy was just acting, that his pain-streaked face was nothing but the mask of the character he played. And yet, Geralt’s heart broke for him and he wanted nothing more than to take Dandy into his arms and hold him close until his tears dried and his gasping breath turned into laughter.

Then the knight appeared on the other side of the prop door, speaking to the pirate through it in a stern and rough voice, but the look on Dandy’s face as the pirate heard the voice and realised he wasn’t alone, made it seem as if the voice was the most beautiful and most comforting thing he had ever heard.

The knight lifted a prop torch. It didn’t shine a real light, but Dandy turned towards it nonetheless, creating the illusion of being gifted with unexpected light in a hopelessly dark place.

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the look of utter bliss and hope on Dandy’s face.

Was this how Yarrow had looked when Geralt had finally given up on remaining silent? Had he looked just as hopeless and broken as Dandy had before, when Geralt had fallen silent again?

And then Dandy spoke up again and Geralt found it impossible to breathe. He knew that monologue. It was the same one Dandy had presented in the most dramatic fashion to Geralt the day before.

It was different today. This was no grandiose speech. It was a desperate plea of a broken man. Dandy knew exactly how to use his voice to pierce the hearts of the audience. People sobbed and held their loved ones’ closer as Dandy spoke now. But Geralt was certain that none of them felt as much in that moment as he did. Not a single person could understand the turmoil of emotion welling up in him at Dandy’s words.

He hadn’t understood yesterday, but now, seeing Dandy in that make-believe cell, it shifted everything, made Geralt feel like he was right next to him, on the other side of a wall, too far away to touch, too stubborn to listen to his pleas.

Because that’s what it was. While yesterday Dandy had made it seem as if his words were playful and tempting, there was now no doubt that he was begging. Begging for the knight to stay with him, to leave his life of glory and righteousness behind and join him on the sea, far away from anyone who put them in shackles or told them that they had to be enemies. He begged for the knight to see him as more than the unwanted criminal that the law painted him as. There was a broken smile on his face, as he said that he knew well enough that there were no dragons to fight out on the sea, but there were leviathans and all kinds of other sea monsters that he needed help fighting. He could use a man who knew how to use his sword. More than that, he could use a friend.

And the knight…the knight remained silent. Geralt felt himself leaning closer to the stage, tense as if readying himself for a fight and terrified of what the answer might be.

Don’t do it! he almost screamed at the actor playing the knight. You will shatter him if you say it!

But he knew what the answer would be, had known it long before the pirate had ever started begging. He had known it, ever since he realised just how close this scene was to the moment he still regretted decades later.

“We’re not friends.”

The knight left and took the light with him, leaving the pirate alone in his cell, awaiting the law’s judgement that he knew wouldn’t let him out of that cell alive. The pirate’s last words, before the knight watched him climb the gallows was, “We could have been friends. In a different life.”

--

Geralt didn’t hear the roaring applause. He didn’t see the actors all coming together onstage to take their bows. It felt as if his head had been stuffed with cotton, muffling the world around him.

All he could think of were those last lines. In a different life.

Did Dandy know? Did he somehow understand who he was and was trying to get a message to Geralt? It wasn’t likely, but the possibility made his heart speed up and sent a tingle of anticipation down his back.

Slowly, the crowd dispersed. Geralt didn’t even notice that he was among the last few who lingered awkwardly while the rest of the audience was already making their way home, until that laughter he had heard the day before reached his ears again. Somewhere backstage, Dandy was joking with his friends again.

Geralt’s throat went dry. He didn’t know what to do. That happened frustratingly often lately. He knew what he wanted to do, what every fibre of his being screamed at him to do. But there was no guarantee Dandy even wanted to meet him again. The chance of him truly knowing who he was to Geralt was too small to sway Geralt’s mind. Who was to say Dandy would want him here if he knew, anyway? Because if Dandy knew, then what exactly would he remember? Dying in Geralt’s arms. Dying alone and sick and waiting for a man who would never come.

And if he didn’t remember? If the play had been pure coincidence? Then Dandy would only know him as a brute who lurked in dark alleys, a man who reminded him of the violence of the day before, and who had shown that he wasn’t above hurting people. He had made Dandy fear for his life while he had had no idea if Geralt was friend or foe. None of that made Geralt appear in any way trustworthy.

Whether Dandy remembered anything of his past lives or not, he had every reason to despise him.

But Geralt actually had a reason to talk to him. If not to spent more time with him, then at least to return the hat to him. It was a weak excuse and he knew it, but the woman at the entrance had implied that he should go see Dandy and she wouldn’t have said that if she believed it could harm Dandy in any way, would she?

Though his heart was pounding against his ribs in time with his mind telling him repeatedly that this was a bad idea, Geralt walked towards the stage, where Nadine was just putting away some props.

Before Geralt could speak up, she lifted her head. A brow rose, not in surprise, but almost looking pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d show up,” she said, not bothering to interrupt her work while she spoke. “I take it you’re looking for Dandy?”

“Unless he doesn’t wish to meet me.” Geralt rubbed his thumb over the nail of his index finger, as big a show of nervousness as he allowed himself. “I don’t want to bother him.”

Nadine faltered and turned to face Geralt fully. Geralt felt oddly vulnerable under her scrutiny. But whatever she was seeing must have satisfied her, for she gave him a small nod of approval.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t be. He’s not helping clean up the stage anyway and as long as he’s busy talking - or doing whatever else takes both your fancy  - with you, at least he won’t be able to bother the rest of us.” Despite her harsh sounding words, her tone was warm and fond. It did something strange to Geralt’s chest to know that Dandy had found himself with friends whom he was comfortable enough with to let them tease him. “He’s behind the stage, you can’t miss him.”

Geralt nodded his thanks, but before he could make his way to Dandy, Nadine called after him again, “Don’t touch anything. The props are fragile.” When she caught Geralt’s eye, she added quieter but in a practiced tone of authority and intimidation, “I mean it. Don’t break anything.”

They both knew she wasn’t talking about props. Geralt returned her serious look and inclined his head. This time, when he continued on his way, he wasn’t stopped.

Nadine was right. It was impossible to miss Dandy. He was lounging comfortably on a box while another actor with shoulder-length dark hair tried to shoo him off so they could stow away his props.

The other actor looked up when Geralt came closer, their eyes going wide and darting between Geralt and Dandy.

“Oh,” they said awkwardly. “I, uh, I guess I can put my stuff away later. I’ll leave you to it.”

With that, they hurried away. Dandy let out a cheerful laugh and swung his legs back and forth, making dull thuds whenever his feel hit the box.

He didn’t seem to notice that he wasn’t alone.

“Dandy?”

Dandy startled and his one hand tightened around his cane. “Uh, who are you?”

Geralt clenched his jaw. “Fuck. I’m sorry, I forgot – I’m Geralt.”

Dandy stared blankly ahead, the fingers of his free hand drumming a nervous pattern on the box.

“Ah, pleasure to meet you.” A pause. Dandy tilted his head. “Judging from how Mika left, you’re either very intimidating or someone I should probably know.”

Geralt coughed uncomfortably. “To be honest, I’m not sure which one it is either.”

Dandy let out a quiet laugh and leaned back. “So mysterious. You want me to guess? Because I’m warning you, I’m not very good at guessing games.”

“We met yesterday. After…I’m the one who brought you back to the tavern.”

The change in Dandy was instantaneous. As quick as lightning, he jumped up, his teasing and the hint of weariness gone and replaced with a buzzing excitement.

“It’s you! I can’t believe you’re here!” The smile on his face wasn’t as big as Jaskier’s would have been, but the happiness in his voice was brighter than anything Geralt had ever heard before. “Really, I should have guessed it was you. No one else can move that silently.” He huffed. “You’ll have to work on that, if you don’t want me to startle every time you appear.”

Something warm tingled to life in Geralt. Every time. It couldn’t just be Geralt’s foolishly hopeful heart that made those words sound as if Dandy wanted him to come see him again after this, could it?

“Or when you disappear for that matter.” Dandy’s tone shifted into gentle reprimand and he wagged a finger vaguely in Geralt’s direction. “You were gone so quickly yesterday and without saying goodbye too.”

“I’m sorry.” Those words weren’t enough. They didn’t say that Geralt had wanted nothing more than to stay with Dandy, to get to know him, to have Dandy want him there with him. But it was all that his tied tongue allowed him to get out.

Dandy snorted. “You should be.” Amusement snuck into his voice. “I’ll have you know that it was really embarrassing when I stared talking to you, thanking you profusely for saving me, only to have Nadine tell me that you had left an eternity ago. I fear my dignity shall never recover!”

“Not if you keep being that dramatic,” Geralt shot back, before he could stop himself.

He froze, his eyes going wide as he held his breath, awaiting Dandy’s reaction. His slip up that Jaskier would have recognised without difficulty as teasing, must sound like a deadpan insult to anyone else – to Dandy.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said so quickly he nearly stumbled over the word. “I didn’t mean to-“

He was interrupted by a barking laugh coming from Dandy. “Not you too! First my own friends and colleagues tell me I’m too dramatic – can you believe it? Actors telling me I’m too dramatic! – and now even you, Geralt, my hero, are turning against me?”

Geralt shifted his weight, his instinct telling him to deny being a hero, but the way Dandy had said his name made him swallow his words of protest. Instead, he cleared his throat and aimed for something softer with his next words.

“I could make it up to you?”

Dandy’s smile turned into a grin. “Oh? How are you planning to do that? One daring rescue wasn’t enough for you?” His tone became sincere. “Because trust me, I couldn’t ask anything more of you. I owe you my life.”

“No. Trust me, you really don’t.” Geralt forced down the bitterness lacing his words. “No more heroics. But-“ he faltered, looking at the hat in his hand. Standing before Dandy now, made this gesture seem so much more insignificant. “I found your hat. I wanted to return it to you.”

Dandy let out a delighted little noise. “Wait, really?”

“It’s…yeah. I got your hat.”

Geralt waited until Dandy held out his hand to place it in it. Immediately, Dandy went to put it on his head. Geralt snatched his elbow, stopping him. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks when Dandy made a questioning noise.

“Sorry, it’s just. It’s dirty. And the feather is broken. I tried to clean it best I could, but I don’t think you’d want to put it on like that.”

Dandy’s face did something complicated, but then he tugged his arm free and proceeded to put the hat on.

“I couldn’t possibly scorn such a gift,” he said teasingly, but something else was woven into his voice. Something more. “Now, how do I look?”

Geralt wasn’t sure he could speak. The word he croaked was more a strangled noise than the compliment he had intended to give, but it made Dandy’s lips twitch nonetheless.

“First you give me my hat back and now you give me such a lovely and eloquent compliment? Your generosity knows no bounds.” Coming from anyone else, those words would have sounded like a mockery and would have stung Geralt to the core. But from Dandy, they sounded so much like familiar teasing, as if they had known each other forever, that Geralt relaxed. “I wonder…may I be greedy and ask for one more thing?”

Anything.

“Depends,” Geralt said instead, though he was sure Dandy could hear his real answer in the miniscule tremble of his voice. “What are you asking for?”

Dandy’s smile grew wider. “The thing all artists are asking for. A review.”

“Let me guess, in three words or less?”

The words slipped past Geralt’s lips without thinking, but now that they hung between them, his heart sped up and his eyes zeroed in on Dandy, doing their best to see even the most miniscule shift in his expression that showed that he recognised those words, that they meant something to him.

All Dandy did was lift his brows and twirl his cane a little. Geralt told himself he wasn’t disappointed.

“I wouldn’t complain about more words. But three words does sound like something out of a story, so I’ll take it.”

The corner of Geralt’s lips tugged upwards. “They don’t exist.”

For a moment, Dandy was quiet, then he let out an indignant and altogether dramatic groan. “Really? That’s your review? That’s not – how is that even a review?”

Geralt couldn’t stop the soft fondness from welling up in his chest, as he listened to Dandy’s tirade. “I mean, is that a good thing? Do you think it’s terrible? You truly gave me the one review that is just utterly nondescript.”

Geralt hummed with a smile on his lips that he was sure Dandy could hear. “Do you think inaccuracy is a bad thing?”

Dandy scoffed. “Of course not. I’m not writing a history book, am I?”

“Thankfully not. You’d be terrible at that.”

“Are you implying that I’m good at writing plays then?”

Geralt let out a soft huff. “I didn’t say that.”

Dandy shook his head with a grin that was a bit wonky, but that got its point across all the same. This was the most shit eating expression there was.

“No, you can’t take that back. You definitely implied it.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, just for the sake of doing so. “You can’t prove anything.”

“Don’t need to. I played my fair share of shy young lovers. I know what someone sounds like who desperately tries not to sound like they just gave a compliment.”

Geralt grunted. It was strange imagining Dandy playing a shy character who was careful with their words. Then again, Geralt would have given his right hand to have seen that, if only to know what Dandy looked like when he was in love, even if it was only an act.

“I’ll take your silence as defeat. Which I shall graciously accept,” Dandy said and gave an exaggerated bow. “Now, back to ‘they don’t exist’. Because, you know, that’s not a new epiphany. Those characters and scenarios? They aren’t real. Everyone knows that. And that’s the whole point.” Dandy’s voice got louder with excitement and he stood up a little straighter. His fingers twitched, but they didn’t move otherwise. He probably wanted to use wild gestures as he had on stage, but wasn’t sure he wouldn’t accidentally knock something or someone over, now that nothing had its marks and places like it did during the play.

“You see,” Dandy said and leaned forward a little, “the point is they could exist. They start out as a vague spark of inspiration in the writer’s head and then, for just two hours, the theatre makes them real in the hearts of the audience. If we’ve done our job well, it’s going to stay real for a little while after the performance too. But it’s all about what could be and not what really is.”

Geralt’s brows knitted together as he listened to the explanation. It was clear that this was something Dandy had thought about oftentimes before. Listening to him felt like listening to Jaskier explain metre and the importance of key changes. Geralt didn’t understand a word of what he was saying and he wouldn’t be able to give a satisfying reply, but he loved seeing him get so swept up in his excitement nonetheless. Geralt loved it, for the sole reason that he got to see Dandy happy.

Still, Geralt was wrecking his mind for some reply, some way to not let this conversation die down. He clung to the thing that had always gotten Jaskier to light up.

“So, I take it you wouldn’t want me to tell you some real stories of adventures and monsters?”

Dandy’s brows shot up. “Do you have a lot of stories then? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like the storytelling type – oh.” That last word was spoken so softly, so apologetically that something twisted in Geralt’s gut. Dandy’s hand reached out, searching, until it finally found Geralt’s arm. It wandered down until he gently held Geralt’s hand. “Do you know those stories from your friend? The dramatic one, you told me about?”

Geralt’s skin burned where they touched, searing him like a brand. He wanted to never let go.

“From him too. He certainly would have been better at telling them than me. Though less accurate.”

“Then how would you tell those stories? If they are yours to tell.”

“I- what?” An inexplicable sense of unease crept up Geralt’s spine. Something was wrong, though he couldn’t put his fingers on it.

“How do you know of monsters and adventures?”

Geralt’s blood turned to ice. “You don’t know,” he whispered as his eyes widened with the sudden cold realisation.

Dandy titled his head. He looked so trusting, so unassuming. He had trusted the wrong people at least once before.

“What do I not know?”

Geralt pulled his hand back, regretting it almost instantly, but he couldn’t let Dandy feel his hand starting to shake. Dandy’s brows pinched together and he drew back a little.

“Did I say something wrong?” Dandy sounded so painfully concerned and unsure. Of course he would be. He couldn’t know that the eyes looking at him where inhuman, that Geralt wore his scars like Dandy did his costumes and that the hand Dandy had held so gently was the hand of a mutant. “Geralt, are you alri-“

“I’m a witcher.” The words were curt and toneless. He had gone through this so often before – twice with Jaskier and Yarrow – but it never got any easier. The icy fear tearing its claws into his heart never showed mercy.

“A witcher?” Dandy sounded breathless. Then he narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger. “You’re not messing with me, are you? Because if you are, this really isn’t funny.”

“It’s not,” Geralt agreed. “Believe me, I know there’s nothing funny about this.”

Dandy’s face became unreadable. “Geralt…of Rivia?”

Geralt made an affirmative humming sound. He couldn’t bring himself to form words again.

Dandy let out a short laugh and rubbed his free hand over his face. “I can’t believe it. All my life, I don’t meet a single witcher and now… here were are.” His lips twitched into a smile, before a frown overtook his features again.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt finally said through clenched teeth. “I shouldn’t have come. I should have told you earlier.”

“No! I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s just. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect you...to be you. My tutor told me about you - all those ancient stories about the White Wolf- but I never thought I’d actually get to meet you.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I need to think about this some more.”

Geralt’s heart sank. He had dealt with too many nobles not to recognise a dismissal if he heard one. Dandy had nothing to think about and even if he did, there was no doubt what his conclusion would be. Geralt wouldn’t get to see Dandy again.

“I understand.” Lips pressed into a thin line that barely resembled a smile, Geralt turned. “Goodbye, Dandy.”

“Wait!” Dandy called out. “You promised me stories. You will come back tomorrow to tell me some, won’t you?”

He sounded so hopeful that Geralt froze.

Dandy’s cane slid over the floor as the actor took some steps towards him. “And I know my performance today was good, but you should see me act while I’m wearing the full costume.” He gestured to the hat. He moved quicker than before, his voice almost desperate. “You’ll come back? You…Geralt? Are you even still there?”

Geralt stifled a curse. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “I’m here. Forgot to move louder.” He swallowed. “Are you sure you want me to come back? I won’t hurt you if you don’t -”

“I am.” The reply came to fast, it nearly cut Geralt off.

“Then I’ll will.” Speaking the words out loud, giving this promise, lifted a weight off his chest. He huffed, as he picked up Dandy’s flimsy excuse. “I wouldn’t want to miss your best performance.”

He took another couple of steps away, this time making sure they would be audible, before he stopped again, half turning back to Dandy and said, “I would have wanted them to become friends. The pirate and the knight.”

Dandy smiled weaky at the floor. “Yeah, me too.”

“You wrote the play, didn’t you? Why didn’t you give them a happy ending?”

Dandy shrugged. “I don’t know. I wanted to. But it didn’t feel right.”

“I didn’t know the play would be a tragedy.”

Dandy tightened his grip on the cane. “Would you not have watched it if you had known?”

Geralt was quiet for a long time, taking in every part of Dandy. His hair that was so much longer than Jaskier’s had ever been. His clothes that were more expensive than Yarrow’s had likely been. His eyes that were the same blue as the eyes of the man he had loved and lost.

“Yes, I would have.” He hesitated. “But I would have still hoped they would get the ending they deserved.”

Dandy’s posture relaxed. “Maybe I’ll convince Nadine to let me write a sequel one day. And then they get to be friends.”

“I’d like that,” Geralt said hoarsely. “I’d really like that.”

--

“You came back,” Dandy said, dropping the prop dagger with the retractable blade that he’d ben twirling.

“I promised I would.”

“Even though you knew how the play would end?”

“Even so.” It was foolish, but Geralt hoped Dandy somehow knew he was smiling at him, even if he couldn’t see it. “I still like the middle bits. They make it all worth it.”

--

The posters announced the theatre troupe would stay in town for at least another four weeks, before they were to continue their travels and bring their plays to the next city that would have them.

Geralt would know; he’d spent longer than he would like to admit, studying the posters. In a moment of weakness, he had taken one down, folded it and hid it in Yarrow’s sketchbook. The picture of Dandy on the poster wasn’t very detailed, but it was still him and Geralt felt better falling asleep at night, knowing that he had at least this small part of him with him.

The troupe only had a limited repertoire of plays and Geralt had watched them all, multiple times even. He came to every performance, took every chance he could get to see Dandy again.

Whereas he had felt like an intruder at first, it now almost felt like coming home when he went backstage after a performance as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

If anyone had asked him why he kept coming back, he would have said, because he was the only one who would be able to recognise all of Dandy’s attackers, so Dandy would be safer with him around.

Nobody asked. No one even seemed to question for a second why he kept returning. As days turned into a week, the other actors and stagehands waved or nodded at Geralt when they saw him, pointing him in Dandy’s direction without him having to ask first. With time, Geralt even learned that Mika very much wasn’t intimidated by him, as he had thought at first, when he caught Mika teasing Dandy that his admirer had come back and then had the gull to wink at Geralt as Mika left them alone.

When he wasn’t watching the plays or talking with Dandy, Geralt was looking for contracts. It was practically impossible for a witcher to find enough work in one place to earn him the coin to last four weeks there, but he did his best, taking any job he could get. It was worth it, if it meant he’d get to see Dandy again.

Still, he must not have been very good at hiding how little he ate or how much sleep he lacked for wont of well-paying work, for they refused to let him pay to watch the plays, no matter how often he came by.

--

Dandy scooted to the side on the box, leaving space for Geralt to sit down next to him. Mika threw them an unimpressed look, when they were once again forced to take care of their props later, but their expression shifted into something amused and knowing, that made heat rise in Geralt’s cheeks, that he prayed wouldn’t be shown in a treacherous blush.

If it did, at least Dandy wouldn’t know to tease him about it. Not that he needed to. Judging from the small smirk on his face when their thighs pressed together for lack of space, he knew very well what his proximity was doing to Geralt.

Yet, he didn’t voice any of his thoughts out loud, leaving Geralt to wonder just how much he knew, how much he wanted, how much he was willing to accept from Geralt.

So for now, Geralt gave the one thing he knew Dandy would appreciate. Stories.

He tried sticking to the ones Jaskier had written that he still knew by heart, repeating the dramatic lines that were sown into his mind. Dandy would hang on his lips, no matter what adventure he spoke off, but oddly enough, he appeared to prefer it when Geralt spoke of newer contracts told in Geralt’s boring to-the-point manner.

Dandy would lean against him when he told him of blissfully uneventful days, lay his free hand soothingly onto Geralt’s arm when he spoke of failed contracts and clutched his hand tightly in his when Geralt told him about the scars he had gotten.

The warm feeling in his chest grew with every minute he spent with Dandy and with every story the actor told him of his own travels in return. Of the cities the troupe had been to, the courts and beggars they had performed for and how the play about the pirate had actually been the first play Dandy had ever written – at least partially. The most work had still been done by Nadine, who turned out to be the head of the company, though Dandy stage-whispered to Geralt that she was more like a mother to the rest of the troupe.

Geralt loved those moments where it felt as if it was just the two of them, the only other people around, the actors that Dandy trusted and that welcomed Geralt almost as a friend.

He loved it – and he hated it.

Befriending Dandy again, without telling him the truth about what he used to be to Geralt felt like lying. More than once, he almost told him the truth.

But what was he even supposed to say? If he told Dandy that he was the reincarnation of someone Geralt had loved, he would think Geralt mad at best. At the worst, he would be plunged into dread and a crisis of self, leading to his hatred for himself and Geralt.

He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk Dandy losing himself and the life that he loved.

Strangely, Geralt found that the thought of Dandy not remembering his past lives no longer hurt as id had before. Geralt still missed Jaskier and always would, but as he got closer to Dandy, he realised that it was no longer just the bard that Dandy used to be that was important to Geralt, but Dandy himself.

He was the same as Jaskier in some ways, but also different in others. Geralt wanted to find out all the ways in which Dandy was someone else. He wanted to truly know him, as the person he was now. As the friend, Geralt already saw in him, independent of who he had been in his past life.

So Geralt’s mind was constantly racing, trying to find something that would make him indispensable for the actor, something he could give to him - more than just stories - that would make him want to keep Geralt around for as long as he could.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to do anything of the sort. Dandy was more than happy to do everything he could, to make Geralt want to stay.

--

The first time Dandy invited Geralt to go for drinks with the rest of the troupe after a show, Geralt was both exhilarated and hesitant to accept the offer.

He knew, as soon as Dandy had asked, that he would be helpless and agree to come with him, but even as they were drinking round after round, Geralt’s mind wouldn’t stop going back to the fact that with every coin he spent so carelessly now, he would have to spend another night sleeping outside the city again and go back to hunting for his own food – if there even were enough animals reckless enough to come close to the city to let themselves be caught by him.

It would be hard, but Dandy leaning into him and putting his arm around him, blabbering happily at him in his adorable drunken state, made it all worth it.

When they parted in the early morning hours, Nadine pulled Geralt to the side. In no uncertain terms, she told him that since he was already spending all of his evenings around the stage, he could just as well help them around it. A pair of strong, helping hands was always appreciated and if Geralt was already there, Dandy wouldn’t annoy the rest of the troupe by senselessly worrying if Geralt would show up again. Of course, Nadine would pay him just the same as she would any other part-time stagehand.

Geralt was sure that it was just the alcohol talking, still he came by the stage earlier that evening and when he did, Nadine was greeting him with an appreciative nod and wasted no time ordering him around.

It was almost too good to be true. Like this, Geralt could afford to keep renting the cheap inn room, he had feared he would lose, and got to see Dandy more than he would have otherwise.

The only downside was that now Geralt didn’t get to sit on the box with him anymore while they talked, but experienced first-hand the annoyance of having Dandy laugh at him while preventing him from doing his work.

Geralt wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other way.

For the first time in far too long, Geralt felt like he was well and truly happy.

If he dreamed hard enough, he could almost make himself believe that life would stay like this.

#reincarnation au #sorry i forgot to post this on here #geraskier #geraltxjaskier #jaskier #witcher #fic #fanfic #witcher fic #my writing #geralt