#between this stubborn cold and art block it's been. well it's been a time.

[egophiliac]

popping back in for a couple seconds, because I am obsessed with these two throwaway characters from the last new year's bit. I need to know more about this fancy overdramatic theater kid and IT nerdling's more-likely-than-you'd-think friendship.

(brb, building an entire mental headcanon around these random characters who will literally never appear again. they have a whole sitcom together...in my heart.)

#art #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland spoilers #...i mean. barely. but just in case. #sam's new year sale 2024 #sorry for being...even less around than usual #between this stubborn cold and art block it's been. well it's been a time. #and then these forgettable one-off characters who exist for the sake of a joke showed up... #this is the first time i've actually felt like drawing in the past few days and i'm not going to question it

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK Extended Cut: CHAPTER 2

another bonus chapter to fill in the time between now and chapter 12!! this time featuring midna and fi, bonding over shared worries and shared joys. they are besties :3 this one is casual but still a lot of fun i think. around 5k words under the cut! enjoy!

ao3 mirror HERE!

Midna awoke to the sound of late afternoon bustle outside her tent. Immediately she was greeted with the stubborn burning of the aftermath from almost two weeks before. The scarring on her neck tugged with each breath — now without their stifling bandages, but insistent on bothering her nonetheless. For a moment, she allowed herself to sigh deeply, feeling the tepid air rush into her lungs as she closed her eyes, and lazily fluttering her eyelids back open as it left her. The ceiling of her tent was pitch black, shrouding the inside of her dwelling in the same shade, save for some endearing salt lamps gifted to her by the Gerudo refugees. Mere days ago, they arrived at the Eldin border in droves, having trekked from their desert home and across Hyrule Field to plead for safety with the Princess. Zelda, eager to receive any help, and offer any shelter that could be exchanged in these trying times, welcomed them with open arms. As she had done for every people that came knocking on the castle walls.

The thought of those women scattered through their camp, and how she’d fought for their safety, suddenly snapped her into panicked realization. She quickly looked to her side, before the icy chill of fear could sweat down her back, to find her Fused Shadow placed by her bedside. That loyal helmet proudly displayed itself there, its stone-hewn eye watching over her as she slept. She exhaled, the tension building up leaving her with that very same breath. Just looking upon it made her trace her fingers gently over the bubbly flesh of the scar that now spanned from her upper lip to her cheekbone. If it hadn’t been for her helmet deflecting most of Ghirahim’s knives, that encounter would certainly have cost her a lot more than bits of skin. The camp was safe, for now, but such a priceless artifact could tempt even the purest of souls into getting sticky-fingered. 

Just as she was starting to drift off again, the sound of a chime twinkled through the air outside her tent. One of her guards, who was hushing in idle conversation with her colleague just earlier, announced a visitor. Midna welcomed them in.

A presence, or rather, a lack thereof, gently parted the curtain of her tent. Purple, wing-like flowing drapery peeked past the dark blue fabric. Soundlessly floating inside, the curtain fell back into place again, blocking out the flash of outside light that overpowered the gentle glow of the tapestries for just a moment. Herself now shining a luminescent blue, Fi, Spirit of the Master Sword, had entered.

Midna gave a crooked smile with only the right half of her face. It must have looked a bit strange, but with the scabbed-over gashes pulling at the skin on her face, she took up the habit. “On sick call again, huh?”

A soft sound of chimes emanated from her as she hovered closer to the bed, looking down at her with her big, glazed-over eyes. “Greetings, Princess Midna,” she said. “Your scarring looks favorable. I foresee a 79% chance of your recovery.”

The Twilight Princess snickered a bit solemnly in response and cocked a brow at her. “That’s funny. Yesterday you said 81%.”

Fi did not respond. Her pale expression did not change, but her head tipped slightly downward, avoiding her gaze. It seemed that even the cold and calculating weapon of the Goddess was familiar with the delicate art of lip service. Midna knew very well that she did not look all too good. Her cursed form aside, Ghirahim and Zant had done quite a number on her in their last battle. Demon Blade Ghirahim, with his devious tricks, tainted her face with a barrage of daggers. To make matters worse, that worm of a Usurper managed to leave her with broken ribs and a nasty concussion. Much to her wounded pride, Princess Zelda forbade her to even set foot outside her tent, with her grocery list of injuries. 

The loophole of “I don’t walk, I float,” didn’t do her any favors, either.

So here she lied, every day, condemned to bed rest. Her sole fortune was the frequent visits she got from her fellow lieutenants. She knew none of these people — not truly — except for the young girl they had enlisted as a mage and scout. Little Agitha, one Princess to another, dropped by every other evening for tea, to prattle off about some little insect she’d found in the fields to her ‘Miss Kitty’. Something about it made her nostalgic for a time she shouldn’t be too keen to look back on.

One unexpected comrade she found, was Fi. Technically, the two had traveled together once before, they simply weren’t aware of the fact at the time. To see the mighty Master Sword now hovering by her bedside, her statue-like face in the approximation of a pout, was as jarring as it was endearing.

“You’re just trying to make me feel better, I get it,” Midna sighed, her expression softening. She reached out with her tiny, clawed hand, waving it at Fi’s wing. “Hey. Why don’t you come sit with me? Let’s talk.”

Fi glanced down at her hand, tracking its motions until it slumped onto the mattress. For a moment, Midna thought her request had fallen on deaf ears until the sword spirit twirled in place, and weightlessly sat down on the mattress, like a feather touching down on water. 

“What do you wish to discuss, Your Grace?” Fi inquired, tipping her head to look down at her.

Midna snickered, batting playfully at the cloak that now draped on her mattress within reach. “First things first, drop the formalities. When it’s you and me, I’m just Midna.”

A pause. Fi turned her head to look out in front of her, as if processing something, and then turned back to her. “As you wish. Midna, what shall we talk about?”

So she had to compute that real quick, first? How amusing the sight was, to see a data input happening in real-time, with a real-life automaton. Though the Twilight Realm was filled with pseudo-conscious machines, none were as sophisticated as Fi. Curious, given her thousands of years lagging behind her own time. Or maybe she was not truly a machine at all..? Thinking about it, Midna realized she knew very little about the workings of the sword spirit sitting by her. 

“… Tell me how you met your Link and Zelda,” she asked, looking up at her with a smile. “We have that much in common, right?”

Fi met her smile with her own, though hers was gentle. Timid, almost, uncertain like butterflies deciding upon a flower to perch on. “The art of storytelling in a way that is pleasing to you was not bestowed upon me my design, but I will relay our tale to you to the best of my ability.”

Fi recounted her stories in greatest scrutiny, speaking on and on about scorching arachnids beneath the volcanoes, endless spans of sand wastes, and ships lost at sea. Glassy eyes turned to the black fabric of her tent, she prattled on for what must have been an hour. Still, Midna found herself not minding in the slightest, and simply curled up against her pillow. As contented as she could be, at least, straining against the pressure of her injuries. With the scenes she described almost projecting from her eyes and onto the cloth before her, the peculiar way Fi viewed the world was evident in how she spoke of it. Incredibly specific attributes were carefully logged in her mind, treating every little environmental detail with the same weight as she would the many riveting battles.

“The entrance gate to the next room was forged of steel with curious properties, resisting temperatures of at least 1.100° Celsius…”

As she spoke, the Hyrule of Old seemed as familiar as it seemed strange. Midna knew of the Eldin Volcano, of Faron Woods, but not of the ancient structures she described. 

“A humanoid cephalopod, defying any known taxonomies through its leg-count of approximately thirty-six…”

Fi spoke as though reciting a captain’s logbook, or the research notes of a long-lost scholar. Youthful as she may have seemed, with a face no older than that of a girl in the springtide of her life, her way of speaking betrayed wisdom as old as time itself. Whereas others spun their yarns into warm, if not slightly sloppy scarves, losing stitches and weaving in colors for the flair of it all, Fi constructed a veritable tapestry. 

“… decorated with a central votive statue of a human, deconstructed into a head, torso, and four arms. Its frescoes consisted of patterns depicting the Nymphaea genus, which grew throughout the central pool…”

Such methodical recollections continued on and on, but her tone changed entirely when speaking of the people she’d met along the way. Fi understood material properties, and the angular features of architecture, but in her centuries of isolation, she didn’t come to understand the complexities of mortal lives. But instead of surface-level analyses, when she told Midna about those candid little anecdotes, she described their words and expressions with careful fondness. As if uncertain of what to do with it, or waiting for permission, she cradled and cherished that feeling of friendship as if her very speaking of them could turn those memories to dust. 

As she got to her tale’s end, she turned to Midna again, as if physically shutting out one part of her mind, and turning to the next. It was subtle, but her expression changed, then, a warmth cast over her sapphire complexion. 

“… And as we stood before the Gate of Time, I realized that our mission had come to an end. I said my goodbyes then, to our Link, our Zelda, and parted from them as their Servant. I am certain, however, that I have stayed with them as their friend, even if only in memory.”

Almost exhausted by this extensive tale, Midna cocked her head, meeting that innocent face with a smile. Fi looked back at her, a touch puzzled, as if thinking she’d missed out on some sort of joke. Assuringly, Midna reached out to pat her on the tip of her cloth wing, but retracted soon after the bruising nagged in her ribs. 

Such a veritable tale, with all its twists and bends, yet its fateful, epic ending. A journey crossing continents and threads of time to meet one noble goal, and sealed with the dawn of Hyrule itself. With all the chaos and gloom she herself had endured, something troubling bubbled up in her.

“Honestly,” Midna sighed, resting her head on her hand. “The way you describe your journey makes it sound all clean and plotted out. Completely destined to happen the way it did, yeah? It makes my own journey seem so messy in hindsight. Even stumbling into Link was more of a chance encounter, if anything!”

Fi looked at her once again a little confused, but soon her posture straightened. “Our own quest was not without its perils. You may be mistaken. Simply because it did not appear like it at the time, does not mean the Goddesses did not smile upon you in your efforts to save Hyrule.”

Midna nodded a bit absentmindedly at her words. She wondered if indeed, those residing in the Sacred Realm had any hand in delivering her resolution to her. Would They be so bold, after Their descendants cast her very people into their own prison? Somewhere, she wanted to be convinced that the peace and tranquility the Twili had built there was their own making, even if she herself carried no grudge toward the Golden Goddesses. Fi’s words, forged by Hylia Herself, knitted themselves into unease in the back of her mind.

Right as she was getting lost in thought, the Sword Spirit continued to speak. “… And, even if it was not destiny… The Hero always needs a friend, and I believe you to be a fine choice for a companion, indeed. He was fortunate to have met you.”

Midna found herself tongue-tied for a moment. Even as she spoke, Fi did not part her confronting, azure gaze from her, and she grasped onto it with her own wide-eyed stare. Her words bloomed into a warmth in her stomach, spreading to behind her collarbones, tickling up to her cheeks that split into a wide, toothy grin. A laugh escaped her. 

“Right you are! That idiot would have been toast if it weren’t for me,” she cackled, humming and examining her nails with a smug glee.

Something inexplicable crossed Fi’s expression. Something made the polished surface of her eyes turbulent like the ocean itself, but the emotion lurking between those deep blue mirrors remained but a vague shadow. At least, until she spoke. “I am conflicted. Has Link’s carelessness truly not faded between Cycles?”

Midna scoffed. Faded! What a joke. To decide which of their Links was the most whimsical would have to be decided by coin-flip, and with their luck, the thing would land on its side. “As hare-brained as ever, I’m afraid,” she responded, picking at her teeth with her pinkie nail. Despite her lack of lungs, Fi sighed exasperatedly.

By all means, their merry exchange of pleasantries should have confused the guards outside her tent by now. Fi, by no means, had a reputation of being particularly social, though even Midna had to admit this was for a good reason. It was excessively difficult to smalltalk with her. The sword’s short, matter-of-fact responses essentially fashioned every topic with a ball and chain around the ankle and pushed it off the pier. Still, Midna enjoyed a challenge, and after having dwelled in the realm of queendom for the past years, getting to just chat with someone was a refreshing change of pace. She needed to think about something that wasn’t the crushing burden of war for just a little. By now, Fi had scooted to sit next to her, back to the pillow and one leg swung on the mattress. Her reclining pose was stiff, like a mannequin’s, but this was perhaps her first time ever in a resting position that didn’t involve being embedded in a pedestal. Head rested on the sword spirit’s shoulder, she decided to cut the poor girl some slack, and refrain from commenting.

A yawn escaped her. She was getting drowsy. The dark shrouding her tent reminded her of home; perhaps a little too much so. Such tranquility made (most of) her people mellow, but she wasn’t quite feeling up to heading back to sleep yet. 

She nudged Fi’s waist with the back of her hand.“Actually, can you part the curtain a bit? I want to see what’s going on out there.”

Not turning to look at her, Fi kept her gaze fixed on the opposite wall as she spoke. “Midna, that would be unwise. The sun’s light will impede your recovery.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. So long as I’m out of direct light I’m good to go,” Midna drawled with a wave of the hand. “Besides, it’s almost evening, isn’t it? They don’t call me the Twilight Princess for nothing.”

Fi nodded, raising herself from her seat through sheer defiance of gravity, and bobbed through the air to open the curtain. A pillar of light split the darkness inside the tent into perfect halves, casting colors on the opposite wall, but left the Twilight Princess untouched. The world was already a drowned, pale crimson, dusk settling comfortably as the sun placed itself upon the horizon like a golden helmet. Fi lingered a moment there, peering outside, before curtsying politely at some unseen group outside the tent.

As the sword spirit returned to sit at her bedside, Midna could now see who was lingering out in the camp. Princess Zelda was accompanied by her most fateful knight, Link, discussing pleasantries with King Darunia, who braced a massive hand on her shoulder in sympathy. No matter the incarnation, it seemed the Princess was doomed to be burdened with trials of calamity. Midna almost seemed ashamed to be laying there so casually, within view of the group, but they soon turned to face her. Shame turned to a chilled comfort as Zelda smiled at her, nodding warmly with her hand crossed over her chest. Link and Darunia, unburdened by such formalities, simply grinned and waved cheerfully. Midna found herself mimicking that very same lightheartedness, rather than the royal, dainty wave her advisors back home tried so hard to imprint on her. Even now, that blond goofball sparked silliness within her, no matter how grave their outlook.

Her hand lowered as they turned back to their conversation. She sighed, her hearty smile turning to bittersweet somberness. “… Hey, Fi. When you look at them, what goes through your head?” Midna asked, speaking without taking her eyes off the group outside. “You’ve been through a lot with them, too, back in your world. Don’t you feel weird around them? It’s them, but… It’s not.”

Fi’s peering at their old, yet new friends, did not linger. Instead, she turned straight to look at her. “What I think of them is not relevant. It is my duty to aid them,” she said. Something about the cold tone in her voice made Midna’s eyelid twitch. After spending all that time telling her about her adventures, did truly nothing strike her, ripped into this strange future world as they were? To be confronted with those same voices, those same smiles, yet to see not a blink of recognition in return?

“It is relevant!” Midna snapped, but quickly faltered. Stonefaced as ever, Fi did not even flinch at the raising of her voice, yet something in the way she stared back at her made guilt drop into her gut like a lead ball. “… I’m sorry. I just want to hear what you have to say. There’s nobody else who can hear me out.”

For a while, Fi was silent and averted her gaze. Figures, Midna thought. Recollecting details from her journey in her own verbose and analytical way suited the Sword Spirit fine, but to ask her opinion on a social matter… From what she’d told her, her Link was her only conversational partner in thousands of years. Maybe it wasn’t right to assume she was comfortable talking about those kinds of things yet. A little remorseful, and about to retract her offer, Midna looked up at her, only to realize just what it was Fi was peering at so intensely.

She had her eyes right on the Fused Shadow.

With her lips curved into a gentle smile, Fi looked to the helmet for just another moment, before turning to Midna again, seemingly having decided exactly what to say. “They are incarnations. Not exactly the people we knew, but not entirely different, either.” 

Fabric brushed over her fingers. Fi had laid her ‘hand’ on hers. 

“They may not be the same, but they retain some memories. Enough to know that they can trust us, Midna.”

She looked at her lap again, her blank expression cracking just a touch. Whatever thoughts and observations she had in mind, she was weighing them off with great care. “When I last saw the Princess, I… Cannot say I am sure, but all her vital signs pointed to a deep worry. She cares for you, Midna. She is not your Zelda, and he is not your Link, but they will fight with you. In this War Across the Ages, nothing is more important.”

Finally, Fi sat up straight, and her wing retracted from her hand. “That is all I have to say.”

At a loss for words once again, Midna stared at her companion, mouth slightly agape. It wasn’t simply the information she’s dropped on her — the incarnations, the retained memories — it was the implication. She didn’t realize how she needed to hear from someone else that something was wrong, that it wasn’t the same, and that there was a disconnect. She didn’t realize how she wanted the comfort of being trusted by those descendants of her dear friends, and how they thought of her fondly despite being near perfect strangers. Above all, she didn’t realize how much she wanted to hear it from Fi, of all people. If even a tool, forged specifically for the mission she undertook, could feel conflicted, yet finally, comforted, by all this, then…

“… Fi?”

Fi’s eyes widened somewhat, having not even flinched for all the time Midna spent staring at her. “Yes?”

Midna sat up slightly, wincing at the slight ache it brought to her ribs, and settled somewhat gravely. “When you get back to your own time, can you do me a favor?”

“That depends on my ability to fulfill your request,” Fi replied, as bluntly as she expected she would.

“Before you return to your slumber inside the Master Sword, or whatever,” she began, fingers curling together in her lap as she sought the right words. “Can you just… Go see your Link and Zelda? Just to see what they’re up to now, and to say goodbye again,” Midna offered, smiling somewhat bittersweetly.

Once again, the intricacies of sentimentality were lost on Fi. Her blank expression was once again truly empty, a state she reverted to whenever her comprehension of mortal matters failed her. “… I apologize. I fail to comprehend your request. I have said my farewells to the Chosen Hero and Incarnated Goddess already, before my reawakening. Furthermore, I do not see how this benefits you. You would not be there to see it.”

“The favor isn’t to benefit me, it’s for you. After all this, you’re going to want to go see them. Trust me.”

Fi cocked her head curiously. That empty expression brought Midna to frustration – or rather, desperation. The weight of being tossed through time and confronted with her friends under threat of the very same force tore at her foundations, and her many walls crumbled. Hiding herself from those incarnations outside behind Fi’s veils, she felt choked by her yearning for her old friends. If she could not, then maybe…

“… Fi, you can go do something that I have no hope of doing ever again. When I crossed into the Realm of Light, the worlds we loved withered before our very eyes. Zelda, Link, and I, we all gave our lives for one another to save it,” Midna started, her hand insistently clutching the fabric of Fi’s wing, as if she could squeeze the understanding into her through her fingers alone. Her voice faltered. “Now, I can never see either of them ever again, and if I were to try to, I’d just risk another maniac like Zant trying to cross over to hurt them and their land. So I beg of you. Please fulfill my wish in my stead. You’ll be glad you did it.”

Fi stared at her wordlessly, empty eyes not parting from hers, until they were no longer empty at all. Instead, that glossy blue suddenly seemed all-encompassing. Midna could only break away from the contact when a light, fluttering feeling cast down upon her hands, and she glanced down to see Fi had placed her other wing to cover hers. A shadow loomed over her, and she looked up at the sword spirit again, who had leaned in with a nod. For the first time, she almost looked somber as she spoke. 

“I understand.”

The room grew quiet. For the past hour, the air was stirred by the constant flow of words, making it feel all the more stagnant when silence did fall. Curiously, Fi also seemed bothered by the tension left by the heavy words they’d just exchanged, and rose from her seat. Fearing she would leave, Midna stammered for a moment, about to extend her hand to halt her, until she noticed Fi simply floated across the tent, idly observing the various knick-knacks she’d displayed around the place. Did boredom make her a touch nervous? 

Midna took the opportunity to reel her back in and relieve her from her shared antsiness. “… So what were you planning to do when you get back otherwise? Just head straight back to sleep?”

Attention captured immediately, Fi hummed thoughtfully, staring down at the floor. She appeared almost giddy, like an adventurous child plotting to sneak away to do something they hadn’t the permission to do. The sight of it almost made Midna want to bully her a bit. “When I turned to my slumber without end, the plans to settle the Hylians back on the surface were not yet underway. If I return, the progress on this development would be fruitful for my logbook, indeed. Though, its proper chronicling will have to be left to the Hylians themselves…”

Midna scoffed and waved her hand. “Oh, don’t be silly with your ‘if’s. You’re the spirit of the Master Sword, you’ll be fine.”

“Indeed. As the Master Sword, I shall prevail,” Fi nodded. She turned fully back to her now, hovering at the foot of her bed. Staring down at her like this, the sheer nobility of that metallic being stirred a feeling of awe inside her. With the rays of the sun shrouding her in a golden veil, Fi truly looked then like the ancient, wisened being that she managed to hide behind a youthful countenance and an odd speech pattern. “The root of my uncertainty lies not with myself, but with our allies. Even if I live on, were we to lose Lana, I would be trapped in this time. As would you.”

Still, one arcane being wouldn’t be moonstruck by another just like that. She leaned her cheek on her hand, considering her words. Lana… She ought to have more words with that woman. It was that blue-haired mage that assisted her in doing away with the then-revived Zant, back when the Twilight Realm was freshly ripped into this future world. That baseline of trust could use some expanding upon. “… I see. You got it all plotted out, don’t you?”

“Indeed. Our chances are not hopeless, but they seem to dwindle with every battle.”

Midna looked up at her and frowned. Once again, the people she swore to protect were dropping like flies, and once again, she was powerless to do anything against it. “… Yeah, and here I am, laying in bed. Doing nothing at all!”

Fi leaned closer to her, face blank, yet her sheer energy buzzed with something stern. “You are recovering. Without your full strength, you would simply perish. Focus on your rest, and join us again at the battlefield at your full potential.”

For a moment, Midna pouted, her fang protruding defiantly from her lips. But then, she peered back into the eyes that hovered so close to hers, and she realized something. 

“You’re sounding just like Zelda,” she grinned.

Fi nodded dryly, fully intending to take her words as a compliment at face value. “She is wise beyond her years. I’m honored to be influenced by her.”

Midna let out a laugh, squinting her eyes shut and smacking her hand on the mattress. For just a moment, she could ignore the deep ache that burned through her ribs, completely overshadowed by the fond company of her friend. “Yeah, yeah. Forget I said anything!’

After all the time they’d spent, one giggling, and the other intrigued, eager to understand, yet not fully capable of it, it had to come to an end. The rattle of metal and stomping of feet outside alerted the pair of someone of certain esteem approaching the tent, and indeed, heavy footfall stopped outside the tent, shy of entering through the parted curtain. An imposing shadow was cast inside, but Midna had grown far too familiar with the figure it belonged to, to be even slightly intimidated.

“Lady Midna,” spoke a voice like the cracking of a whip. “May I enter?”

Midna perked up. Impa was inviting herself in. “Oops. That’s your cue, bluebird,” she giggled, fondly patting on the wing that was laid by her. “Our General wants to interrogate me, I’ll bet.”

Fi looked down at the contact, and cocked her head. “I understand,” she spoke with a nod, and slowly levitated to rise. “Then, I wish you luck. May Lady Impa be merciful to you. I thank you for your invitation to converse with me. It was… Fun.”

Though her eyes did not move, the sword spirit’s lips, smooth like polished tourmaline, cracked into a gentle smile.

“Hey, Fi. Before you leave,” Midna interrupted her before she could float away, a hand extended. Fi looked over her shoulder. “Think about what I said, yeah? You won’t regret it.”

Fi nodded. Time and time again, people around camp have hushed whispers about the sword spirit. How she was off-putting and robotic, lacking any kind of emotion. Midna believed not a shred of it. In her own way, Fi told the world how she felt, even if she did so in ways organic beings wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t like she had put up walls for people to break through. Midna was taken aback, then, by how incredibly open Fi was, and how easily the two confided in one another. She just had to know where to look to understand what the odd girl wanted to convey. Between two strange, otherworldly beings, a chord had been struck. Midna was rambunctious and loud, while Fi was decidedly more reserved, but in a way, both wore their hearts on their sleeves. An odd warmth sprang into her chest as she saw the blue spirit glittering in the light of the setting sun, her own sapphire glow drowning out the golden hue cast upon her. The light went straight through her when she looked back at her, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

“I foresee my likelihood of fulfilling your request to be… Favorable. Goodbye, Midna. May you fulfill that 79% percent with strength and grace.”

#beararts #bearwrites #midna #tp midna #fi #fi loz #legend of zelda #tftk #tloz #loz

[astererer]

Romy has a proper ref now hehe info under cut :))

Moved away from her parents in Opelucid to Nacrene City as soon as she was able to in order to pursue a career in art. They have a somewhat strained relationship due to Romy’s choice to live what they consider to be a less traditional lifestyle — they don’t see a future in an art based career, and as soon as they felt she was old enough, pushed for her to get married and start a family. Romy meanwhile has no interest in appeasing them.

Used to go on holidays to Hoenn to visit extended family in Lavaridge Town every summer up until she left home. She’d like to go back on her own at some point, without her parents, but is kind of nervous about doing so. She just misses her grandma…

Most of her team were caught on these holidays — Pepper, Okra, Lettuce and Beets are all from Hoenn, while Taro and Radish were found in Unova.

Day job is selling handmade custom plant pots. This gives her the money to get by and also work on more ambitious sculpting projects in her free time.

Side hobby is raising plants — virtually every room in her home is filled with greenery and flowers. Smells very fresh.

Competent at pokemon battles, attempted the Unovan League as a teenager and managed to get halfway through the E4, but no matter which order she tried them in she couldn’t get past the third fight. Decided to cut her losses and went home to focus on her art instead.

Still battles for fun, but not competitively. Tried the Battle Subway a few times but grew frustrated as she’s never been able to face either Ingo or Emmet on her own.

Aster used to live with her for around a year. At first they didn’t get along too well, and had a not-so-friendly rivalry. Aster would beat Romy every time, and try to offer some constructive criticism which Romy would initially reject out of stubbornness. After trying a suggested strategy out and it working, however, Romy decided to start listening and they gradually began hanging out and got to know each other better. When Aster decided she needed an actual place to stay in rather than going between camping and pokemon centre hopping like before, Romy offered a room.

Zero interest in romantic relationships, but likes sex. Is always upfront about this with people she gets into bed with, as she has no interest in leading people on.

While she enjoys an ongoing arrangement more than one off hookups, she tends to dump people pretty quickly either because she gets bored of them, or they didn’t listen when she said she doesn’t want romance and they try to make things romantic anyway. These tend to be pretty harsh, Romy’s the sort of girl to break things off over text then block all points of contact before the other party has a chance to respond.

Much more loyal towards her friends than people she lets into her bed (sometimes there is an overlap — those individuals do not get the previously mentioned treatment)

Very flippant in her interactions, does not hesitate to casually insult someone if they get on her nerves for any reason. Generally comes across as a bit cold and aloof to people she doesn’t know/care for.

Her flirting tactics are, by extension, pretty low key. Much like a venus flytrap, she’ll wait for someone to approach her first before proceeding to make use of subtle hints via body language, tone of voice, etc. Sometimes she’ll approach first, but usually doesn’t feel the need to. First encounters are intentially shallow, she’ll let you learn more about her when she deems you worth keeping around.

#oc romy #me arts #christ this is long #please pretend the bath and sink sketches do not look like shit lmao

[kinksandkurlsss]

I am ready to make THE request... I was very much tempted to ask for the hate sex kink, but couldn't bring myself to do it because I just love Madara too much.

Hoping this isn't too much, and a HC is fine for me too, here goes:

Uniform fetish (BECAUSE MADARA IN A UNIFORM IS 🥵) + Corruption mixed with a little Worship/Praise and a little size kink or stripping on the side.

💀 KINKTOBER SPECIAL

Madara Uchiha, a known art thief awaiting sentencing, has had a lifelong habit of desiring what others have deemed as unattainable. His next sought prize? A beautiful correctional officer newly assigned night duty on his block, who is just too tempting to ignore... 

Note: For 18+, minors do not interact

(AO3 Link)

You kept your eyes down on your magazine as you felt him staring so intently at your face from behind the bars in the cell just yards from where you were seated.

The wild tendrils of his hair splayed every which direction as he leaned against the wall in the back of his cell, smirking at your stubborn persistence to keep up the charade until the other inmate was set to leave in a few minutes for his bus.

But he was growing impatient as he ogled your frame, his teeth beginning to grit in anticipation, his mind going haywire with the things he would do to you once you were alone tonight.

A known art thief awaiting sentencing, Madara Uchiha had a lifelong habit of desiring what others have deemed as unattainable.

Fernand Léger’s Still Life With Candlestick, Picasso’s Le pigeon aux petits pois…. or the stunning woman charged with maintaining order and enforcing the rules of his and his neighbors’ cells…

The first two were so-called unreachable treasures ... which he’d eventually sold for riches years ago, affording him boundless assets he’d had stashed in a pair of offshore companies in Panama.

And the last one ….

Well … you could say he’d been making progress.

His eyes almost rolled back when he savored a mental replay of the moment you touched his erection through the metal bars last night. Those sweet, hushed sounds you made as your small frame pressed against the cold beams.

His index finger involuntarily rubbed against his orange pants when he recalled how wanton your eyes looked as he tugged your belt slowly to the bars the night before, his gaze locked on yours as he slipped his hands into your pants.

The night was a culmination of weeks of slow building tensions between you two since you were assigned night duty for this block.

He bit his lip when he thought of how doe-eyed you looked when you first arrived. The way you’d tried so hard to avert eye contact with him and the few other inmates that had been moved here.

He’d study how you’d recoil in response to some of the rather obnoxious advances from his tactless neighbors, how they’d whistle at you like some dog, or hurl derogatory nicknames and obscenities in your direction to get your attention.

An amateur’s take on Hunters In The Snow, he thought.

When they finally grew tired of being ignored by you, Madara made his move, taking a slower and more calculated approach.

He’d closely observe the magazines you’d read, how you styled your curls, the little ways you’d try to add personality to the monochrome uniform with accessories.

You surprised him when he first complimented you on your colorful socks, which today were mid-cut and navy with yellow and orange polka dots. “I may actually like these more than the rubber duckie ones,” he’d said, looking down at your ankles.

His voice startled you. It was deep, a low timbre, but smooth like silk. For the first time, you’d made complete eye contact with him for a moment, piquing the Uchiha's interest. You were curious by the sudden remark from the inmate you’d never heard speak up until that point.

Madara smirked now when he recollected the way you turned sharply away from him once more as you returned to your tasks, how your eyes slightly widened when you heard his voice. And how they lingered in his direction later that evening before you left at the end of your shift.

Since then, he’d been slowly courting you using the only means possible in this desolate wasteland they called a prison.

First, he started by paying you specific compliments more often, small praises that weren’t directly tied to your beauty to show he was attentive to your presence, while also throwing in jokes here and there to break the ice.

You both began to develop a rapport while the other inmates were busy playing cards or arguing with each other for much of the day.

The others kept to themselves when you were around as they weren’t too keen to be rejected by you once more, probably due to the new 60-year-old prison tailor shop worker who'd began to develop quite a reputation in recent weeks for her very close inseam measurements … That and having no gag reflex.

All the more lucky for Madara, who more enjoyed playing the long game where the odds were significantly stacked.

And to his aim, as you both grew closer over the weeks, things began to escalate in his preferred direction.

Usually the Uchiha would wait until after you left to change clothes and go to bed. But, every so often, he’d decided to go to bed early.

“Tired from that basketball game earlier,” he’d tell you, before he would turn to change shirts while you were still there.

He grunted silently when he thought now about the first time he saw you staring from the corner of your eye at his chest from beyond the bars, at the same time pretending to read one of the many books and magazines you’d bring to keep yourself busy at slow times of the day.

He had wanted to claim you then and there, and would have if not for this damned cell, he thought as he relished the idea of how your lips would part when his length entered your small frame for the first time.

The mutual attraction between you both became clearer the more his neighboring inmates began to leave to be transported after their sentencings.

And, in the weeks that followed, Madara took advantage of having less eyes around and began to grow more brazen with his advances.

Soon, Madara began to strip completely in front of you. At first, you pretended not to watch from your chair.

But he caught you.

As you unsuccessfully tried to read your magazine now, you pressed your thighs together when you recalled that smug grin he wore as he leaned against the back wall of his cell, his broad, rippled chest and abs bare, his only garment of clothing a small pair of briefs that left little to the imagination.

“I see you, beautiful,” a deep, gruff voice had said from his dark cell then, your face beginning to perspire from how hot he’d made your cheeks flame.

So, you began to watch him more openly, unlocking a door to Pandora’s box as you allowed the reckless art thief to sink his claws into you bit by bit, so long as you could do the same.

At your direction, Madara once cut a small hole in his pocket, which he used to … relieve himself as you’d stare at him, thighs squeezed together in your chair as you fought the urge to join him in his cell.

You were overcome with lust for the Uchiha, whose face began to dominate your mind’s every waking second.

Time, or the lack thereof, only served to add fuel to your yearning for Madara as the inmate was scheduled to leave soon to another facility, just as the others.

Madara knew something was going to happen last night when you turned off the lights early once his sole neighboring inmate in the next cell finally retired to bed.

He felt his pulse begin to race when he heard footsteps slowly approaching his cell instead of leaving through the exit.

You felt Madara’s breath crashing against your forehead as you moved closer to grip the bars.

“He-hey,” you whispered.

“Hello,” he said in a low rumble in the dark.

You thought you could hear your heart beating in your ears somehow as you quickly contemplated whether you were in fact making the worst mistake of your life.

You should go, you decided. Leave before you make a mistake you can’t take back.

But your remaining logic seemed to melt away when you heard his voice cut through the darkness.

“Come a little closer,” he whispered in a husky voice.

You gulped as you closed the remaining inches between you and the cold metal bars. You and the Uchiha stilled when your fingers grazed each other’s for the first time.

It felt as though embers sparked at the first moment of physical contact between you two after weeks upon weeks of anything but.

The sexual tension was palpable as your lips brushed his instinctively between the bars.

The small touch was enough to send ripples throughout the Uchiha’s frame before he hungrily cupped the back of your head to deepen the kiss.

Strapped on time before the next guard’s shift, you both had made do with the constrictions of the metal bars at the time, using your hands to please the other in a last ditch effort to have some much-needed relief for the free ten minutes you had.

A whine slipped from your mouth before it was soon muffled as Madara hastily seized your lips, while he thrust his fingers inside you, his movements sloppy and urgent as he ached for more of you, the first woman whose touch he’d felt in what seemed like ages.

He sucked desperately on your lower lip while dragging his fingers in and out of your slick sex with haste, his large thumb rubbing your sensitive nub while you came.

He gasped at the feel of your warm walls wrapping so tightly around his fingers as you climaxed, awed by the magic of a woman's body he’d swore to never take for granted again once he tasted freedom.

Madara’s grunts were louder than he intended as you stroked his length faster and faster until he began to come in spurts in his pants.

“Gods,” he said in a low timbre now as he stared at you from behind those bars once more, his length squeezing against his boxers for more of that magic.

He thanked every deity he could think of when another group of guards finally came to take away the inmate in the cell next to him now.

You inhaled deeply when your eyes met his after the guards took the other man away to be transferred .

A mixture of shame and longing instantly consumed you, as you locked up the metal door behind them.

His body was rigid all over. His strong jaw tensed entirely as he watched you slowly walk back from the door.

You gulped as your nerves began to uncomfortably tickle you everywhere, juxtaposed by a throbbing between your legs that seemed to hunger for the Uchiha.

You had willingly dug yourself so deeply into a hole. And you could kick yourself for still wanting to go deeper, against your better judgement.

A shudder nuzzled your neck when you saw Madara slowly walk to the edge of the bars just as you approached his cell.

Your breasts rose more pronounced as you inhaled more deeply.

There was an hour left before your shift ended. And after that batch of officers left to transfer the other inmate, you knew you’d be the sole officer standing guard here for a while.

“Come closer,” he said as his hands slightly raised to grip the bars, his knuckles white. He was certain not to push you too far, but just enough to make you meet him the rest of the way.

In three small steps, you were back where you were last night, his lips just inches from yours.

Only, this time, the lights were on.

He waited to touch you, biding his urges until the moment was absolute.

He closed his eyes, robbing himself of his temptation for just a moment to ask, “And what of the cameras—”

“They’re off,” you said faster than you intended, your eager reply quickly drawing the Uchiha’s full attention once more. You looked down barely, beginning to find your clothes uncomfortably tight, “I-I had a new internet service scheduled to come in tomorrow. So … we had to remove the current service.”

Your voice faltered when you felt Madara’s hands smooth along your hips through the bars before slowly tugging them closer again.

“Which, er, means the cameras will be offline until —,” you said, your chin raising as you felt his breaths grow closer from the bars. Like a magnet, his eyes seemed to draw you closer and closer until his lips grazed yours.

“Unti-until mornin—” you tried to say before the art thief’s lips smashed against yours, his large hand cradling your chin as he began to sate himself with your kiss.

You both had only an hour, less than that now, until you were due to leave, and another was scheduled to come in.

“Come inside,” he demanded in a growl against your lips like you’d never heard him.

You paused, your eyes lidded as you looked down briefly to see just how quickly he managed to undo the buttons on your shirt, your lace red bra peeking from just above your camisole, taunting the Uchiha.

“I ca-can’t do that,” you said, looking up at him. “I’m not supposed t—”

“I won’t try anything,” he said, an intense and raw emotion in his eyes as he still clung tightly to your hips from between the bars.

Every bit of rationale inside of you screamed ‘no,’ ‘don’t.’ But as your eyes flicked back and forth between his, something tugged deeply inside of you.

His eyes became glossy as your gaze remained tethered to his while you unlocked the cell.

Your senses heightened immediately upon slipping inside, your heart was racing so fast you thought it would burst from your chest.

Before you could even think about what you’d just done, the Uchiha was before you, his mind still registering you standing here … with him … in his cell.

This moment was no imagination. No drawing or painting.

It was … real.

When you slid your hands to his chest, he gasped as he felt you slowly press your frame against him. His heart began to pound as he cautiously wrapped his arms around you.

“Madara,” you whispered as you brushed the tip of your nose against his cheek.

His fingers pressed tightly against you as he held you, as he smelled your hibiscus shampoo conditioner so strongly for the first time. He knew time was limited, but he felt it impossible to savor this moment.

When he lips took yours this time, you couldn’t help notice how tenderly he held you now.

Something was here. He could feel it. There was something different about you … about how he felt with you.

His broad hands slowly rubbed you back as his kissed you, his gentle caresses like soft tumbling waves on the shore.

As you began to strip away the other’s clothing bit by bit, you and the Uchiha began to gradually move with more urgency.

You wrapped your legs tightly against Madara gripped your thighs, fingers digging in your flesh while you dragged your hands through his hair, as you ravaged his soft, full lips.

He braced his arm against the wall as you reached down between you both to guide his length along your wet folds.

He hissed as he felt the warm juices from your sex begin to cloak his erection.

Madara’s knees threatened to give way before he righted himself as you began to ease down slowly onto his rock hard length.

He cursed as you brought your forehead to his, so overwhelmed by the sensation of his erection being squeezed by your heat.

“You’re so wet,” he groaned.

You clenched your eyes tight as you adjusted to the size, the Uchiha’s nose nuzzled against yours.

“Just a little bit more ... I need it,” he said in a strained voice as his lips brushed across yours. Slowly, he licked your lower lip, a silent ask for more of your soft, pleasant kisses as he filled you.

You dangerously begin to lose track of time as you allow yourself to surrender completely to the sensuous kiss. You didn’t want to think of anything else but him and this moment.

You felt joined to him, not just physically but on a deeper emotional level, a connection that transcended planes.

You moaned into his lips when he slowly began raising your hips up and down, your hands digging into his shoulders as you tried to brace yourself for the sheer intensity of his long thrusts.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cried.

“Your pussy feels fucking am-amazing,” he said, his voice labored.

His lips traveled to your neck as you just as he began to chase the building pleasure inside your core, his teeth gritting as he tilted his head back when you quickened the pace.

You could soon feel your peak approaching as he began to suckle your neck.

“Gods, I can’t believe I’m saying this …” he grunted against your neck.

It took everything for Madara not to come now, his body still tightly wound from months without sex, every part of him vulnerable to your touch. He felt like he could burst any second.

“Fuck, I don’t know if I can hold on much longer,” he said.

Madara grunted when he felt your walls start to tighten around him, his hands pressing hard into your skin as he tried to keep from coming.

“Shit, yo-you’re getting closer,” he said hurriedly, his voice ragged as you began to ride him more wildly.

“You are toooo,” you whined as you began to arch your back, your toes curling as you finally began to meet your sweet, sweet release.

Madara gasped from the sensation, a vein pushed in his neck as his erection began to twitch inside of you.

“Madaraaaa,” you keened as you continued to bounce on his length.

A hoarse rumble built in his throat as he moaned your name as his dam began to break, his breaths shakier with each thrust as his back collapsed against the wall.

You both desperately kissed as you rode out your highs together.

“Come le-leave with me,” Madara said breathily as he held you against him.

Your brows drew together slightly as you struggled to control your breathing.

“Wh-what are you saying?” you whispered, you head lolling lazily as you panted still.

There, in his cell, as he leaned against the wall , tightly holding his new treasure in his arms, the art thief divulged his plans to escape from this place three days from now.

“Will you come with me?” he said, his eyes shining in the light as he awaited your answer.

“I-I, well, this is…” you stammered, an unrestrained smile tugged on your lips, all the while a heaviness seemed to weigh in your throat.

He could never leave behind something so priceless.

#madara #madara uchiha #madara x reader #madara smut #naruto fanfiction #naruto fandom #naruto smut #naruto reader insert #kinktober

[a-n-conrad]

Training (Dr.Strange x Reader)

[Summary: After getting mugged a few nights ago, Dr. Stephen Strange, the sorcerer supreme, decides it’s important to teach you a thing or two. But as you start training with your friend, the two of you realize you might be closer than you originally thought. (She/her pronouns)

Warnings: blood, mentions of an attack, knife mention, swearing, insecurity

Request: From my request survey (https://forms.gle/2XeYLsGekCdFmQjD7)]

You stumbled into the New York Sactum late one night, your clothes dirty and the knees of your pants ripped. Your hands and knees were scraped from falling, a little blood dripping onto your clothes. There was a bit of blood dripping down you neck, too, soaking into your shirt where the blood met the fabric. It was really just sinking in that they had cut you. 

You had been mugged, stopped on the street when you were walking alone by a knife pressed against your neck. And you when tried to fight back, gripping your bag as hard as you could, you were just hurt more. They had cut you just a little before ripping the bag from your hands and shoving you harshly to the ground. You hadn’t even gotten a good enough look at them to give any sort of description. Not that you planned on reporting this to the police anyway. You were friends with a literal superhero. There wasn’t really anything that they could do that Stephen couldn’t. 

You were so tired by the time you made it to the sanctum. Your ankle felt like every step you took was a knife being shoved into the side of your ankle. And you supposed you a bit more of an expert on knife injuries than you were just moments before. You were limping pretty badly as you pushed the doors to the sanctum open. Honestly, you had started regretting putting your phone in your bag ages ago. You really wished that you could’ve just called Stephen to portal you somewhere.

Luckily for you, you didn’t have to try to hunt Stephen down, since he was just walking through the foyer as you stumbled in. He froze a bit when he saw you, his eyes gliding over your body, clocking every single one of your injuries. You wondered if this was how he looked at all of his patients before he worked back when he was a surgeon.

But you knew it wasn’t when the icy professionalism melted away into a warm worry that you knew his old self never really felt. He had been a lot more selfish back then. But he had grown quite a bit since then.

He was by your side in seconds, His hands, though a bit shaky, and not quite as strong as they used to be, were placed on your arms, moving your arm to rest over his shoulders so that he could guide you to one of the antique couches. 

He was gentle with you as he sat you down, almost instantly working on cleaning and examining all of your injuries. He pulled first aid supplies out of seemingly no where, though you didn’t really question it. Lately, magic had become a pretty routine part of your life every time you visited Stephen. He cleaned all of your cuts and scrapes, carefully bandaging them all up. When he reached the one on your neck, his brows furrowed just a little, though he didn’t really say anything. Instead, he just continued his work. 

���Is there anything else that hurts?” He asked, you could tell by his tone that he was holding back from scolding you until he knew that all of your injuries were treated. He knew he could be a bit harsh sometimes, and you knew that he’d rather you at least be fully taken care of before he made you upset enough to try to storm off. And something about that thought made your heart buzz. 

“Just my ankle,” You muttered, “I think I twisted it a little.”

He nodded, still clearly biting his tongue. Almost literally at this point. He moved his hands carefully towards the ankle that you had indicated, slowly moving it, carefully watching for any signs of pain. The skin of his hands was textured in a way you had never felt before, and feeling it brush so carefully against the smooth skin of your ankle made your face heat up a bit.

“You definitely have a sprained ankle,” He stated, pulling compression tape out of thin air to start wrapping your ankle. His hands were still shaky, but there a quite a few things that he could do, because they weren’t even really considered tasks to him. He had done them so many times that with a bit of extra attention he could still do them with a little extra effort, “Now would you like to explain to me what exactly happened?”

“Well, as you know, we live in New York,” You started, causing him to roll his eyes in a way that you were pretty sure he had reserved exclusively for when you made jokes at inappropriate times, “And I got mugged. As you do. In New York.”

“Did no one ever teach you how to handle that situation?” he asked, exasperated, “You’re not supposed to fight back. I can literally just track down your bag and take it back. I have magic.”

“You know that’s not really how that goes with me, Stephen. And it’s not going to change any time soon,” You stated. You had always been much too stubborn for your own good. Which was how you managed to survive being friends with Dr. Stephen Strange.

He rolled his eyes at you yet again, “At least let me teach you a few things if you’re going to insist on getting into trouble.”

Your eyes lit up in seconds, and you could tell that he noticed, “Wait, for real? Are you offering to teach me magic?”

“Well,” It was sort of like you could see the wheels turning in his head. Like he was trying to figure out how to say what he was planning to say without ruining your good mood, “Maybe a little, but I was more thinking martial arts? Knowing you, if you start going around using magic against random petty thieves on the street, you’re going to end up getting in more trouble than all of the Avengers combined.”

You mulled over his words for a few seconds, before deciding that he was right. There were enough superpowered vigilantes in New York City, and they already got into enough trouble. And you knew very well that most of them weren’t as danger-prone as you were, “Fine, I suppose I’ll settle for martial arts.”

- - - - -

It was a few days before your first lesson. Stephen, pulling his “I’m a doctor” card, had insisted that you stay at the sanctum for a bit so that he could make sure that you were healing properly. He had already set up a spare room for you a while ago, considering the amount of times that you had tried to help him fine a certain piece of information in his library and ended up falling asleep on one of the couches at about two in the morning. 

But it really wasn’t long before he cleared you to start your training. You had expected it to take him a lot longer to get around to teaching you anything. Between his studies, teaching the newest apprentices of the mystic arts, and having to constantly ensure that the universe and timeline weren’t going to fall apart any time soon, Stephen was a very busy man. In fact, most of the time that you managed to block out to spend time with him, you were either helping him study, grabbing a quick meal, or helping him tidy up the sanctum. But he actually managed to get around to your first lesson the day after he told you that you were healed enough to go back to your own place. 

It was a chilly Saturday afternoon. The weather was just starting to turn a little cold. Not cold enough to be anything you really needed to worry about, but it was cold enough that you decided to put on a sweatshirt before walking to the sanctum. By the time you got there, your knuckles had started to show a bit of red and your nose was a bit cold. But you managed to ignore it, choosing instead to focus on your excitement to start training with your friend. Your mind had been wandering to how this might go almost constantly for the whole morning. 

You had been thinking about what you would be learning. Stephen had told you that the first thing he was going to teach you was how to use a sling ring. That way perhaps you could just avoid conflict. 

You were definitely fantasizing a little. Imagining things that obviously weren’t going to happen. In your mind you pictured yourself getting it on the first try, revealing yourself as some sort of magical prodigy. You pictured Wong and Stephen praising you, talking to you like you were even a little bit as impressive as a majority of the people that they talked to on a daily basis. Stephen, smiling at you with a smile that you were pretty sure you’ve really only seen in the rare romance movie with good acting, telling you how amazing you were. 

You stopped yourself before you imagined something you couldn’t just write off as needing praise. And in order to prevent your mind from wandering back to where it had been going, you decided to rush just a bit to the sanctum, managing to make it there before you ran out of other thoughts to keep your mind occupied. You took a deep breath, hoping to reset your brain before you opened the doors into the foyer.

Stephen had been waiting the foyer for you. You weren’t sure how long he had been waiting there, but you couldn’t help but smile when you saw him. He gave you a soft smile too. He had been a lot more open with caring about people since he took over the New York Sanctum, though he was still pretty walled off. He had changed a lot, but he was still Stephen, and there were a few things that were never going to change. And something about that, and the fact that you knew him well enough to know that, warmed your heart just a little.

“Alright, there’s a little field in the middle of no where that I portal to when I want to try out new spells sometimes that I think we should probably go there. Just in case,” He explained as you walked up to him. He seemed to be standing taller and the look on his face was one that you recognized from when he was teaching classes. You had to fight a little bit to keep your mind from wandering off to somewhere you didn’t want it to go as his deep, commanding voice reached your ears. He was definitely in teacher mode, and you really couldn’t say you had any reason to complain. Except for the fact that it was a little harder than usual to hide the fact that your face was beginning to heat up.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” You replied, trying your best to hide any sort of unevenness in your voice with your regular cheerfulness. 

- - - - -

It didn’t take more than half an hour of training without results for all of your excitement to fade away. Stephen had tasked you with trying to create a portal back to the foyer. He had gone over how to do it, too. The visualization, the hand motion, everything. And still, you couldn’t manage to summon a portal. 

“God fucking dammit,” You shouted, throwing your hands up into the air. You felt like an idiot. You had just been standing in a field for half an hour, spinning your hand in an attempt to create a doorway of sparks out of thin air. You knew it was possible, too, which was driving you even more insane. What was wrong with you that you couldn’t get this?

“Hey, whoa,” Stephen walked over just as you were about to through the ring in anger, stopping you just in time, “You’re really not doing all that bad. It takes time to get it down. You’ll figure it out.”

He placed one of his hands on your shoulder, the trembling stopping as it pressed against your arm. You could eel your skin heating up under his hand, and you really hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“Yeah, right,” You said, sitting down cross-legged in the plash grass that was surrounded you, “How long did this take you? Five minutes?”

He chuckled, taking a seat next to you. The deep rumble in the back of his throat when he laughed was one of your favorite sounds. It was like a thunderstorm, but specifically a thunderstorm when you were wrapped in a blanket, reading a book that you loved, “Actually, I didn’t figure out how to do this until my mentor abandoned me on Mt. Everest.”

“Wait, really?” The surprise was less about him being abandoned on Everest and more about him not figuring this out right away. He was so talented and learned everything so fast. He was the smartest person you had ever met, and you admired him more than you had ever admired anyone in your life. 

“I know that I get talked up a lot, but I’m really only good at this because of all the reading I do,” He laid back, his cloak wrapping itself around him a bit as he lounged on the ground. You had never seen him like this. Stephen Strange was a man with the weight of the world on his shoulder, gray hairs on the sides of his head well-earned. But as he laid down next to you, sprawled out on the ground among the grass and a few tiny flowers, you felt as though there could never be anything wrong in the world as long as Stephen was beside you. 

“Oh, please,” You flopped back, surprised by how soft the pillow of grass was, “You’re so talented at everything you try. Honestly, Stephen, I can’t think of a single thing you couldn’t do if you put your mind to it.”

“Is that really what you think about me?” a hint of insecurity seeped into his voice, a tone you had never heard from him before. He had always been so unwaveringly confident before.

“Of course it is, Stephen,” You turned a bit to face him. His brows were furrowed as he stared at the sky, clouds reflected in his eyes, “You’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. Honestly, sometimes I feel like you’re so amazing that I’m barely worth your time.”

That last sentence came out pretty sheepishly, quietly enough that for a moment you had the slightest bit of hope that maybe he didn’t hear you. That hope was quickly extinguished, though, as he turned to you, his eyebrows raised as though you had said something entirely unbelievable. 

“Barely worth my time?” He exclaimed, as though I had just insulted him, “If anyone here isn’t worth this time, it’s me. (Y/n), I’ve been such a jerk. I was cruel to you for a good majority of our friendship. I honestly don’t know how you stand me.”

You knew he had been having some self-worth issues since his accident. He had lost everything, or what he thought was everything. But you had never seen the pain so clearly in his eyes before. 

“Stephen, I know you’re not the person you were right after your accident. You’re not even the person you were before it. You’re Dr. Stephen Strange, master of the mystic arts. The savior of the earth more times than I even know about. The only person that ever offered to teach me how to defend myself. The person the patched me up after I got mugged. The person that carries me to my guest bed when I fall asleep in the library,” By the end of the rant, you had realized what you truly meant. 

You had fallen in love with Stephen since he had come back. He had grown so much as a person, changing for the better. And as you got to know this new Stephen, a person that despite still seeming cold and arrogant had learned how much good he was capable of. A person that, for the first time in a long time, remembered what it felt like to do things for others without needing any sort of reward. 

And as you look back to his eyes, which were staring at you, wide with shock, you realized that you couldn’t keep it to yourself much longer, “I love you, Stephen. I love the person you’ve grown to be.”

You really hadn’t realized, but his face was much closer to yours than you expected it to be. You could smell his cologne, a warm scent, like a chai latte from a nice cafe mixed with the smoke that always seemed to cling to his clothes. You could feel his eyes, flickering down to your lips. The world around you felt like it was both slowing down and speeding around you. Like time was irrelevant as you laid there, staring into his crystal clear eyes. 

Finally, the moment broke as he closed the gap between you, his lips softly touching your own. They were softer than you expected them to be, though his beard was a bit rough against your face. It was gentle, caring, and timid. Things that never would have been associated with the old Dr. Strange. 

He went to pull back after a few seconds, though your arms seemed to move without you telling them to. You had been waiting fo this so much longer than you even really knew, you had bottled up these feelings for so long. You pulled him back by the collar of his shirt, pulling his body to hover over your own a bit. It was nearly instinctive, the feeling of needing to be as close to him as you could be. You had been forcing yourself to stay at a distance, and it felt as though that first kiss broke the dam. 

It was a few more moments before you allowed him to pull away again, finally loosening your grip on his clothing. The way he looked at you was something that you were pretty sure you never could’ve imagined, like you were the center of the universe. Like out of all the beautiful things in the world that he had seen, you were the only one he ever wanted to see. 

You were both silent for a few moments, just taking in what had just happened. It took you a few moments to fully take in that it was real. And then a few more moments to convince yourself that this wouldn’t stop being real the second the two of you got up.

“We really should get back to training,” he finally broke the silence, a smirk plastering itself onto his face, “You only got half an hour into a four-hour lesson.”

#marvel #marvel x reader #dr. strange #dr. strange x reader #stephen strange #stephen strange x reader

[starlessskies94]

Consequence (Joel Miller x OC)

Summary: What if Joel survived his injuries from the Abby and Fireflies attack but ends up with really bad amnesia. He can’t remember his wife, Ellie, or the Outbreak; only before. How will his family bring back the man they once knew?Pairing: Joel Miller x OC                                                                                      Note: An update? Could It be? After all this time?...Yes. It is I! I come with a thousand apologies for taking so long to update. I didn't plan for it be so long but with Covid and going back to work during Covid and family stuff, I just haven't had the time but I'm back my lovelies and I really hope this chapter doesn't disappoint :)

Chapter Seven 

Tommy woke up late for the first time in weeks; he didn’t often sleep in but given his late night chasing lost cattle through the town after they’d somehow managed to escape the paddocks; he figured he more than deserved it. Maria had woken him when she made to leave and insisted he stay put while she made a start on the morning checks. She kissed him goodbye and they promised to meet later for lunch together.

The morning air was crisp and fresh as he stepped down onto the path, his jacket zipped tight to fight off the dwindling cold. The snow had long since melted and there were clear telltale signs of Spring fast approaching in Jackson.

And while the cold wasn’t as biting as it had been, there was still the odd chill that needed to be shielded from with a layer or two.

It wouldn’t be long before they were preparing for a new harvest to grow throughout the year. The sacks of seeds and planting equipment appearing all over town as families began to prep the soil and start their planting as the wildflowers poked their heads through the ground to bask in the warming sunlight.

Tommy made his way through the streets heading straight for his brother’s house. It was still hard to believe that it had been a whole two months since Joel’s attack.

Two whole months since his sister in law had lost her husband; his niece, her father. And unfortunately for all of them; it didn’t seem like Joel was making any progress to getting his memories back. He tried to help of course but his brother, being the stubborn grump that he was, had only pushed his younger brother away, insisting he was capable of handling the trauma alone.

He hated seeing his brother struggling, especially when it seemed that some details were coming through. It was little things but it was better than nothing. The only problem was, it was things Joel seemed to dismiss without a second thought.

Tommy honestly believed if Joel focused on them, they’d help process bigger things. Though it certainly hadn’t helped matters that the older Miller had stopped going to his weekly check ups to help his mind improve. The head of the infirmary had voiced her concerns to Tommy a few days earlier. His constant dismissal and disregard for their importance to his slow recovery; not just frustrating the Doctor but also Tommy himself.

He just hoped he could talk some sense into his big brother.

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

He knocked but no answer greeted him as he stepped inside the house. It was quiet but clean. Each room meticulously organised and tidied to within an itch of its life. He figured this was what Joel must have been filling his days with over the past few weeks. The sound of muffled hammering caught his attention, leading him up the stairs to Joel’s workshop room. The door slightly ajar. Tommy had barely entered the room before Joel acknowledged him.  

“What do you want, Tommy?” Joel grunted without even bothering to turn around. Tommy just shrugged silently, his hands awkwardly stuffing into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Well good morning to you too, just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

“As good as I can be I guess.” He muttered as he continued to work, never taking his eyes off the wood in his hands. It felt nice seeing his brother once again taking an interest in an old hobby that he had enjoyed before his injury. It felt like maybe they were finally heading in the right direction. But Tommy had to hold off, he didn’t want to push anymore than was necessary. He knew Joel well enough to know that if you pushed too far; Joel would only push back twice as hard. “Right, sorry... whatcha making?”   Joel hobbled back a little from the table, giving Tommy a better view of the work in question. The long neck and the four legs beginning to take shape made his heart skip. The older man had always had a talent; that was for certain. The horses he made were always magnificent. The wolves and the deer along with any other animal the people of Jackson had asked for; were always made with utmost care. And it seemed this work of art was no different.

“I think I meant for it to be a giraffe before... everything. Figured I might as well finish it. Hell if I know who it was supposed to be for.”

“Ellie.” Tommy whispered.  

“What?”

Tommy took a second for his brain to catch up with his words as he quickly cleared his throat and tried not to fidget too much. “It’s just...uh.. that it’s her birthday in a couple of months and she always liked giraffes, maybe it was meant for her?” He offered nervously. Joel just hummed casually. With a quick dismissive shake of his head and a sigh; he moved the half carved giraffe onto a nearby shelf along with his other unfinished projects. Turning to face his brother, his arm reaching out to grab his cane to steady his balance.

“Yeah, maybe...maybe Ada asked me to make it for her to give to Ellie as a gift.” He wondered out loud, stopping Tommy in his tracks.

“You talked to her?” He asked almost a little too quickly. Causing Joel to frown slightly in response at his brother’s unexplained eagerness.  

“Who Ada? Briefly, why? Am I supposed to know her or something?”

“You guys were...friends I guess…” Tommy replied weakly. He knew he had to be cautious here, baby steps. They were moving into uncharted territory when it came to Ada and Ellie. Joel had only just started to accept the life they had lived in Boston as smugglers and that was before he had even had the courage to bring up the Fireflies. He needed to steer clear of things deeper than that for now  and ease into the conversation he wanted to have. But his patience was starting to run thin. “Look, the reason I came by is because I was talking to Elizabeth and she said you’ve stopped going to your check ups.”  

“Oh not this again Tommy!” Joel snapped, his brother rolling his eyes in frustration as Joel hobbled away from his work space and further towards the door. But Tommy was quick to stop him, stepping in the threshold and blocking Joel’s exit.

“Look I know I don’t understand what you’re going through but-”

“You’re damn right you don’t!” He yelled. "You have no idea what it’s like Tommy; to lose years of your life in an instant. Forget everything you’ve done and the people you used to care about. I don’t see how bitching about how shitty this is to the damn Doctor is going to help!”

“But you’re starting to remember things Joel! That’s a big fucking deal!”

“How?! All I’m remembering is crap no one cares about! How are horse’s names gonna help me? Or how I take my coffee in the morning? I couldn’t even remember holding my little girl in my arms after she was shot! Oh but thank the lord I could remember what colour shirt I was wearing when it happened!!”

With every word Joel got closer, his nostrils flaring in anger as blood continued to boil. But Tommy never backed down, squaring up to his big brother wasn’t unusual and certainly wasn’t the first time they’d been at odds on how to handle something. Joel’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.

“It’s been two months Tommy...two months of this and it ain’t getting better any time soon. This ain’t your problem so just back off!” He hissed between gritted teeth.

“You can’t just push me away Joel, I want to help. I’m trying but you’re just being so damn stubborn.”

“Then leave, I didn’t ask you to babysit me. And I sure as hell don’t need you sticking around outta guilt.” The words stopped Tommy dead.

“What?”

“I might not remember what happened but I know enough from what you told me about Boston...You survived because of me. All those years I took care of us. Just like when we were kids. So what? You feel like you owe me? You gotta take your turn to take care of me now? You can keep it baby brother because I don’t want it. And I didn’t ask for it.” The words spit venom with every ounce of bitterness Joel had in him. And Tommy felt his lip snarl in response. The ungrateful bastard; he thought coldly, after everything he’d done to keep his brother alive on the way back to Jackson after the Fireflies had almost beaten him to death and this was what he had to say in response.

“How do I know the people who did this weren’t after you. I mean they did a pretty good number on you too right? Big brother to the rescue to save your sorry ass; yet again! You think I want to live like this?! Huh?! Trapped in a life of a man I don’t even know. A house full of memories I can’t even goddamn remember!”

That was it, Tommy was done. Joel was frustrated and angry, he knew that. He understood that. Of course he did. But to blame him for this?! How the hell was that fair? His hands shook in pure anger, chest heaving as he held back his punches as much as he could. He stumbled away from the door. His trembling hand reaching up and running through his beard in a poor attempt to calm himself.  

“You know what screw you! Screw you Joel! You wanna give up, you wanna feel sorry for yourself? Fine! I’m done. You give up on your family-”

“Family?! What damn family? There’s no one left Tommy! Sarah is gone!”

“She ain’t the only one you got!” Tommy cut off without thinking. Joel’s face dropping at his brother's outburst. The younger man’s eyes widened in shock as he realised what he’d said. But it was too late to take it back now. And Tommy knew that. They both did. Perhaps now was the time to tell the truth.

“You want to know who your family is Joel? Take a look in your damn attic.”

Tommy uttered the words into the thick silence left between the two men. Before turning on his heel to leave, never giving Joel a chance to answer. Leaving the man to stew in his confession. He just hoped that somehow...Ada could forgive him for this.  

#joel miller #last of us joel #the last of us part 2 #The last of us part ii #ellie williams #joel and ellie #joel x oc #joel x reader #fanfiction #StarlessSkies writes

[moons-and-stars-and-shit]

Hi! I saw your blog cause you reblogged one of my crack ideas on my hq account and I think it’s super cute! Is it possible I can request a cake? I’m curious to see who you’d put me with :)

I have no idea what I’m supposed to put in this, but! My name is Spencer (at least that’s the one I’m trying out rn, but it’s comfy I like it) and I use he/him pronouns. I’m 5’10ish & I currently have black hair that I dye from time to time (probably going to dye it red next). My hair is like...a little past the top of my ears, but it’s an undercut (think Kenma with black hair ig). I have really thin brown eyes (a lot of people think I’m Asian I’m not lol they’re just hooded). I’m not exactly built thin but that’s something I’m ✨insecure✨ about so we’re not gonna get into that lol

Personality wise,,,idk I’m 90% self-deprecating and the other 10% is sarcasm. I’d like to think I’m a pretty creative person although I’m extremely logical. Creativity is more for fun vs logical on a day-to-day basis if that makes sense?

I used to be really athletic but I started doing other things and since then that’s kinda dwindled away. However lately I’ve been trying to kick ✨depression✨ in the ass and get back into being athletic and stuff. I’m learning how to box and a few friends and I want to take up volleyball when it gets warmer. I used to be a soccer player though and I want to start doing that again, too.

A lot of people tell me I’m musically talented. I like to think I am on a good day, I guess (I’m bad about describing myself lol sorry). But I play a little piano and ukulele but I play guitar & sing mostly.

Even though I try not to be I’m super competitive and legit subconsciously turn everything into a competition, but I try to stay lighthearted about it. Even though I come off cold to people when I meet them (RBF + introvert yikes) I really care about my friends and wear my heart on my sleeve even though I try not to show it.

Quick stuff if this isn’t too long already?

Zodiac: Sun-Leo Moon-Virgo Rising-Cancer

MBTI: INPT-T

Asked my friends what colors they’d describe me with & made this:

Favorite anime is either the disastrous life of saiki k or haikyuu!! (leaning towards hq tho)

I don’t have a favorite color but I wear a lot of red and black

Punk/slightly alt style with a lot of graphic tshirts? That’s basically my style

And yeah! I’m sorry if this is really long lol I tend to ramble when I don’t know what to say heh

Spence back again 😅😅 I forgot to attach the pretty color thing my friend told me to make

@spence0112

Hahaaaaaaaa 😅 sorry for the wait but thank you for your patience 😭

Romantic Matchup

Tendou Satori

How Y’all Met

Ight kinda embarrassing

But y’all Met in therapy 🤠

Yup

Group therapy

Legit every time he heard you talk

He was like:

Mood

Felt that

Relatable

So after group he went up to you and was just like

“Hey if you ever need to talk to someone I’m always available!”

And he gave you his digits 😗

Ok fast forward a bit

You we’re having a REALLY bad day

Like the depression was kicking tour ass

And you don’t know why

But you called our boy Tendou

Oop homeboy ZOOMED over to you

He was like do you wanna talk about it

And you said no, you just needed something to take your mind off of your ✨depressive state✨

He remembered you saying something about wanting to learn volleyball

And it was the end of the day... 👀

So he took you to practice with him

It was actually super fun!

He taught you all sorts of moves

And you we’re really impressed by his guest blocking

By the end of practice you felt a lot better

And you actually decided to join the volleyball team

Tendou was super excited to have you as his teammate!

Y’all started to hang out CONSTANTLY

You guys were just super close

So no one was really shocked when you two started dating 👀

They were expecting it actually...

What They Love About You

He loves that he can relate to you

And vice versa

Y’all truly just understand each other

He loves that your willing to battle your depression

It honestly inspires him to kick the rest of his depression in the ass

He loves your style!

He would wear jeans and a t shirt every day if he could

Matching t-shirts 👀 👀 👀

He loves how naturaly caring you are

He can see past the rbf so don’t worry about that

But the fact that you treat people with care and kindness is a plus for him

Favorite Things To Do Together

Ok this could go two ways

Option A is the definition of crackhead things

A lot of midnight shopping trips

A lot of gas station hauls

You get the gist

Or there’s option B

Which Is very chill 🙂

He likes to just stay in and watch anime or read manga with you

So whatever’s more your vibe

But he likes doing both 👀

Random Hc

His favorite anime is Saiki K as well 😗

So that’s the show you two always watch together

You two

Do in fact

Have matching t-shirts

Ahhhh so cute

You guys told your therapy group you were dating 😭

They were surprisingly supportive 👀

Astrology

When Taurus and Leo come together in a love affair, they can be a great couple because they know how to stroke one another’s egos and love to have their own stroked!

They have similar needs: Taurus needs plenty of affection, to be loved and cherished, while Leo likes compliments and wants to be adored and admired.

They’re both extremely loyal and possessive lovers.

Since they have such similar desires, they can generally provide for one another’s needs quite well.

These two Signs both love status and possessions.

They prize physical comfort and luxury; Leo is often flamboyant about attentions and gift-giving, which will greatly please Taurus, who loves the most traditional forms of courtship.

Though they can work together quite well, it’s not all roses between these two; both Signs are very stubborn and must work hard to understand and accept one another.

Overall Aesthetic

2000 Retro

Out of my league - Fitz and the tantrums

Dissolve - Absofacto

Boyfriend - Coin

Wait a minute- Willow

I’m sorry this is just to cute not to add 😭

(NOT MY ART)

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu fandom #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu hcs #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu matchups #tendou #tendou satori #tendou x reader #tendou x y/n

[gravity-lifts]

Who’s Afraid Of Ghosts?

Hello everyone! Here’s my piece for the gvbb mini bang (organized by @grishaversebigbang) 

Here’s some absolutely amazing art by @generalstarkov link and  @emmaxtw link!!!! Also a wonderful edit by @jiangsziyas link!! 

This story is like most of the ghost stories that you’ve heard so far, with the premise having happened in a house just like this one, in a small town of almost the same name. However, that is as far as the similarities go. You see, this one is actually true. It starts on a night like tonight, with a group of friends in a house together, telling stories around the fire. ~~ Sometimes, your friend tells a ghost story so stupid that you just need to prove that nothing bad happens in graveyards at night. Right?

ao3 link here

Fic under the cut warnings: violence, death of a minor character (non canon character) words: 2161

The group sat in a semi circle in the living room, sprawled across couches, chairs and each other, chatting amongst themselves, loud enough to make Zoya actually glad, for the first time, that Liliana wasn’t going to be home that night. She wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation --- she hadn’t really been for a while, more caught up in the flickering of the fire off of her friends as they talked. A shout drew her attention towards where Nikolai was sitting, looking equal parts regal and ridiculous in an armchair. He gestured wildly with his hands, trying to explain something to Tamar and Nadia who both seemed to not quite believe whatever tall tale he was spinning. It was probably just something about the mermaids he swears he’d seen the last time he’d been out boating.

However, as she turned back to the fire, she heard him mention the graveyard. Cursing her needless curiosity, she wandered over to Nikolai’s chair, just in time to hear him rambling about the person’s gory end. So, it was a ghost story, then. She settled in, back resting against his legs, waiting for him to restart with his new audience as Tamar and Nadia shuffled back to the couch and Alina drifted from where she’d been talking with Genya, probably having heard half of Nikolai’s story the first time, looking just as curious as Zoya felt about the beginning of a story that had such a gory end.

Nikolai sat up a bit straighter, his face brightening as he noticed that more people wanted to hear his story. He cleared his throat, and then he began.

“This story is like most of the ghost stories that you’ve heard so far, with the premise having happened in a house just like this one, in a small town of almost the same name. However, that is as far as the similarities go. You see, this one is actually true. It starts on a night like tonight, with a group of friends in a house together, telling stories around the fire. In fact, one of them is telling a ghost story just like this one, a true story of a group of friends all together in a house-”

“Yes yes, this story is true and it’s about true things that happened truthfully, now, what actually happened? I thought this was a scary story, not just one about what we’re doing now,” Zoya cut in, pushing a curl of hair out of her face.

“I’m getting there! Just wait, I promise it’ll be scary. Now, in this story there’s a girl that doesn’t believe the ghost story that is being told. She tells her friends off for being superstitious, for believing in the story that had been told. Now, like I said, this is a true story, a cautionary tale, if you will. And, the story inside the story is just like that as well, about a kid who went to the graveyard after dark, only to be killed, right on the grave. Now, as I said, the girl didn’t believe this story when her friend told it. She believed it to just be a stupid tale meant to scare children much younger than them away from the graveyard before dark, back home to their parents for dinner and bed. She declared that she would go out to the graveyard, to prove that the tale hadn’t been true, promising to leave something of their choice on the centermost grave to show that she had followed through with her plan. And so, she set out, a candle in hand, ready to prove that her friends were all just overreacting over a kids story. Now, this is where the story starts to blur. Some people tell it with a happy ending, one where she runs away, never to be seen again. That, in my humble opinion, is bullshit,” he pauses, seemingly for dramatic effect, the drumming of his fingers on the arm of his chair the only clue that he’s anxious to get to what he clearly thinks of as the important part of the story.

“In the much better version of the story, she goes to the graveyard, brave as can be. She walks to the grave, and sets her candle down, kneeling to light it as she hears footsteps behind her, getting closer with every moment she wastes fumbling with the matches. She stays there until she feels someone's breath on the back of her neck, feels the gentle press of a blade to her back, before it plunges in, then the searing pain took priority over everything else, a knife being twisted before it was withdrawn, leaving her to bleed on the cold graveyard dirt, candle lit at last. 

The next morning, her friends came to find the candle. They were speculating wildly about why she hadn’t returned home the night before, all joking about how she must have met another friend, maybe even a partner, before they stepped inside the cemetery and got their grim answer, in the form of her body, laying in a puddle of what was unmistakably blood, still shielding the candle from the elements.” He leaned back in his chair, pushing a hand through his hair to either straighten it or ruffle it more, Zoya wasn’t completely sure. She was sure, however, that the story was completely untrue.

“So, Nikolai,” she said, standing up from where she’d been sitting on the floor and taking a step towards him. “You’re saying that if I go into a graveyard at night, I’m sure to die? Because, it is night right now, and last I checked, there’s a graveyard only two blocks from here.”

Nikolai sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I suppose you’d like to go alone, as well? Haven’t I just given two examples as to why this isn’t a good idea?”

“Oh come on! You were telling a scary story, those are supposed to be like cautionary tales. Besides, it’s not the same graveyard. No one has ever been killed in this one, I think I would know if someone had been, seeing as I live right. By. It.”

Nikolai stood, looking genuinely concerned. Concerned enough to make her feel like this may not have been the smartest idea she’d ever had. Well, if she was anything, she was stubborn, so she might as well follow through with it. If anything went wrong, it would serve Nikolai right for basically daring her to do it.

She turned towards the kitchen, tossing her hair behind her shoulder as she walked.

“If I’m actually going to prove your story wrong, then I might as well take something to prove I was there. Would a knife work instead of a candle? Of course I wouldn’t be lighting it on fire, but I could drive it into the ground to prove I was there.”

Nikolai just stared at her, before finally snapping out of whatever mess of thoughts had been running through his head. 

“I’ll come and get you if you’re not back after what, ten minutes? Zoya, I never thought I would say this, but please don’t prove me right.”

She scoffed, pulling her boots on.

“Please Nikolai. It’s a children's story! Don’t tell me you actually believe I’ll die from being alone in a graveyard.

She walked out the door, letting it slam behind her in a way that would definitely have made any parental figure furious with her, and started on her way to the graveyard. She must have zoned out while she walked as it seemed to have taken far less time than it normally did to walk there, but she found herself already almost in the center of the graveyard, knife in hand. She checked that she was in between two graves -- it felt rude to stab a grave -- and knelt, swiftly digging her knife into the dirt. 

She was quite ready to go back home, telling herself that it was just because of how cold it was, and definitely not because the wind whistling in the trees sounded like one of the monsters in the stories she had begged her dad to tell her when she was a child, even though she knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep after hearing them. No, it was definitely the cold. 

She tried to stand, brushing dirt off of her knees as she rose, but she found that she wasn’t able to move past a low crouch. Behind her, the wind grew ever louder, swelling as it whipped through the trees. It sounded almost like babies crying now, less like the roar of monsters as it had before, or the crash of waves on the shore as it usually did, during the day. Uninvited, thoughts of angry ghosts appeared in her head, and suddenly she was a lot less certain that she was actually alone in the cemetery. 

She sank back to her knees, wondering if anyone would find her before morning, or if she would stay in the graveyard, laying dead until morning or even later, like in Nikolai’s story. She really should have thought a bit more before testing fate like this. 

Once again, the wind swelled, almost as if it was trying to push her over. Zoya straightened her back, lifting her chin. If she were to be killed by spirits, at least she would go out with her dignity intact.

Then, from behind her, she heard something. Something that sounded like… footsteps? They stopped, but now she could hear someone breathing a bit behind her. Perhaps she had been too hasty to assume that ghosts were the only thing that could hurt her here.

“Zoya? I’m here to get you! We were worried about how long you were taking. Are you going to turn around, or do I have to make my dramatic entrance to your back?”

She whipped around - or tried to, at least. Whatever was keeping her pinned to the ground was definitely still there.

Nikolai walked around her, probably to make his grand entrance, as by now he had certainly decided that she wasn’t going to turn. With him here, her fears of ghosts and murders seemed almost silly, especially in the glow of his flashlight. He held out his hand to her, entrance seemingly having been set aside. He was looking at her rather oddly, and when she raised a hand to check for dirt on her face, she found the reason in the almost dried tear tracks. She hadn’t realized that she’d been crying until now.

As Nikolai pulled her to her feet, they heard the sound of fabric tearing, amplified by the relative silence surrounding them. The wind had died, leaving everything deathly still. Zoya glanced down, finally seeing what had kept her on the ground. The knife she had brought was still pinning some of the fabric from her dress, clearly stuck firmly enough that it wouldn’t come out without a fair amount of force. She reached down and tugged it out of the ground.

“Well, Nikolai, I suppose we can agree that I was here? Or do I need to leave the knife in the ground for proof,” she said, wiping the dirt off of the knife as best she could on the remaining part of her dress, which was most of it, but she was entitled to some dramatics after what had happened. She would have to get rid of this dress anyway, especially since it was now missing a piece of the skirt.

Nikolai laughed, a bright sound, one that seemed rather out of place here. 

“Yes, I do think that everyone will believe your harrowing tale of the graveyard. Shall we head back now? It’s getting rather late.”

This time, it was Zoya who offered her hand. Nikolai took it, in silent agreement not to mention the fact that she had offered it, now or later.

Together they walked, hand in hand, back to the house where their friends were waiting. As they approached, Zoya could see firelight flickering through the window, and when Nikolai pulled the door open, she could hear them chatting and laughing. As soon as they had stepped inside, both Alina and Genya flew towards them, talking a mile a minute. Genya wanted to know why Zoya had been at the cemetery so long, Alina wanted to know if she’d seen a ghost. Or two ghosts. Maybe three, even, if she’d been lucky.

The four wandered back to the living room, Zoya assuring Genya that she hadn’t meant to stay as long as she had, and telling Alina that she’d seen exactly zero ghosts, ignoring her disappointed sigh.

Zoya sat again, feeling as though she’d be happy if she never had to leave this room again. It was warm from the fire, and the noise from her friends was comforting. She sank back into the couch, content just to sit here, with everyone, until morning.

#Bee's writing #gvbb21 #gvbbminibang21 #group 11 #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #grishaverse #tgt #yes I definitely know how to tag things and didn't forget the tags when I posted first of course

[lovely-necromancy]

A Cure for Insomnia CH 16

////TW SA mentioned/hinted at/// Depiction of a panic attack as well

The hospital was a buzz with energy, which was a bit weird considering how small the town was. Were there really this many patients today? You honestly didn't know, hell for the longest time you weren't even sure this was a hospital when you moved here.

That was changed recently, like very recent. Last night in fact when you had been forced awake by medical staff trying to determine your condition. That sadist doctor of yours kept a small smile on their face the entire time you groaned about wanting sleep. They had simply tutted at you saying you needed to be monitored for several hours before they could let you rest.

Thankfully you hadn't seen them today but it was only ten thirty. A lovely nurse had been checking in with you all morning, even before you woke up. He'd come in when you had buzzed after waking up in pain and given you a dose of your medicine through your IV drip. When you questioned him about where you were he seemed to still in concern. Worried that you hadn't remembered your accident that lead you here.

After assuring him and giving him a play by play of your day yesterday, giving him the assumed day, and answering who the current president was he let you off the hook. Mark, your nurse, had been very keen to tell you the Cowell family is in charge of your care and will be here later in the day to visit with you. Granted you actually feel up to visitors. Which you take as code for 'would you like me to deny visitors?'.

You let him know you'll be fine with visits after ten. Knowing full well how fast news can travel in the small town it's only a matter of time before a parade of Hornets meander through to check in on you. First you wanted to grab your bearings before being thrown to your overly concerned friends.

Or maybe they weren't overly concerned after all you did just experience a home invasion that left you hospitalized. Simply being concerned is a natural reaction to your situation. But your head hurts just thinking about anything right now. So, you'd like to take a moment for yourself, have a bit of time to process everything.

Either way you'd been right, news travels fast in this small town. Nearly all the lodge residents had been waiting for an hour to see you when ten rolled around. At ten on the dot Aubrey, Barclay, and Jake stormed into your room and surrounded you like piranhas in a frenzy. You looked towards Dani, Hollis, Kirby, and several other lodge staff members for help only to get small smiles and a shake of the head.

They wouldn't be helping you out of this anytime soon. You just had to endure the genuine concern and affection from your friends. Luckily for your splitting head the visit only lasts thirty minutes before everyone has to leave. Life still goes on even when a loved one is in the hospital. With several promises to return tomorrow and requests that you take it easy the rambunctious group was gone.

You relax into your bed before turning on the TV and finding something mind numbing to watch. The food network works! You hope Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives is in the roll today. You're in luck as it starts playing right after the commercials.

The voice of your doctor is getting closer to your room. Great if you weren't already upset by the atrocity happening with the pizza at that restaurant then you are surely in a sour mood now.

“Well sir we hope you can reason with the child. They have simply fought us each time we've brought up the tests. We'd say it was mildly impressive that they held such coherence last night, had it not been for the headache it has given us.”

Oh here we fucking go again.

“I don't need the tests.”

No one had made it through the threshold before you spoke. Everyone froze at your cold tone. Until the doctor makes a motion towards you.

“As you can see, they're very stubborn.”

“I'm not stubborn you're just not listening to me. I haven't had sex in a year so I don't need a pregnancy test and I just got bashed around last night. I don't need an invasive search done.” You ignore the Cowell family as you speak to the doctor, “I find it concerning how keen you are to do a rape test on me even though I've repeatedly told you I just got banged up in the scuffle. Nothing more.”

The doctor still has their small smile placed just ever so on their face. There's something really off about them. Even under normal circumstances you hate hospitals and doctors. Mainly because they never listen to you about your issues, something you know would be even worse if you had 'Autistic' labeled in a medical file. But something about this doctor seriously rubbed you the wrong way. Perhaps you two knew each other in  previous life and it was coming back to bite you in the ass now.

“Doc, the kid says they don' need a test, then they don' need the test.” Big Jo says breaking the staring contest between you and the doctor as they slide their gaze away from you to look at Big Jo.

You take no little satisfaction from seeing their stupid smile finally leave their face. It isn't long before it's replaces and they bound over to you. Poking and prodding you, jabbing with a lot more force than they should need to. After a small adjustment to your IV they clear you for this check up and allow the Cowells to have their visit with you.

“Something's off about them.” you say cautiously after the family steps into the room.

Big Jo sighs, “Ye' but they took care 'o ya last night kid.” Ushering his family through he closes the door behind them only to turn back to you with a stern expression, “so ya better play nice with 'em got it?”

Fighting back the intense urge to roll your eyes you nod, before turning to Little Jo who's made her way over to your bedside in her hands several thick graphic novels. The same ones your store started to carry a few weeks back. Looking up from the books you see her watery and puffy eyes. What she takes from Big Jo in personality she takes from her mother in empathy.

“I-I-I yip-yip I thought yip you might get bored so I yup wanted to let you borr-yip-borrow these.”

When she places the books onto the small table beside your bed you can see the tremors that rake through her hands. Choosing not to comment or bring any attention on the tween's obvious nerves you settle for an ice breaker.

“Thanks, don't know how much more crimes against pizza I can stomach.” motioning to the TV where a man is making paper thin crust on pizza to have a pizza that cooks in a minute.

That's not pizza it's cooked cheese and tomato sauce with toppings. Not pizza at all.

Jo nods softly, her normal enthusiasm no where to be found today. A pang rips through your chest as you watch her eyes cast downwards. With no clue how to help her feel better you have to swallow the sigh in your throat to not make the air heavier than it already is. Dia and Big Jo aren't much help either when you spare them a glance.

Dia herself is wiping her eyes with a tissue and sniffles escape her every few seconds. Not much is different bout Big Jo, he may have more prominent eye bags today but you weren't going to judge him for not sleeping. Even under normal circumstances you didn't have ground to stand on. Mark mentioned Big Jo was the one who found you from what he'd over heard at the nurses' station this morning.

Knowing this made the foreboding feeling in your stomach grow. The way he's looking at you with his cold stoney stare-he's not even really looking at you more through you. But his stare pierces you and sends the pit in your stomach lower than you thought possible. If it wasn't so chilly in the room you'd probably be sweating right now.

“Dia, why don' ya take Josephine home.”

Hearing this you lift your hand up to Little Jo before she has a chance to scurry out of the room with her mother. She looks at your hand and then back to you before launching herself into you with a crushing hug. Gravity doesn't help your case as the child's entire weight is on your prone form, you hadn't sat up when they came into the room.

“Get better soon.” the pain was worth it to hear the small plea. She at least felt a little better if she could talk without her vocal tic interrupting her.

After you pat her on the back and promise to rest up she's out the door with her sobbing mother. It's a quiet few moments after the door shuts before Jo takes a step towards your bed. If the pit in your stomach went any lower you're sure you'd be able to see your insides. The hulking man takes a seat in the chair next to your bed sighing as he leans back rubbing his face.

“Tell me what happened kid.”

You relay the events of your day to him. How you and Toby had gone out of town for slushies, gotten caught in so much traffic that you felt it was a punishment from God himself. The funny feeling you had after dropping Toby off, the one that said just to go straight home. And how you had a feeling someone had just been in your home. You left nothing out about the altercation with ski mask. That wasn't saying much because you only remember the ski mask and how you tried to claw their face off. When Jo pressed you for a physical description you weren't any help. Having been too caught up in survival mode you only registered the stupid frowny face on the ski mask as being a key detail...but any fool could laser transfer a decal. And the same went for that painted mask, anyone could grab an art store face mask and block paint some black over the features.

Vaguely you recall them wearing a jacket. Had it been red, yeah like a burnt burgundy maybe? It wasn't a lot to go on and seemed to frustrate Jo even more, if the pinching of his nose was anything to go by.

“You are aware of the situation, yea?” his accent has dropped, he's speaking in a more neutral tone and inflection. This might be the most rattling moment of the week-and it's only Tuesday.

He isn't looking at you so you give a quiet 'yes sir' in response.

“Kid your car got broken into on my lot. Your home gets invaded and you get bashed around/ All this a few months after my other front end girlie disappears in the middle of the night.”

A lump forms in your throat at the mention of Bambi. You can see the pattern he's stringing together, honestly you saw it long before today. You'd just been sloppy and took too much time to gather evidence of your stalkers' existence.  Bambi's disappearance wasn't voluntary and it looks like you may be next.

“Called Lydia already and we're upping the security at the cottage. Until I'm satisfied with the level of security you will be staying with us.”

“I co-cou” the lump was hard to speak around, “I can't impose like that, it's fine I'll-”

“You'll just what sleep in your car become an easier target? Go gallivanting to towns miles away where no one knows you.” his harsh words cause you to sputter, “For Christ's sake YN we don't know who we're dealing with right now!”

You don't make eye contact with Jo. You can't make eye contact he's raised his voice. You're lucky you're laying down or else you'd be rocking back and forth right now.

“Unless you have a clue who's out there and the police catch them, this decision is final. This isn't up for debate YN.” he finishes harshly

Even though he's finished you still can't look at him, your nerves are so shot and all you can do is bite your lip.

“Look I...I'd feel a lot more comfortable knowing you weren't out on your own while this gets handled. Josephine looks up to ya like an older sibling, she'd be crushed if you ended up like Bambi. Same goes for Dia. And I don't want that for my girls.” he says softly, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir.”

With that Jo leaves you in the room after informing you that they'd be back to check you out of the hospital tomorrow. And that you could expect a visit from Sheriff Owens at some point before then.

Even after Jo leaves it feels like someone has your heart in a vice. And every few beats they squeeze it, constricting the flow of freshly oxidized blood to your body. For good measure they try to yank the organ straight from your chest cavity but just end up bruising your rib cage.

Oh God you can't breathe, you're trying but you can't tell if you are or aren't anymore. The beeping of you heart monitor is increasing with each second. It's annoying ringing is too much and you need to rip the cords from you immediately. That just makes the ringing worse as it flat lines not finding any beating or rhythm under your skin.

Soon you're swarmed with a team of nurses trying to settle you down in your panic induced haze. Their grabbing hands and forceful touches burn your skin and light a fire that travels through your veins; and only serves to make you thrash more. Taking a swing at the nurse who holds a needle you continue your struggle against the other bodies holding you down as she stumbles away.

A few nurses rush in from the door to help her, not that you notice.

So many of the sounds are merging together and you can't understand anything. From the shrill beep of the heart monitor, the voices calling out at various pitches, footsteps. Everything forms into one gigantic frantic pitch in your already fried mind.

A growl rips through the room, you can feel the vibration of it all over you. Did that come from you?

In an instant all hands are off of your panting form and just before you can sit up a deep pressure is applied to your torso. Warmth seeps into you as the pressure lowers itself onto your body. Effectively ending your meltdown and lulling you into a dissociative state.

Floating is the only way you can describe it. The sensation of weightlessness and a gentle rocking caused by the adrenaline trying to defuse itself back into the body. Or the foggy haze that clouds your mind as you try to remember what just happened. Trying to rational the series of events and this outcome. But nothing comes to you except more brain fog. A confusing storm of frustration and vulnerability hits you. And you are left powerless to do anything. You can't kick your legs or scream as much as you want to.

The weight on top of you is forcing a calm to wash over you while the emotions inside wish to break free like a whirlwind. Your distress kick starting the whirlwind back up again only to die like a camp fire in a thunderstorm when you can't get any sort of momentum to your tantrum.

You can only loose yourself to the fogginess drifting further away from your psychical body. Completely unaware of the world around you as it washes away into nothingness.

When the floating feeling finally lifts you have to blink to shake off the remaining stupor. You're able to tell there is still a heavy weight on top of you but also something holding down your left hand. You turn away from the wall that you've been staring blankly at for hours, if your sore neck is anything to go by, and see Connor perking up at your movement.

“Hey bud,” you raise a hand to ruffle his ear and he lays his big head back onto your chest. ��hey Tobes.” voice cracking as you greet the man you assume is holding your hand in a death grip, not once looking up from Connor.

There's a tight squeeze on your hand and you have to close your eyes and take a minute to collect yourself before turning to face him. The last thing you remember before drifting off was a group of nurses trying to sedate you. Having no clue what went on after that and when Toby came in you're preparing for the worst. Finally facing him you pause when you make eye contact.

“Jesus! What happened to-to-to you!?”

When you'd last seen him you'd dropped Toby off in the same shape you got him. Now he's sporting a heavily swollen black eye, one that looks pretty bade considering his nose bridge is also swelling a bit. It almost looks like it's pulsing. The dark purple bruise and deep red bleeding from under it to spread away from the injury is such a drastic contrast to his weirdly grayish complexion. You aren't sure if the black eye is actually that bad or if it just looks that way due to Toby's lack of melanin.

“Tim and I got into a fight.” his one good eye cuts to the side, “Barkclay had to split us up. Drove me here to get it checked out, it's fine.” He's dismissing it, they probably can't figure out if his eye really is fine right now, since he can't feel pain and that thing looks tightly swollen shut.

“Barclay.” is the only thing you can manage to say. Your brain wasn't prepared for most things right now and it's having trouble processing the gnarly injury mixed with complete nonchalance.

His lips pull back into a smile and not one you've seen from him before. Sure you've pulled a couple genuine mirth filled smiles out of him, or seen his teasing smirks, or bashful shy smiles when you've been out with others. But this smile, if you could even call it that-it was more like he was barring his teeth. Toby looked ready for another fight or like he was a feral predator about to rip out it's prey's jugular. There's a brief flash of a image that pops into your mind's eye, one of Toby's bloodstained face with this exact expression, teeth soaked red with blood and chunks of flesh in between . A chill runs through you at the thought. Had Connor not been laying on top of you, you would have shivered.

The instant you squeeze Toby's hand, the smile wipes off his face and he stares down at your interlocked hands. He returns the gesture before bringing his other hand over. Looking up at you through his eyelashes he flips your hand and when your expression doesn't change and you don't pull away he begins to play with your fingers.

“What was the fight about?”

“I don't have to answer that.” his tone is short and clipped.

You don't press the subject, obviously Toby doesn't want to talk about it. And you're fine with that, anyway if the fight was bad enough for Barclay to need to break it up and he drove Toby here you can assume Tim instigated and is probably getting kicked back out into the RV with no AC. As bad as it sounds you could care less. Toby's your friend not Tim, you only care if Toby's ok and while he may have a very fucked up eye in the future, right now he seems like normal Toby. A bit more irritated and on edge but that's normal after a stressful day. Hell you punched a nurse a few hours ago.

“What happened to you?”

There's a small part of you that wants to sass Toby, that you don't have to answer that. Thankfully the rational side reminds you that fight with a roommate is very different than having been beaten in a home invasion. Once again retelling your story but this time starting after you dropped Toby off. No need in going into as much detail as you went into with Jo or how much you'll need to go into with the sheriff. Toby's hands would grip yours tightly throughout your recounting. It's one of the reasons you didn't go into a ton of detail. Understanding your friend is barely holding on by  a string on his good days you aren't about to load your stress along with his already eventful day.

“You can't stay there alone.” he says after you finish the recap.

“Uh duh? Like Jo's already ordered me under house arrest at his house.”

It's like the tension leaks out of him like air leaving a balloon with the way he deflates after you say that. His grip loosens on you hand and he goes back to idly playing with your fingers.

“Good...that's good.” he nods to himself.

In the silence of this hospital room with his service dog on you instead of attending to his clear anxiety ridden form, you realize Toby's a lot more caring than his exterior lets on. The brunette might not wear his heart on his sleeve but it's easy to see it once you know what you're looking for. In this moment as battered and bruised as he is, even the potential possibility of loosing function in his left eye, he's more concerned with you. Whether it's low self worth or just how he treats friends you'll have to find out later.

“Hey...Tobias, I'm here y'know?” you start to sit up waving off a pecking Connor. Once you're far enough up you retract from Toby's grip, which he does fight you on a little. And you reach out further to his bicep, you can't quite reach his shoulder in this position.

“I'm ok Tobes, I'm here.” for some reason 'Tobias' doesn't sound right for this moment.

Toby doesn't give much of a reaction which is fine since you weren't really expecting one. He places his hand over yours for a moment before bringing it back into his grip and fixates on playing with your fingers once again.

With a smile you go to pet Connor with you free hand, hoping Toby might shake himself out of this funk. After a bit of petting you grow restless with the lack of stimulation and ask Toby to pass you on of the graphic novels Little Jo left for you.

It's easier than you thought reading with one hand would be, especially since you can prop the book on Connor who doesn't seem to mind. Pup is resting across your legs now that both humans in the room are stable enough to function without his intervention.

When you finish the first book Toby speaks up, eye still focused on your hand in his. And you find out that although the series isn't his normal thing he did enjoy the art style and a few of the jokes. He waits for you to finish each book before talking more about them and the arc of the story they laid out. Opening up for the two of you to have a nice discussion on the fantasy game based series. It's honestly so much fun for you, where you lack in background awareness Toby is quick to fill you in and point out little ques the writers and artist dropped. In return you're right there explaining character motives and the subtle looks of a character's eyes.

It's a fun few hours before visiting hours are over. And Toby paused at the door before he left, he looked like he wanted to say something but held back. Just as he turned to leave you call out.

“Get home safe.” it's normally his line but you aren't going anywhere tonight.

“I will....get well soon. I'll see ya later.”

There's that awkward smile! You can barely contain the beaming one you sent him before he left. Despite being hospitalized for injuries sustained by a home invasion from your potential stalker...well plural now, you've had a pretty great day.

Fuck that sounds so bad. Should you feel guilty about forgetting your messed up circumstances? No, no everything is getting sorted out. If anything this is going along with your plans for Big Jo to help you out. This was more than enough evidence to prove that you aren't just paranoid. And you're about to have a safe place to hang while this all gets settled.

The fact that you got injured is less than ideal but this is what you get for being sloppy and unfocused.

You have a lot of faith in your boss, you know this will be dealt with. Thinking back to everyone who came to see you today...you just hope everyone can be as confident as you are that this will all end soon.

#a cure for insomnia #ticci toby #ticcitoby #ticci tobyx reader #ticci toby x reader #tobias erin rogers #Timothy Wright #timothy wright x reader #timothy wright x brian thomas #Brian Thomas #brian thomas x reader #masky x reader #creepypasta fanfic

[frostsinth]

The Secret We Keep - Pt. 1

*bangs head against wall* .... Soooo I should be working on my ‘Deals with Demons’ Story. Or maybe on some of the art I have around. But I just COULD NOT get this idea to leave me alone until I started writing it down.

Slow burn, sfw, Orc x F. Human. Back to my roots. I hope you like it! I’ve got a great surprise in mind for this one. :DDD

MasterList

The first time I saw him, I thought a storm cloud had passed over the sun. The light streaming in from my window was suddenly snuffed out, and I looked up from my place behind the counter in surprise.

He was so big, even looking directly at him I still couldn’t quite make sense of what I was seeing. His torso filled the window frame from edge to edge, and I even squinted my eyes trying to figure out exactly what was going on. With a huff, I bustled over to the door, opening it with my shoulder.

“Excuse me!” I said, exasperated, placing my hands on my hips and looking up.

And up. And up. And up a little more, until the base of my skull was nearly flat against my back. The man before me must have been well over seven feet tall, with a body that looked more like the broad side of a barn than anything a living person could possess. He wore thick knotted and worn leather armor over his broad chest and legs, with a wide belt probably almost as big as I was. Each leg was as big as a tree trunk, and his arms bulged with muscles. His skin was a dark, washed out green that looked more grey in the shadows of his huge body and he had thick, messy black hair pooling about his shoulders and down his back. He had an equally messy scruff of the coarse black hair on his jaw and cheeks and down his neck, with two thin little braids dangling from the point of his chin. I snapped my open mouth back shut once I had fully assessed him, and cleared my throat noisily. It was rude to gawk.

“Excuse me!” I said again, louder this time.

At first, he hadn’t noticed me. Even when I had spoken. He seemed to be drawing big, deep wuffs of air in through his broad, flat nose nestled in between two massive tusks. A smaller set rested near the base of the first, and his thick bottom lip wobbled a bit as he turned to face me when I spoke a second time. He had to drop his chin to his chest to look at me directly, and one big, bushy eyebrow raised up. Perhaps it was surprise there, I wasn’t sure. I wondered how often tiny humans addressed the behemoth without preamble.

I jerked my head at the window. “You’re blocking my shop!” I told him, not perturbed in the least by his size.

His large, slate blue eyes rolled to look to where I had gestured. I saw them skim over the sign, perhaps even study what could be seen beyond the window. One big meaty hand came up and rested on the huge ax at his hip and he gave a deep grunt. I sighed, shaking my head slightly. Apparently I wasn’t going to get through to him with subtleties. I didn’t recognize him as one of the regular orcs that ambled through town occasionally. Perhaps he was new.  

“I can’t see anything with you standing there. You block out the sun!” I explained, but gave him a friendly smile none-the-less. “You lost? Looking for something in particular?”

He still didn’t answer, dropping his hand and giving another mighty wuff with his nose. I saw his nostrils twitch, then his heavy brow furrowed a little. I decided he looked intrigued, and my grin grew by a few more inches.

“Ah! You’re hungry!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands together. “You have a good nose, sir, that you do! I’ve got a fresh pig on the spit and a fair large sampling from the last one on salt!” I turned, shoving the old creaky door to my shop open. “Come in! Come in! I’ll get you a sample! I’m sure you’ll love it.”

I stepped inside and held open the door behind me. The big orc paused, frowning deeply. His slate eyes ran over me, sizing my stout little 5’4” frame from head to toe. I couldn’t quite read his expression, but had already decided it didn’t seem remotely aggressive. I gave him another warm smile, waving him in.

With a shrug of his big, meaty shoulders, he ducked his head and scrunched up his bulk. Following me into my little butcher shop. I squeezed against the wall to be sure to make space for him, letting the door close on its own squeaky hinges and bustling back over to the counter. Once inside, he was able to stretch out a little, thanks in part to the high rafters and wide support beams. I saw him looking about when I glanced over my shoulder. I had a few pheasants hanging on the wall, and a good mess of rabbits and squirrels waiting to be skinned and prepped from the hunter who had come by that morning. On the opposite side, I had stag horns mounted for display, amid shallow bins of salted fish already smoke dried and waiting for sale. My jerky I kept at the counter, to avoid sticky hands grabbing at it when I wasn’t looking. A fresh roast sat on the cutting board alongside my favorite knife. It also happened to be my only good carving knife at the moment. There were some lamb chops on the low burning fire in the corner by the counter, and a few dripping cow haunches smoking overhead.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, making my way over to the counter. The orc was eyeing the lamb, and I saw his nose twitch again. I shook my head, waving him to the barrels that I used as makeshift tables in the back and pulling some of the salted pork from another near me.

“It smells good, but trust me, it’ll be a tough chew!” I told him, sighing as I brought the pork to the counter. I picked up the carving knife and easily shaved off a few sample pieces, placing them on a smoothed piece of wood. “Old man Carver was near desperate, selling off those scraggily little things. Barely any good meat on them! If I manage to slow roast them properly, I might just make them passable for food.”

I followed him over to the opposite corner with my little platter and set it on the barrel. He looked down at it, and I saw him lick his lips. I smiled up at him again, placing my hands on my hips again.

“But you look like a traveller! The salted pork keeps well, and you won’t find better flavor, I can promise you.” I assured him, bustling over to the small keg I kept by the water trough. “I’ll give you a good price if you like that; and I’ve got beef jerky and fish besides if you’d like to add some variety! Let me get you some ale to wash it down.”

Just as I was pulling down one of the cracked old mugs from the shelf, the door of the shop banged back open. I jumped at the loud sound, spinning about. I felt suddenly cold and my heart sank through my chest at the far too familiar sight.

The gnarled looking man gave me a gap toothed grin, sauntering in with his two mates behind him. He was not very tall, but fit as an old war dog with a scratchy beard and lopsided ears to match. His leathery skin was wrinkled from a life sleeping outdoors and working in the sun, and I swore a few flies always seemed to cling to him like he was shit haven. He grabbed his scruffy, beaten cap off his head, mashing it between dirty, calloused hands. His men spread out, effectively cornering me as their leader came over.

“”Ello again, lil lass,” Grinned the ruffian, tucking his hands behind his head to stretch out his lean chest beneath his filthy tunic. “Ye pourin’ us a drink? How ver’ thoughtful.”

“What do you want Erlif?” I pressed in a soft voice, hoping it wasn’t shaking as much as my knees beneath my skirts.

“Ye got yer taxes ready?” Erlif replied, sauntering even closer.

I quickly backed away, until my backside bumped into the counter. “I already paid you this month.” I told him breathlessly, nervously brushing my hands down the front of my apron.

His front tooth wiggled a little when he sucked in his breath, shaking his head. “Well, ya see lass, that was yer father’s tax. An’ we charge different by the head, ya kno’.”

I stiffened at the mention of my father, and my lips tightened. Erlif laughed, tucking his thumbs into his belt. He took a few more long strides, closing the gap between us.

“But dun ya worry, lass,” His grin had returned, and his calloused hand snapped out, snatching the mug from my hands. He seemed amused at my tiny gasp, and leaned closer. “I ‘ave another way ya can pay yer taxes if yer a lil’ short.”

There was the soft scraping sound of wood against wood, and Erlif’s companions shot an angry eye over to my sole patron; they must not have noticed him when they first came in. He had been tucked into the shadows of the back corner, but now he straightened to his full height, head nearly scraping the rafters. As they took him in, I saw the blood drain from their faces. They even took a nervous step back, eyes going wide. One frantically began shaking Erlif’s shoulder, still staring as the big orc took one menacing step closer. Unwilling to tear their eyes away.

“Waht, ye-?” The rogue’s angry words jerked to a stop with a small hiccup in his throat as he turned.

I thought his eyes might pop out of his sockets. His jaw dropped open and I saw that loose tooth dangle dangerously. He even dropped the cup in his hands, and it clattered loudly in the sudden silence in the shop. I found myself tickled at the sight, and almost smiled. The sound seemed to break the sudden terror that had settled upon the trio. His two companions didn’t waste another moment, quickly spinning on heel and darting out the door so fast one smashed his shoulder on the way out.

“S-sorry! Sorry!” Stammered Erlif, backing towards the door as well. He quickly smashed the cap back on his head, clutching his hands before him and hunching his shoulders anxiously. “P-please forgive me.”

Then he too spun and bolted. I stared after them, surprised. I had never seen that stubborn old thief move so fast or back down so easily. But a grin quickly returned to my face. I laughed, shaking off the last of my nerves. I ran one still trembling hand through my hair and turned back to the orc.

“Well, you certainly come in handy, don’t you?” I was still smiling as I bent to pick up the mug the lowlife bastard had dropped.

The orc turned his slate gaze back to me, and one thick brow twitched up again. His meaty hand was still on the head of his ax, and I supposed he might look quite imposing. Standing there with his huge frame filling the tiny shop and his hair a thick black shadow around his shoulders. But I was surprised to find it didn’t particularly bother me. I laughed again, looking down at the mug in my hand.

“I can’t serve you that piss poor excuse for ale after that. Come out back, and let me get you a real meal.” I looked back up at him, “As a thank you.” 

He gave another deep grunt, shaking his huge head. He even started to open his mouth but I raised my hand to silence him. 

“No sir, I won’t let you accept anything less. It’s the least I can do.” I moved over, shouldering the shop door firmly closed and sliding the mostly broken latch in place before turning to the door at the back behind the counter. “Come on then.” I told him, placing the mug on the counter. I didn’t wait to see if he was following me, slipping out the open back door.

Behind the shop was a tiny, open aired square, which is where I kept most of my in-progress work. It was nestled between the clay and wood walls of the tiny shop front and the little one room building set behind the tavern that had been my home for as long as I could remember. The two buildings were almost perpendicular to each other, making the square yard uneven. Alongside the largest wall, there was a good sized cow skinned and hoisted by its hind legs, and three great spits over a coal burning fire off to one side of the courtyard. Fats sizzled in the hot stones, dripping off the two pigs I had roasting there. The third spit had four whole chickens sizzling, and as I passed by I inspected the meat’s progress with a practiced eye. There was a small shambling stable on the opposite side, with a half stone wall in disrepair on the outside facing the main square. It was currently empty; I’d had to sell the old horse to manage rent last month, and the chickens were now on the spit. The wall beside my homemade smoke pits had a large wooden gate set into it to allow carriages and fresh product to be brought in. It was hanging off its hinges and had more holes than wood, but it managed to do the job still. There was a small pile of scrap wood and nails leaning on the wall. My father had intended to make repairs before he had passed, but I didn’t have any time or ability to even think to make the same attempt.

I half expected the man not to have followed me. He had certainly seemed reluctant at best. But when I glanced over my shoulder, he was there, looking around. I smiled cheerily when his gaze settled on me again, and jerked my head towards the door to my place. Again, I didn’t wait, making my way over. I had to put most of my strength into heaving the ancient door open, and gave a little grunt to emphasize the effort. The door complained loudly at the abuse, scraping heavily along the dirt floor.

“Make yourself at home.” I told him, quickly moving a pile of furs off the table and bench in the center of the room.

I dropped them onto my bed in the corner, then bustled over to the water bucket against the back wall. The house was wide, with the same high post ceilings as the shop. At one time, this had been the storage room and the main house had been the small tavern at the back. But I couldn’t remember a time when my family had owned both. Due to its original intent, there were no windows to speak of, save for a makeshift opening in the roof with a trap door made from a barrel lid propped over the top.  I didn’t mind. I had hung herbs and various plants to dry amid the rafters, and the worst of the hot air filtered out through the trap hole in the roof. I lifted the old worn pitcher full of wildflowers to run a damp cloth underneath it over the worn, patched wood of the table, smiling as I saw the orc manage his last hurdle and scrunch through my tiny front door. I gestured to the bench, replacing the pitcher and turning to drop the cloth back in the water and open the tiny larder in the corner by the little stove. I had set a few big barrels alongside the little clay stove, and my sole tin pot waited on top of one. I pulled out a large helping of cheese, and an old bottle of wine, bringing both over to set at the table.

“Here, something to wet your pallet while I get a good chunk off the pig on the spit.” I told him, smiling again as he slowly eased himself onto the bench.

It groaned beneath his weight, and I worried it might not hold. But the old wood managed, and I sighed with relief. I hummed quietly to myself as I took the cloth off the basket of bread I had made that morning, picking the crispiest roll to bring to the table.

I took up a plate and ducked back out the door to the pits in the back. I considered the pair, poking one thoughtfully before tearing off most of one haunch to plate. I brought it back in, still humming to myself, and wiped the juices off my hands as I set it before him.

“You’ll have to tell me what you think,” I told him, “You can be my taster! Let me know if you think it needs a bit more vinegar, or maybe another few hours on the spit.”

The burly orc looked over the simple spread in front of him, then at me. Then back down. I noticed his thick, bushy brows were still raised as he gingerly reached out, ripping off a small piece of the pig. As if he was surprised. I wondered how often people treated the big guy just like anyone else. At least without getting to know him first, as he seemed a nice enough sort. He brought the dripping morsel of meat to his big mouth, feeding it slowly between his tusks almost hesitantly. As if worried it was rotten. His eyes widened with delight as his teeth worked at the meat, and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch slightly.

“It’s good.” He rumbled, sounding pleased. 

It was the first time I had heard him speak, I realized. His voice was as deep and heavy as a boulder, and seemed befitting to his huge body. The big orc hunched over with his elbows on the table and began to dig into the haunch. He dwarfed the old beaten table, which would have comfortably sat at least four humans. This close to him, I could see a deep scar over one cheek, and a notch missing from his ear as well as a few flat iron rings in the remaining cartilage. His armor covered the cap of his shoulders, but his big muscular arms were also dotted with scars. I could see his meaty hands looked rough. Likely a laborer, I decided. Especially due to the shape of his body; more square than triangular.

“I’m Madara, by the way,” I told him, sitting at the bench opposite. He glanced back at me as he took up the roll and tore off a piece.

“Hanste’kosh.” He grunted, his slate blue eyes studying me. He looked down at his plate, then over at me again. One big meaty hand shoved it closer. “Eat.”

“Has.. Hanshet… Hankos…” I tried, fumbling over the long name. I reached over and peeled off a little of the pork, bringing it slowly to my mouth.

“Hanste’kosh.” He repeated, his voice rumbling in his chest like thunder over the mountainside.

I laughed, shaking my head as I chewed. “I’m sorry. That’s quite the mouthful!” He grunted, taking a larger bite of the pork and draining back a fourth of the bottle of wine. “Would it be alright if I called you Hans?”

His eyes turned to settle on me again. Seeming to really take me in. I tucked back a loose strand of hand hesitantly behind one ear under his scrutiny. I wondered what he was thinking. The deep scrunch of his brows made me think he might be questioning my motives, or wondering if I was making fun of him. I was certain most humans didn’t treat strange orcs nearly so nicely as I. But they had never bothered me. In fact, I found their blunt, straight to the point manners rather refreshing from most human’s passive aggressive behaviors. Preferable even. Finally, he shrugged his big shoulders, pulling the wedge of cheese over to himself and breaking it into pieces. 

“Sure, why not.” He sounded almost amused, but it was hard to tell from the rolling timbre of his voice.

I smiled cheerily at him, tearing a small piece from the bread. “You can call me Maddie, if you’d like.”

He looked up at me from his hunched position, considering me again through long dark lashes. He chewed slowly for a moment, working his square jaw back and forth almost thoughtfully. I tilted my head to the side, curious but knowing better than to pry.

“Those men,” He began, his thick tongue snaking out to clear his lips, “They bother you much?”

I hesitated, and my face must have fallen a little, because I saw a scowl settle on his features. I quickly raised my hands and shook my head.

“Don’t worry about me. I don’t want any trouble started on my behalf.” I smiled at him, my eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can manage.”

He gave a long, deep ‘hmmm’. But returned to his meal without further comment. I watched him eating quietly for a moment, propping my elbow on the table and resting my cheek in my palm. I decided he was probably younger than he looked underneath all that hair. I wondered the last time he had given it a good wash and comb. Perhaps I might find someone not much older than myself if he did. I suddenly longed to take a stab at it myself, and moved to cupped my twitching hands on my lap under the table.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” I mused, “Are you just passing through? Or do you have business here?”

He licked the juice dribbling down his chops. 

“Business.” He replied, sucking the last of the flavor off his thumb.

I smiled. “Well, you are certainly welcome back anytime... Hans.”

He grunted again, flicking his tangled black locks over his shoulder. He flexed his arms, stretching out a little before giving a sizable snort.

“I should be going.”

I jumped up, smoothing down the front of my apron. “Of course! I don’t mean to keep you.” I craned my head back to look up at him as he slowly stood. “Thank you for everything.”

A non-committal grumble answered me this time, and he turned, making his way out the door. As he ducked his head back into the shop, I scuttled after him, heading over to my stock of jerky.

“Perhaps I can pack you something for the road.”

He shook his big head, his meaty hands shuffling about his belt. “I’ve enough.”

I looked up right as he dropped a small pouch on the counter. It clinked as it hit the wood. I started to open my mouth, straightening from behind the counter. But he was already making his way out.

“Hey, wait!” I cried belatedly, still in a little shock.

Hans already had ripped open the stubborn door with a single flex of his big arm. I thought I heard the sound of wood splintering, but didn’t fully have time to register. I took up the bag, rushing out to the marketplace square.

Despite his size, or perhaps because of his long stride, the orc moved fast. Before I had time to even make it to the doorway, he was already halfway across the square. The people seemed to give him a wide berth, shooting whispers under their breath and glancing sidelong at the behemoth orc. It made me glad that I had invited him in; it must be tough to have people instantly judge you so harshly. But then I merely sighed, slumping my shoulders slightly. The tiny bag of gold coins felt strangely heavy in my hand, and I looked down at it. I gripped my fingers about it more tightly, then turned and made my way back into the shop.

...

Hanste’kosh was nearly to the outskirts of town by the time his lieutenant caught up to him. The smaller orc smacked a fist across his chest respectfully.

“Hey boss. Where’ve you been?”

He scowled at him, heavy brow knotted ferociously, making his second wince and take a wary step back. He put up his palms, patting the air as if trying to smooth over the situation. Hanste’kosh flexed his mighty shoulders, as if he meant to take a swing at the other man. His armor creaked in protest. Ready to remind him how disrespectful it was to pry.

“Sorry boss.” He mumbled, dropping his gaze. “Everything’s ready if you are.”

Giving a snort, the larger orc nodded. “Good.” He turned to make his way to the rendezvous point, but then paused, his heavy brow squinting. “Bar’tok, I have another job for you.”

...

UPDATE: Part Two HERE

#orc #orc lover #orc boyfriend #orc x human #slow burn #romance #dnd #terato #exophilia #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster x human #the secret we keep

[cutegirlmayra]

I'm a simple person with simple needs: angst, dark sonamyy, hurt/comfort. Please Mayra only you can do this (claps hands in prayer)

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Find this prompt discussed on Pajama Blogs (x 26:11)

Prompt:

Due to a Chaos Rift that shook the very fabric of space and time, the Master Emerald being severed in two and trying to attempt to mend it back into one again was Sonic.

Since he was the only one that had connected so many times to the power of Chaos, channeling it into his very core, it was almost like he was a being of pure, controlled chaos energy.

However, this was not the case.

As Knuckles performed the act of combining the Master Emerald’s power to link it to Sonic, which was whole at the time, it ended up reversing the effects...

Instead, once Sonic was perfectly linked to the Master Emerald, the Master Emerald didn’t combine it’s energy to match Sonic, but Sonic’s soul ended up matching the Master Emerald...

Two Sonic’s were created, one with a darker hue and the other with a much lighter hue than the original Sonic.

They both seemed off from Sonic, one possessing more of an anger and the other a quiet justice that sporadically meant being protective over his friends.

This meant that Darker Sonic, the one with anger, also was more emotionally unstable and his actions didn’t seem to make much sense other than lashing out.

Lighter Sonic, the one with a serious look always to his face, valued heroism almost to the point of excessivism. Although not as emotional as his dark brother/other half, he was almost stoic but deeply loyal and passionate to his idea of ‘right’ and extremely merciless in destroying what he considered ‘wrong’.

Unable to stand each other, the two would often fight unless separated. It was almost as though the two conflicting sides of Sonic’s personality and very being were constantly at odds with each other, resulting in Knuckles never being able to get them to work together to conjoin back into Sonic--and consequently--bring the Master Emerald back into a whole state of being as well.

Chaos, the God of Destruction, tried to fight the two Sonic’s into joining together again, shoving them up against the other and using his power to force a fuse, but Amy was the only one to hear Darker Sonic state that Lighter Sonic would never accept him, and therefore, never merge successfully back into what they once were.

She felt she had found a clue... but as they defeated Chaos in his weakened, torn state, they vanished...

As everyone tried to find the Lighter Sonic, Amy... went for the Darker.

She knew he was staying in an abandoned mansion somewhere in the woods, one he would talk about back when he was dealing with being a werehog... she had heard his ghost stories and about a camera flashing to help him fight, then his frustration and tearing through the home... but she wondered if that’s where his other self had run off too...

She wasn’t wrong...

Creaking open the door, after passing the gates, it was clear the ‘ghosts’ that used to live here were too afraid to re-enter the home. Unable to fully communicate to her, they played charades to retell the events that had occurred. In his emotional coldness, Darker Sonic must have gone into a fury and kicked the three out of the mansion, wanting to be alone...

Amy put a finger up to her mouth, worried about him... the Lighter Sonic seemed to be the hero-side of Sonic... but he also seemed crueler.

She didn’t want to believe that this Darker Sonic was apart of Sonic’s true self either... he seemed too unstable and emotional... but she’d rather try and reason with that than stoic stubbornness...

She wondered if the Chaos Rift had split and twisted Sonic’s personality traits... their was no way Sonic could be so torn between these parts of himself all the time... wouldn’t someone break under all that stress? Did he really, truly struggle with two sides of himself..?

Did he discipline himself to act one way, but truly desire another? Or have the tendency for it?

She shook her head from her thoughts as she passed the gate and had already walked through the door, peeking in to see what she could find.

It was once a lovely home... she could tell by the woodwork, the remains of the furniture... it could have been a very luxurious estate...

“...Sonic?” She called out quietly, seeing something turn it’s head in the dark.

Leaning rather relaxed but frighteningly still on a banister upon the large staircase that split into three,... was his shadowed self.

Sonic was too free-spirited to have internal conflicts this bad... right?

Was chaos energy promoting such division? Was the Chaos Rift more than just some attack Shadow used back then... did it actually continue to chip and crack away at the Master Emerald every time it was used to create... this?

Shadow was already fine with never using such an ability again, but everyone was convinced this Sonic was like the evil tendencies of man within Sonic,... but Amy couldn’t help and see some suffering in him...

Lighter Sonic had dismissed her in a cold way... and she knew that couldn’t be... exactly... her Sonic either...

Could she see... Sonic in this light?

She froze at the foot of the three-splitting stairway... her hand up by her chest as she scanned his form delicately... careful to try and read his body language and figure out what was going on.

“...Sonic?” she called again, but he didn’t respond, only huffed and quickly sped to the far right stairway, raising a hand to the rails.

“Amy Rose... I should have known you wouldn’t know better.” He mocked under his breath... But he turned his face away from her, suggesting that maybe he thought she was in danger of himself... it almost seemed like the mock was a double-edged sword cutting into his own pride.

“I’m here... to talk.” She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head and trying to see him in the light. There wasn’t much of it... but some open windows on the bottom floor made her seeable, so... if she could get him to come down...

“Talking only ever ends with someone being proved right.” Darker Sonic gestured out his arm, haphazardly. He took two powerful steps down the stairway, eyeing her as he moved to the center and let go of the rail. His shoulder pointed to her intimidatingly, as though a warning... “And I’m not here to be proven anything.”

The harsh growl to his voice made her realize he was still compromised, and she closed her eyes to inch away. “I know you’re not bad, Sonic... So I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” She tried to be brave, taking her shaking hand by her chest and gripping it strongly with her other one, but it made her look more afraid...

“If you are Sonic... then I know there’s no evil in you. Not even a little bit.”

She jumped back when he sped all the way down to her, standing directly to her face with a strong presence of critique.

“Of course you would say that... while everyone else follows like lapdogs after my other half... you would come to the unwanted side.” He smiled as he moved closer, but she immediately paced herself back and adverted her eyes.

He stopped then, standing tall. “...Are you afraid?”

She shook her head, “I could never be afraid of you...”

A smile crooked to the side of his muzzle, but disappeared quickly. He moved forward again, “Then why not try to convince me... that I should fuse with my other half... and not the other way around.” he reached out to her, and she looked at his hand to see what he’d do.

He smirked and suddenly gripped behind her neck, pulling her back as the door smashed through and Lighter Sonic walked bristly into the room, dusting himself off in a pompous way from the dust and debris.

“Give her back.” He stated without much tone or even emotion. “Kidnapping never was something I admired.” he joked, but it completely lacked Sonic’s charm.

Having Sonic’s charm, Darker Sonic lowered his eyes and held Amy out in front of him, “So like you to jump to conclusions... As though you actually care about her.” Darker Sonic then threw Amy over his shoulder, pointing accusingly to his Lighter Self. “Let’s end this! I won’t be repressed anymore!”

“...You’re so impish.” Lighter Sonic shook his head, “Rash, a real bore. Let her go and I’ll prove I’m the only Sonic that need remain.”

“Now you sound like Metal.” scoffed Darker Sonic, letting Amy roll off his shoulder and arm to land to the floor.

She wasn’t hurt, just spun up a bit as she landed on her hands and knees.

When that happened though, Lighter Sonic’s expression finally changed and he twitched to hold a hand out to her, “Can’t you let her down a little easier!?” he demanded, “She’s a girl, after all!”

“She’s taken worse tumbles.” Darker Sonic stood in front of Amy, as though showing he wouldn’t let Lighter Sonic play the hero this time. “All you see me as is a villain to control... A urge to suppress... You’re embarrassed by how you are!” he hunched himself down, “Well, I’m not gonna take the backseat this time... I’m you, smart-one! And you can’t get rid of me that easily!” he took off and rammed a fist into his blocking arm.

“You’re endangering my friends... you think that’s acceptable!?” Lighter Sonic threw a kick out that Darker Sonic flipped over and landed with a bit of style.

“I didn’t do anything...” Darker Sonic grumbled as Lighter Sonic disregarded him and headed over to Amy, looking at him from over his shoulders as he was still rearing to fight. “Don’t ignore me!” he shouted out, which was like a loud boom that caused Amy to plug her ears.

She had never heard Sonic’s voice with such ferocity before...

Lighter Sonic bent to a knee and took her arms, helping her up. “You should get out of here.” he checked to make sure she was fine, and then like before, completely turned away from her.

It was strange... though he seemed caring, he didn’t really express it well. The Darker Sonic...

She remembered him reaching out to her, then pulling her to him to get away from the door blasting open...

They both cared... but in different ways, expressed that they didn’t want to hurt her...

Then they clashed into each other, Chaos energy slashed through the air as they collided each time, cutting some wood in the mansion and making the ghosts cower and the girl shriek at her home being so torn up.

Amy emphasized but she didn’t know what she could do... She knew that Darker Sonic had taken the two pieces of the split Master Emerald with him... so she started up the stairs, bracing against each deadly beam of light that exploded from the two’s fighting.

She had already learned there was no way to reason with them to stop fighting... from the previous times they had clashed, it was just no use no matter what anyone did.

How did Lighter Sonic know to come here..? Was there still a sliver of connection between the two..?

That would mean...

As she tried to climb the stairs, Darker Sonic saw her and immediately rushed to stomp a foot down by her reaching hand.

She gasped, withdrawing her once reaching hand as the blasts got so forceful that they shoved her to the ground.

“Where are you going?” He seemed so angry... but there was hurt in his eyes. “You’ll find nothing up here!”

Lighter Sonic then tackled into him, rolling and crashing them through the already rotting wood railing as they and the splintered remains of that side of the stairway gave out.

“Sonic!” Amy cried out, seeing the stairway collapsing and rushed to jump to the edge as half of it came down.

She pulled herself up and breathed hard, looking down to see them throw off the rubble and continue pounding into each other in an alarmingly hostile rate.

She then wondered... could it be Sonic?

“You almost hurt her!” Lighter Sonic argued, getting a punch in before Darker Sonic returned the same.

“You know full well I wouldn’t do that!” He then shoved against him, and they were evenly matched as their arms gripped the other’s shoulders and tried to push them back.

They gritted their teeth, one looking overly justified and the other with unbridled rage.

“Sonic... your emotions... your ideals... they clash too often, don’t they?” She whispered to herself, realizing that Sonic was a good man, but one that was like the rest of humanity... constantly dueling the two sides to yin and yang. One with passionate cause and the other with selfish needs.

She quickly continued her climb, though she desperately wanted to fall down with them and unlock them from their deadly feuding, she knew she couldn’t match the chaos power they both wielded at the moment.

Darting from room to room, she threw the doors open, not bothering to close them as the Sonics naturally followed in their brawling, trying to reach her.

“No!” Darker Sonic reached out to her but was blocked off and hit back by Lighter Sonic.

“Amy, get out of here!” Lighter Sonic gestured a hand out that slashed across from his chest, “It isn’t safe!”

Darker Sonic actually took the initiative and bolted pass Lighter Sonic, attempting to grab her and take her out of the mansion and warzone himself, but Lighter Sonic quickly intercepted.

They brawled down the hallway in vicious rolls and slams against the sides of the wall as they continued to pursue Amy, both with a similar goal but different ways to go about it.

‘There’s Sonic...’ Amy felt her eyes get watery in her fright at the mansion not able to handle the two fighting Sonics powers, but another part of her was determined to put them back together again.

She finally found it, at the end of the hallway, she burst open two large doors that revealed the Master Emerald on a balcony... upon closer look... she marveled that there was still a small piece that was conjoined, not severed yet.

She nodded, realizing this meant that they were, both, Sonic.

She turned around and spread her arms out, seeing the Sonics tackle into the balcony room and used her hammer to separate them from their wrestling, childish squabble and threw each of the other to opposite sides.

“That’s enough!”

The two panted but got up from the ground.

“This doesn’t concern you...” Lighter Sonic went for a gentler approach, but there was still somewhat a condensing hint in his actions. “Just leave this to me.”

“Stop!” Amy shoved her hammer towards him, making him pause in his pursuit to her. “I’ll get to you in a minute.”

He was stunned to hear that, his eyes actually emoting the look of being talked back too.

She glared at him, “I’ve had enough of your self-righteousness for one day.” she then looked to Darker Sonic, who was holding his arm and spat out to the side of himself.

“My thoughts exactly..!”

“And you...” Amy stepped in-between the two, making sure she could only see one side of Sonic at a time. “I never thought I’d say this to Sonic... but you need to calm down.” held out her hand without the hammer in it, gently trying to appease him looking tenderly towards him. “You’re hurting... you don’t want to fail, but you hate not being the hero... even though at times, you’re just a boy, and you want to do things your way, not the heroic way that everyone idealizes you to be.”

He looked up as though confused how she knew that.

“You were happy... weren’t you? When I was the one to turn my attention to you instead of to him, right?”

He remained silent, as though ashamed as he calmed his breathing, and looked away.

His eyes were scanning the floor wildly... as though worried she could see right through him.

There was a gentleness to the Darker Sonic she hadn’t seen before... but after putting the two on different sides of her eyes... she could start seeing traits line up.

“You’re neither good nor bad, either of you!” She looked back to Lighter Sonic. “You are duty bound, that’s why you hate the selfish freedom the other desires to the point of not listening to reason, but enacting your own idealistic views only makes you suffer too.” She saw him pause and as though swallowing his pride, lower his head and stare intensely at her.

“You can’t pretend you know me...” He seemed to be letting the words bounce off of him, or trying too.

While Darker Sonic was taking it to heart.

Realizing she couldn’t get through to Lighter Sonic so quickly, she turned back to the vulnerable side, “You both admitted you didn’t want to hurt me, right? Is that the only thing you two have in common?”

She saw the piece that was still intact, way at the bottom of the emerald’s pointed center... she knew the real Sonic was still poking out somewhere... and she had to find it.

Otherwise... she didn’t want to imagine what would become of him.

“It’s not all reputation, is it?” Amy looked to Lighter Sonic, seeing Darker Sonic close his eyes to shut this all out, as though too shy to admit and ashamed to admit his jealousy over the praise and admiration his other self, a mask he put on to be adored, always seemed to receive. “And you, carefree and usually always up for an adventure... you’ve been angry too long.”

She was trying to comfort both, but the hurt between both sides was so immense... he had been playing both sides all his life... how could she mend something so incredibly torn and damaged?

“But if I know anything about Sonic... it’s that his natural self is a hero.”

The two turned back to her, their heads moving as though that hit something deep within them.

She closed her eyes, trusting they wouldn’t punch each other out for at least a few seconds while she spoke. “The Sonic I admire... is like the wind. He can be cold at times, but also warm and inviting... he races through the fields and enjoys every second of his life. There’s never a dull moment, and as long as you can keep up, he’ll carry you along for the ride... He’s kind, but he’s also a force to be reckoned with.” she gestured her hammer and hand out to each of them, then looked at her own hands. “One hand grips a powerful speed and anger...” she grasped her hammer, “The other one... can’t stand to hesitate and leave someone in need. It can’t help but want to save and lift others up.”

The two seemed to be stilled a moment... and behind Amy... the torn Master Emerald began to respond to Sonic’s soul... it began to fuse slowly it’s torn self into a glowing, invisible torch that was repairing itself.

Amy turned around to see it, and both Sonic’s instinctively raced to either one of her sides, holding a hand out as though defending her from the sudden heat and lighted sparks from the Master Emerald.

Looking at them, she smiled.

Looking at each other, a slow roll of their eyes, they parted immediately. Walking away, Lighter Sonic put one hand to his hip as though trying to remain cool, while the other folded his arms and tsk’ed to the side of himself, not wanting to play nice.

Amy sighed, seeing that they still were a bit different... but very much the same.

“Will you at least try and find a happy medium?” She moved towards them and took their hands.

Darker Sonic let her gently sink her hand into his folded arms and coax out, very gently, his hand...

Lighter Sonic pulled away, sharply, but seeing Amy’s hammer disappear from being pointed at him... and now her hand pleading for his approval... he looked away and lightly placed his hand to her own...

Lighter Sonic looked nervous and tried to distance himself from the emotional tension... but also the overwhelming love that Amy was showing to both conflicting sides as Darker Sonic used his other hand to flick his own nose, sniffling as though trying to not look dorkish either.

Amy giggled at their familiar responses, “I think I see you for who you truly are now, Sonic.” she liked this, not having him hide his emotions, but being unable to stop his two sides from revealing themselves. “There’s a saying.” She gripped both their hands in a loving embrace, jolting them down a bit in her newfound cheeriness at them not fighting anymore, but actually listening. “That there’s two wolves inside the heart... and the one you feed, will be the winner and devour your heart.” She put their hands together, “However... Some asked, why not starve the two wolves? And another few asked, why not feed both equally, keeping an equilibrium between the two...”

The two Sonic’s saw their hands glowing... much like the light from the Master Emerald, slowly healing.

They finally looked at the other one of them... and Amy saw a neutral expression in each of their eyes...

She smiled and looked to each of them before back down to their hands, placing her hands below and above them, making sure they stayed together.

“But you know what the chief said? Feed your heart... and it will be too large for the wolves to devour.”

The Sonics looked back to her.

“I heard a different tale.” The Darker Sonic stated, “One is good and the other is bad.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that too.” Amy nodded, “But in this case.” She raised her head, “I think the wolves are just our conflicting personalities. One side of me, for example, loves to stay at home and get some chores done. Strange, for you and maybe most, right?” She giggled, watching the mending of the Master Emerald slowly increase in speed, and noticed at the corner of her eyes the two Sonic’s delicately intrigued and hanging off every word she uttered, as though this was the missing meaning they had always longed for in their chaotic inner-life. It gave her courage to continue, hoping that her words would feed Sonic’s soul, and let it form as one again. “But I enjoy cleaning, tending my garden, or even going out to shop for little things I may need in the week.” She then clasped her hands more firmly, but with added love over the two’s hands, as they looked down to action.

One acted a bit surprised, but the other grew flustered and adverted his eyes at her newly adjusted strength for keeping them together.

“However, sometimes I don’t have the energy for staying indoors all day or going through sales racks... sometimes, I really want my life to be less boring, more exciting, and so I race along after you and the others, wanting to do my part to be... even a small change... in helping the world be a better, safer place to live in.”

The Sonics... together... smiled.

In a strange noise, their voices seemed to overlap each other when they chuckled at her words, and she knew by the look of the Master Emerald that if she just kept their hands together for a bit longer... the Master Emerald would fuse his heart together again.

“Those two wolves... don’t devour me.” Amy stated, “Neither one is bad, it’s just the one I choose to pamper that day.” She nodded to her words. “Sometimes I don’t want to do either of them, and that’s not bad either! It doesn’t mean I’m lazy, but lazy days aren’t a bad thing too.”

She watched as she removed her hands... and both Sonics kept their hands on or under the other... letting them remain together.

“You two aren’t wolves,” She put her hands up to her mouth as she giggled more prominently now, “You’re just stubborn hedgehogs that don’t know what to do with yourselves! One of you wants to be aloof and peaceful, while the other wants to fight bad guys and save the world with his friends. Neither is bad, and both of you... are the sides of Sonic’s heart.”

She placed her hands to her chest and closed her eyes as the two Sonics happily stepped in unison towards each other, and with the last light of the Master Emerald fusing itself together, Amy kept her eyes closed with the giant beam of light till it faded.

“...Amy..?”

Amy slowly opened her eyes, and looked up to see her beloved’s face again.

“Thank you.” He stated, earnestly, putting a hand to his hip and looking tenderly towards her. “I never knew I needed that... pep-talk... thing.” he admitted, but goofily moved his hand in a funny way.

She giggled again, and he chuckled to her laughter.

“Let’s let the others know it’s all good now.” He nodded in the direction that made most sense, but then also tilted his head as though changing gears. “I thought no one would accept the silent, selfish desires of my heart like that, Amy... but you’ve shown me that I’m not bad for wanting certain things... I just want them... at different times.” his gentle smile was the one she loved to see, his new humility and self-awareness made him open but complete again, and she was overwhelmed with her feelings once again.

“Ahh!” She squealed in delight, covering her face and twisting her body away from him, lifting her leg up slightly and letting the tip of her boot keep her somewhat balanced.

“H-huh?” He looked curiously confused at her behavior, and leaned towards her, turning his body left and right to try and see why she was acting this way. “What’s the matter? Amy?”

“You’re so handsome!” she cheered, then parted her hands to flirtatiously lean her nose up by his, but still watching him pull back and not daring to touch hers with his. He made a face but she found it funny, seeing him wincing his mouth back like that, “Especially when you’re thanking me~” she teased, and he looked away, groaning at her antics and then rubbing his nose slightly with a wink towards her.

“You would still be you, even split in two, wouldn’t you, Amy?”

“Oh, one part would definitely be all over you, that’s for sure.” Amy leaned back and put her hands behind her back as Sonic suddenly looked a bit frightful.

“O-oh?” He was definitely turning sheepish, starting to walk passed her as the Master Emerald and him were still linked, so it up and lifted itself into the air and floated after him. “You don’t have to tell me the rest of it.” He kept his head down and eyes closed as Amy trotted off after him.

“Well, actually, without my self-restraint, I’d have probably carried you tied to the chapel by now.”

He groaned again as she skipped after him.

“Hmm... Maybe I should split myself. But would that mean you’re only married to a part of me... or..?” as she thought teasingly out loud, he finally turned around and gave her a scolding look, shaking his head as though she was taking the joke too far as Amy then laughed at him.

He seemed to give up and throw his arms up, shrugging, “Remind me to make sure that never happens to you then...”

“If I’m ever linked to the Master Emerald... and Shadow breaks his promise--which I know he wouldn’t!--but if he did... would you... do what I did for you and help put me--and the Master Emerald, of course--back together again..?” she asked, cutely, as he stopped to think a second.

“Ah! Really! You have to think about it!?”

“No... not that.” Sonic mused as he suddenly grinned back to her, “Just thinking... is there even a part of you that wouldn’t be all over me?”

Amy blushed and held her tongue after that, as Sonic laughed and laughed while making it out of the mansion, apologizing in a deep, forward bow to the ghosts, and then taking Amy’s hand to help her keep up his fast pace as they made it back to Knuckles to cut off the link.

Amy wanted to ride the Master Emerald, so he helped her up on top of it, and although it did float a little closer to the ground, she was able to hang on as Sonic took off at lightning speeds...

Later, when Amy was dusting off some of her home, the doorbell sounded off.

Leaning on her home’s sign, Sonic jokingly pretended he was looking at his nails.

“Which part of your heart are you feeding today, Amy?” He acted as though uncaring, but Amy was already growing in excitement at seeing him there, at her home, unexpectedly. “The part that likes to clean all day... or the side that likes a little excitement every now and then.” He put his hands behind his head, smiled cheekily to the ground with his eyes closed, before turning his head to her with a proud look on his face as he opened one eye to a subtle ‘winky’ expression~

#dark sonamy #dark sonic #sonamy #sonamy prompt #dark sonamy prompt #amy rose #sth #sonicxamy #sonic the hedgehog #cutegirlmayra

[helahades]

The Goddess and the Grocer

(Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Sappy and hopelessly romantic, the part time art student, part time grocery bagger, and full time fantasy creator Steve Rogers lives in his head, with you as his muse. Making puzzles out of your groceries, and portraits of your every curve and edge, he fears and craves every interaction, while living with you as a lover in his mind.

A/N: Well. I have struggled with motivation for the longest. Something hit me though, and by something I mean other supportive writers and great friends. Hugest shoutout to @threeminutesoflife for being a darling and @imanuglywombat for making TWO beautiful mood boards I stare at more than Steve stares at the Peggy compass.

Warnings: creepy, obsessive Steve. ideation of creepy thoughts. food focused talk. mention of overeating. dub-con concepts. two mentions of alcohol consumption.

New blog, new me! I’ll take this moment to say I’m taking requests, and I love feedback even more than Steve loves you! hope you enjoy

Word Count: about 3k

-

Now rain slicked, the sheen of oil and water twists the reflections of the tonights red, red, green—-“can I make the turn, no too late” on yellow—now red traffic lights into a twisted rainbow on the city streets.

Down those streets, and across a barren parking lot, parents, lovers, businesspeople and more squeak and clack and slap their rainy shoes on the old speckled tile at the entrance (that Steve had just mopped) as they do every week.

At the Potts Grocery Store, nothing ever changes. And never in the night.

It isn’t just night though, it’s dead night. The odd time after things have slowed for sleep, after the rush in between when people bumble in (promising themselves promises they won’t keep about doing the shopping sooner next month), after the ten minute period within which Dr. Banner wordlessly picks up the same array of bland teas.

The night has crawled beyond all the events that happen as they do, and entered the dead night.

Maybe Steve is too poetic—like his dad says he is—too tied up in fate, and hope in life’s mystique, but he holds hope for what happens where the night is dead.

When the night dies, and most are asleep, with it, facades die too. The only people to come in the dead of night, are drunks, doctors, various night shifters, and… you.

He hasn’t yet questioned your reason for showing up so late. Hasn’t really, technically, spoken to you at all, really.

Some part of Steve thinks, maybe if he startles you, says something that clangs too loud or awkward, all your pieces will blow away, like some agitated dandelion, and he will never know you again, if he ever even knew you at all.

No, Steve’s job isn’t to startle you, or to take up your space. It’s to try and meet your eyes as you hand him the reusable bags. It’s to try and figure out what meal you’re planning from what he’s bagging, and what he already knows lies unused in your kitchen. It’s to put the bags in your cart if you’ll let him.

He hasn’t seen you yet. It’s getting late, where are you?

Somewhere between cold fluorescent and neutral warm desk lamps, the lights of the grocery store seem to exist both to chase shadows on tired shoppers' faces, and to mock him, like a candle finally blown out by a stood up date.

Had he done something wrong the last time? If he had, that couldn’t be helped. You were wearing those shorts and looked like you had just gotten ready for bed and you had your hair pulled back, but just a little fell into your face anyway.

And your scent. It always wraps around him like the saccharine spice of pastries when he swings open the bakery door for his morning shift.

The moment you breezed by him after checkout was almost too much to bear. He caught the fresh damp scent of your tied up and deep conditioned hair. You smelled like fresh linens and a life he can only imagine having when he’s chasing orgasms alone and twisting up his sheets.

He could have devoured you.

But he didn’t.

Not even when your shoulder accidentally grazed him while you were rushing out in a frenzy.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” came your frantic whisper.

He dreams of making you that delicate again. He thinks he could shape your unsure apologies in his hands like clay, or spread you thin on a canvas when you whisper so soft. But he didn’t do those things at all.

Steve being Steve, he tried to make his large frame slouch, your aura wrapping him up into a double life Clark Kent shyness, despite your gentleness.

He didn’t say a word.

A wordless, mirthless stretch of his lips. An “It’s okay, walk all over me” grin. You regarded him with a flicker of an odd glance, and then you were out the door.

As he finishes up with the last shopper in his lane, his worn Converse squeak as he leans his frame against the bagging station at checkout.

-

Last class, last week, his art teacher dropped a big assignment. Stuffy and sadistic, the man seemed to only eat the pain of lovers kept from expression, so of course, he relished in the moment he told the class to try a new medium, with a subject they hadn’t previously captured.

He seemed to look directly at Steve as he delivered the blow.

Steve's problem certainly isn’t creativity. It isn’t talent or lack of effort. He surely is adaptable, he rarely tells on his love!

For the still life project, he captured the tree that blocks your kitchen window. Heavy strokes in his sketchbook.

He even painted the park in blooms on a paper towel—yes a paper towel—when you justified to a cashier one day that all the crackers and deli meats were for a picnic.

So he has a muse. But he’s not a fool. Sometimes he spends so much time trying not to look like a fool, and paints so much around you instead of you, that it’s a self portrait of his own obsession.

Your face. Your curves. The many separated sections where he tried to master the texture of your hair. All those traces of you live in his sketchbook. Only twice has he turned in a portrait of you.

Being told he can’t have you makes Steve feel like he’s been too obvious. You’re his little secret. And he is no fool. He’ll have to be more careful. So here he is.

The canvas is as bare as the walls of his studio apartment.

Three jobs and a potted plant from his mom just aren’t enough to decorate life. He wishes he could capture sleep in a picture frame and hang it on the wall. When he got too tired and caffeine stopped working, he thinks he’d pick up those frames and absorb the sleep in the way he can absorb nostalgia when looking at a real picture.

Then, he thinks, that’s the sort of thing art majors say when they haven’t slept in three weeks.

The canvas is still bare. It isn’t like Steve. He always knows where to go, what he feels, what he wants.

His teacher told him to try something different. Had the nerve to clap Steve on the back after class and say something about stretching creative wings and finding a new muse.

He thinks the guy should have punched him in the face instead.

There’s nothing stuck about Steve. He knows what he wants and how to get there.

He also knows that schooling ruins the intent of art, he knows how to put love into colors, that art teachers know the least about expression out of everyone on earth, and that he works two night jobs a week to barely afford to be taught by that man anyway.

Life is full of oddities.

-

Some of life’s oddities are right there in your cart as you approach. Steve notices the rain has frizzed your hair, the lovely heart shaped curve of your lips as they stretch into a smile, and the way you yawn before you say hello to the cashier.

He makes a mental note that your hair might have a warmer tinge when illuminated by the sun. You’re already his sun. His stars too. Maybe even his whole universe.

You’re always warm in his paintings. Anything to separate you from the dreadful scheme of this commercial death trap.

What’s for dinner this week?

Your groceries thump onto the counter in practiced succession. Perishables together at the front, and non perishables as neatly as possible following behind.

So thoughtful, my sweet darling.

Your produce today mostly consists of fruit. It reminds Steve of how practiced he is with a knife. How he’d slice up your apples just right for you. He has the practiced skills of an artist. He’d take care of you.

Bucky likes to tell him that cooking is the art and baking is the science. That’s meant to mean that it’s no surprise that Buckys got a perfect little life with a perfect little baker who smiles like the sun and only trusts Bucky in her kitchen.

...And it’s no surprise that Steve’s artsy streak has led him here. Thinking about folding mandarin slices between your perfect lips and letting the flavor explode across your tongue.

He thinks about kissing you. How you would taste tangy and sweet as you try not so hard to push him off so he gets back to cooking and doesn’t burn the house down.

The house. A house with you. A home.

He sees you’re wearing a sundress, and tries not to pity you for the irony. In the closet of some cookie cutter three bedroom, you might ask him how you look in it. He would beg you to wear it just for him a little longer, but ultimately, he would have been able to warn you about the rain.

You wouldn’t have listened though, my stubborn angel.

He thinks about your thighs beneath your dress, and the heat between them.

Sometimes, his dreams betray him, and he steps through the threshold to your shared home, not an artist, but a “Honey, I'm home” suit wearing prisoner.

He fears the simple life, but with you, he believes simplicity could be enough. Maybe he would be rich enough to buy you a million sundresses.

But without his art, he’d be powerless to show you how rich you look, bathed in color, divine from his perspective.

Without his art, he has no outlet for imagination. The only thing that gets him off these days is imagining what you look like under your clothes, and how it might sound if you spoke his name.

When you buy lotion, or a candle, he makes a mental note of the scent, and uses it to color his experience later. You like warm sugary scents, or natural outdoorsy ones, with no in between.

As you small talk with the cashier, your card slips from between your fingers and clatters onto the unswept floor. Finishing a thought, you delay in retrieving it, but by the time you’re leaning down, Steve’s already handing it back.

Eyes flitting up to meet the baggage boy standing up at full height, you melt into an easier smile.

You notice first that his eyes are incredibly blue behind the dark window frames, and second that his hands are incredibly warm as he hands your card back.

Frazzled, and just a bit smitten, you smile kindly.

“Thank you,” you say sweetly, regarding him fully, perhaps for the first time, and pausing only to let your eyes drift to the knitted cotton polo stretched across his broad chest—no, to the name tag resting on it…

“Steve,” you finish with a smile that makes it ring like an exclamation point. To hear you finally pronounce his name… it’s like church bells. But they’re muted because now he can only consider your eyes locked on his.

He’s never wanted to escape somewhere and go home with someone so badly. And would it be so wrong?

He could slice up fruit for you. He could bring sausages and deli meats and blocks of cheeses whole from the market where they slipped him things free. He’d slice them up nice and wrap them in cloth and surprise you with an old fashioned wicker basket picnic in the mountains.

He’d let you eat yourself round. And after you were full, he’d still offer to feed you grapes, to pour you more wine.

Steve never understood why the rich ate bread with olive oil, but God he wanted to be rich enough to give you that. All the things that sound ridiculous to people who work to live. He wanted to work so hard you’d never work again.

He wanted to kiss you dizzy, bunch up the fabric of your dress on your hip and tell you he loves you while you’re wine drunk. He’d carry you back to the car and surprise you with wildflowers in a bunch.

Later, he’d paint you nude with them in your hair, and he’d feed you more grapes.

He would tuck you in and wrap you up for later when you woke up missing him. Maybe he wouldn’t leave at all. Maybe you would want to spend the whole day with him too.

He’s got a twinkle of charm in his eye and just a bit of sadness that looks every bit like the starving artist people believe him to be. Bucky hasn’t stopped bringing him the leftover rolls at closing since he found out Steve spends more money on paint than meals.

And is it so wrong? As Steve looks into your eyes, he musters all that charm his mom said he was born with. He blinks brighter the twinkle in his eye.

“You’re welcome,” comes Steve’s gentle, but sure reply.

You pause at that, because really it’s nothing... But people always seem to say “Don’t worry about it!”, “It’s nothing”, or maybe nothing at all.

You pause at how the reaction seemed genuine, in a world of practiced replies, and on a day that you’re feeling shitty because the rain ruined your hair and happiness.

You smile at him again, grateful for a pocket of truthful kindness, and turn back to the cashier, effectively ending the interaction.

Steve’s mind is spinning in ways he just can’t bring himself to understand. So he bags your groceries. You forgot the reusable bags, he doesn’t pause to wonder why.

Click. Click. Click. Beep!

Tomatoes. He bags them with the apples. Double bags for good measure.

Beep.

Spaghetti. The good kind that most people overlook in favor of a more common brand. New bag.

Beep.

Frozen garlic bread. He adores you. You’ve got garlic and basil and more herbs than you’ll ever need at home. You’d probably make the spaghetti noodles and parmesan yourself if you could. But you love five minutes at 400 garlic bread.

He imagines your pretty little kitchen, with all its various knick knacks, smelling like garlic and tomato sauce. He can’t help thinking you’d be impressed with his chopping skills too. Just how his mom taught him.

He imagines cooking with you in the dead of night, instead of being here. He imagines you bending over with your legs straight and your back curved and the oven mitts on to get garlic bread out of the oven. You put the tray on the cold burners Steve’s not using.

Maybe he would ask you to try the sauce, he’d hold the spoon to your lips after blowing off for you. Your eyes always flutter closed to process the taste of things, and sometimes he swears he could read your mind.

Then they would open. Wide. The same way they did when you tasted the new product double chocolate brownie sample last Tuesday. You would tell him how perfect it is and praise how he finally isn’t shy about using garlic anymore. Turning off the burners, he’d pull you into his arms, he’d kiss you til you saw stars…

-

Walking you backwards, still entangled in the breathless kiss, he wouldn’t stop until you bumped the padded kitchen bench. Then he’d fall to his knees.

“Steve, honey”—

You’d cut yourself off with a breathy moan because he’d already be under your skirt.

Kissing up your thighs, flattening his tongue against you, kissing you gently, before sucking your clit, while working it with the tip of his tongue, he’d show you again, like always, how passionate of a lover he is.

You’d moan like heaven, because you are.

You’d lean back, propping yourself up on an arm and pushing the other hand through his golden hair. You just can’t stop your hips from rolling against his tongue that’s still worshipping you.

He won’t use his fingers. It wouldn’t be proper, he’s just been cooking. So instead, he uses those hands to pull your thighs up onto his shoulders.

Still swirling his tongue around your clit, Steve is drawing you closer, your body seeming to know it’s own ways to pull him to you too.

It’s electric. You can’t stop and you’d never want to. He’d make love to you every single—

-

That’s not where he is though. He grabs the paper bags he’s bagged up with your ingredients and some other oddities, and he places them in the cart you’ve pushed forward.

He tries not to think about the fact that you’re going home alone. He tries not to think about how he’ll be sleeping alone, and in cold colors. Tries to skip forward to later when he has all the time in the world to imagine the way things should be.

A quiet goodnight and you’re on your way. You’re careful not to graze him as you walk away, and he’s careful not to be obvious watching.

The cashier leaves the station, and Steve puts his head down as he passes, before looking up in your direction as he always does.

Except… when he looks up to see your sundress swishing, it isn’t. And you’re turned back looking at him with this funny little look.

You smile. A twinkle of embarrassment, nervous to have been caught looking. He tries not to chuckle for all the irony.

He watches you as you watch him just a bit longer, before your sundress swishes out the door, and the light of your halo fades into the distance, consumed by the rain.

-

By the time his shift is up, the rain has stopped and the sky is colored like a bruise. The sun knocks at a threshold unseen, just slightly feathering light through the sky.

Steve is dead tired, but he won’t sleep a wink. Once he arrives at his apartment, he begins the project.

A mixed medium piece. Acrylic paint, charcoal shadowed details. It’s a wicker basket, full of apples, grapes, and wildflowers.

-

Later, as the sun rises, and the painting is half done, he flops into bed, finishing up a stale roll from the bakery, and dreams about waking up to you.

He pretends there’s no job to be at in three and a half hours, but instead, that it’s a quiet Sunday, and he’s waking up to you in his arms...

Soft and ethereal.

-

Thank you for reading!

Whether or not this is your type of writing, or you liked it at all, I just want to tag some authors who generally inspire me and helped in some way to motivate me posting my first piece: @threeminutesoflife @imanuglywombat @sherrybaby14 @jtargaryen18 @heavenbarnes @tropicalcap @allaboardthereadingrailroad @thotty-tatertot @sapphirescrolls

#dark!steve #steve #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers #steve x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #steve au #steve rogers au #civillian!steve #artist!steve

[no6secretsanta]

Stay

Stay

From @pigeonsimba to @crowmunculus

The winter chill bites into Nezumi’s skin, tugging his hood back with icy fingers and nipping at his nose and ears until his whole head aches.

Well, aches more, as Nezumi already has a tension headache from clenching his teeth all throughout play practice. Why is it so hard for them to get it?

He knows No. 6 has never been a hub for the arts—that, in fact, until eight years ago, the arts and any other form of self-expression was illegal—but since the wall was torn down and the citizens of No. 6 and West Block were encouraged to mingle, Nezumi would have thought at least some talent might have managed to slip through.

But no. The whole group is a pile of steaming shit.

Nezumi has been working with the troupe for a little over half a year, and they are still as miserable as when he first stepped through the door and ripped their run-through of Into the Woods to shreds. He barely managed to whip them into shape before showtime, and he only deigned to intercede because he could not bear to see a musical butchered so thoroughly in front of a live audience. The end result was passable, but apparently so improved from the group’s prior performances that the actors begged Nezumi to stay on as their director.

Nezumi had been steadfastly against it, but Shion insinuated it might be good for him, and Karan started making obvious comments about how great Nezumi was at theater, and finally Inukashi cracked and told him to fucking agree to the job already so he could stop mooching off of Karan’s goodwill.

Nezumi viciously regrets letting himself be bullied into taking the position. The worst of the volunteers act with all the charisma of wooden dolls; the best are sycophantic hams who howl their lines into the audience and throw themselves upon the stage props like “drama” means “dramatics.” Nezumi wants to cull the whole theater, but he’s already invested so much time into it that he’s loath to start over with a fresh crop of amateurs.

It seems No. 6 will always be a seat of disappointment and frustration for him, no matter how nicely the city functioned now under the Restructural Committee. It’s nights like this when Nezumi wishes he was still on the road.

 When he was traveling the world with nothing but the clothes on his back and his knife at his hip, he only had nature and his thoughts to contend with. The land never disappointed him the way people did; though it tested him almost as much.

He had staggered, starving, over endless yellowing plains; been bitten and stung by animals and insects he hadn’t known the names of; his skin had blistered from trekking over golden hills of sand under the relentless sun; he had hallucinated from hypothermia and nearly died in the mountains outside No. 4.

But Nezumi had always been a survivor, and for every time he skirted death, he gained a little more appreciation for the world around him. It had power he could never wield, power the human race would never possess nor fully understand. Elyurias had shown him his first taste of the wonder of the unknown, however bitter that lesson had been.

 Alone in the wilderness, there is no one to blame but yourself if things go wrong. The elements are punishing, but they are impartial. The sun doesn’t burn him to show its might; the rivers’ currents don’t snatch at his ankles to bring him to his knees; the trees don’t shed their leaves to rob him of shelter and food. The elements don’t care whether he lived or died. Nezumi means nothing to them and they have nothing to prove.

Nezumi had traveled the world for seven years, and even though he knew there was more to see, there had come a morning when he woke and the stillness in his chest said that it was enough; it was time to make good on his promise and attempt to put down roots.

So far, Nezumi has done well to keep the wanderlust to a low murmur in his chest, but sometimes, the roots still feel like choking tethers. He misses the days when he only had himself to rely on, the freedom of knowing that if someone’s company no longer suited him, or a job grew stagnant, he could simply pick up and move on.

Nezumi’s pocket vibrates and the reverie slips away in an exasperated cloud of breath when he checks his phone’s lit-up screen. It’s Midori, the most veteran actor in the troupe and resident thorn in Nezumi’s side. The woman is a prima donna in every sense of the word, but that’s not why she’s on Nezumi’s shit list: prima donnas he could deal with, but Midori is a frustrating mix of loudly entitled and deeply self-conscious. She demands starring roles, only to repeatedly ask for praise and reassurance of her abilities.

He presses the silence button and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. He’s already late and he’s almost to Shion’s house, and he doesn’t want to exacerbate his headache or Midori’s fragile self-worth by spitting venom into a receiver.

Yet another thing to miss about wandering through the wilderness: no phones. Every mile walked in blessed silence.

Nezumi mounts the stairs to Shion’s apartment and fumbles to pull the spare key Shion gave him out of his pocket and shove it into the lock. The brass door knob is so cold the metal burns in his hand as he turns it and slips inside.

Only the lamp beside the couch is on, but the apartment is small enough that the soft light is enough to illuminate the whole space. The front door opens onto a neat little kitchen, and beyond that is the living room, outfitted with a small dining table, an armchair, and a couch and coffee table. Two long bookcases span the length of the back wall, their shelves and tops stacked with novels half pilfered from the underground room and half collected by Shion over the years. The heaps atop the bookcases are high enough that they block the windows behind, so in the afternoons, the sunlight has to steal through the crevices of the towers like a thief, painting irregular patterns on the laminate floors and over the thick-fibered rug that lays beneath the coffee table. The bedroom and bathroom lay off to the right, completing the tour of Shion’s humble abode.

It’s odd to enter the house and realize that it’s Shion’s home. It’s a far step up from the underground room, and certainly much nicer than any of the places Nezumi has lived in since.

Nezumi makes a cursory glance around the quiet living space, but he doesn’t see Shion. He frowns and checks his phone for missed texts or calls, but there’s only the ones from Midori.

Maybe he stepped out? Nezumi is more than a half an hour late, after all, but it would be very out of character for Shion to walk out when he is expecting guests.

The bedroom door is shut and silent, and Nezumi wonders whether Shion is changing. Or possibly he’s asleep, Nezumi considers drily. It wouldn’t be the first time Shion invited him over, only to pass out in the middle of the visit.

Well, if Shion did forget he invited Nezumi over, or accidently fell asleep in his room, Nezumi isn’t going to just turn around and return to his room at Karan’s bakery. It’s too freaking cold out and his stomach is growling like a wild animal, so Nezumi removes his shoes and pads into the kitchen in search of something small and quiet to eat.

A snatch of deep blue fabric catches his eye as he moves toward the cabinet to grab a bowl: a tie thrown over the back of the dining room table chair. Shion’s leather briefcase lays splayed over the table, its papers peeking out of the lip where the buckle isn’t fastened properly.

The corner of Nezumi’s mouth quirks up. He had always thought of Shion as a neat person—after all, Shion threw a fit about the state of the underground room and systematically organized the whole space, and only a neat freak would do something so pointless when they knew full well Nezumi was just going to come back and muck it up again. But after returning to No. 6 and reacquainting himself with Shion, Nezumi discovered that Shion isn’t quite as uptight as he thought.

Shion is by no means untidy, but he has habitual ways of making messes: clothes strewn over his bed, cartons left on countertops, reading glasses and mugs and paperwork abandoned on the coffee table for days before Shion remembers to put them away.

Maybe Shion had been more Type A when he was sixteen, and his time working in the real world has forced him to bend in the interest of saving time, but Nezumi has a different theory: Shion had been on his best behavior in the underground room because he had always thought of it as Nezumi’s home and himself a guest staying there.

Nezumi knows he hadn’t been an easy person to live with, and he can’t say with certainty that if Shion had left messes around the underground room that he wouldn’t have used them as ammunition to threaten and criticize Shion when he felt they were getting too close.

Nezumi presses his lips together as every slight, and scowl, and unkindness he’d shown Shion when they were kids flits through his memory. No, he hadn’t been the easiest person to live with, and despite Shion’s constant probing and declarations of affection, there had always been a wall between them—mostly of Nezumi’s making, but at least part of the distance between them came from Shion’s stubborn misjudgments of his character.

Neither of them understood themselves well then, and that had made it impossible for them to understand each other.

But that was the past, and Nezumi has learned not to hold onto the things he can’t change. He and Shion aren’t the same people now, and they have agreed to start from scratch. Still, he can’t help the surprise he feels when Shion acts contrary to his perceptions, or the pangs of guilt when memories of his past conduct rise unbidden to his mind.

Nezumi peers over the countertop and finds Shion’s shiny dress shoes kicked off against the side of the heavy coffee table. A fogged-up plate cover rests atop the table, laid upon a dish towel to protect the lacquer, and Nezumi abandons foraging for a bowl to investigate. He spots a tuft of white against the dark gray of the couch and realizes that Shion is not sleeping in the bedroom after all.

The couch isn’t long enough for him to stretch out, so Shion is curled on his side in the fetal position, half of his face pressed so snugly into one of the throw pillows that Nezumi suspects he’ll have the lines and seams imprinted on his cheek when he wakes. The top few buttons of Shion’s shirt are undone, as are the buttons at his wrists, the sleeves rolled back to reveal the pale skin of his arms. Nezumi’s gaze traces the edges of the red scar wending its way around Shion’s neck, following its path until it slips beneath the collar of his shirt. He looks peaceful, and Nezumi feels some of the tension ebb out of his head and shoulders as he studies the sleeping man.

It’s odd to think of him—them—that way, as a “man.” On the road, Nezumi always remembered Shion as he had been: cute and heartbreakingly earnest, with his fluffy white hair, big brown eyes, and even bigger ideas. Nezumi had found him equal parts endearing and maddening. But the years have shaped Shion into a man of consequence and elegance.

When he walks into a room, the gravity shifts in his direction; Nezumi’s seen it on televised programs and in person. People are drawn to Shion like bees to a brilliant flower, and Nezumi has never seen someone who’s able to resist Shion’s easy charm; everyone caught in conversation with him leaves smiling and murmuring praises, no exceptions.

Nezumi always joked about Shion being royalty, but he never imagined Shion might actually become No. 6’s new era prince. Calling him Your Highness and Your Majesty seem less like teases now than his actual titles.

But Nezumi doesn’t call Shion those nicknames anymore. The first time he slipped into his old habit, Shion had given him such a look that Nezumi almost excused himself from Karan’s bakery and skipped town again. Apparently, being part of the Restructural Committee has made Shion painfully conscious of how tyrannical governments can be, and he will no longer tolerate Nezumi referring to him as No. 6’s ruler, even in jest.

That’s new: being deferential to Shion. Nezumi isn’t sure whether he’s so cautious because he’s changed enough that he cares about getting into—and staying in—Shion’s good graces, or if it’s that Shion has just become that much more intense.

Shion’s always been too much for him to handle: too warm, too stubborn, too bright, too naive. Too human. The winter they spent together in the underground room was the happiest and most terrifying winter of Nezumi’s life. West Block taught him never to get attached to anything, because he never knew when it would be snatched from him. Nezumi didn’t know how to throw Shion away, and he didn’t know how to keep him safe, so every moment they spent together was like slowly drowning.

The time away from each other has worked wonders on Nezumi’s emotional growth, and he had thought he was ready to come back and face Shion as equals, but Shion is still too much for him. The important difference between now and then, however, is that Nezumi doesn’t want to run from the challenge. He doesn’t need to fight to live anymore and Shion certainly doesn’t need his protection, so that leaves them free to be human together.

Only, Nezumi is still learning how to fully be himself in front of someone he actually wants to see every day. A transient life doesn’t give one much practice on building lasting relationships. But he’s working on it, and this new, grown-up Shion doesn’t seem to be in a rush to prise him apart.

A yellow sticky note is stuck to the top of the plate cover, and when Nezumi cranes his head to read the cramped script, a smile steals over his face. The note says, “Wake me up before you eat!” The words “wake me up” are darkened and underlined several times, a warning that this isn’t a request; it’s an order.

Nezumi has ignored Shion’s verbal instructions to wake him many times before, so he’s not sure why Shion thinks emphatic notes are going to have more weight. God knows Shion needs the sleep. He’s up at 5:00 a.m., works until the sun is far below the horizon, only to come home and continue working. If he passes out on the couch from exhaustion, Nezumi figures he shouldn’t mess with the natural order of things.

But, well… Shion did invite him over, and tonight Nezumi is feeling like a little company.

So, he muses to himself, how should I go about this?

One time, he woke Shion by dropping a stack of books on the table. He thought it would be funny to see him jump at the loud noise, but Shion screamed instead, scaring the shit out of them both. Shion was surly with him for the rest of the afternoon, but he paid Nezumi back the next morning by sneaking into his room at the bakery at the ass-crack of dawn and dumping an armful of paperbacks onto Nezumi’s head before he skipped off to work. That was some cold-served revenge Nezumi hadn’t expected and wouldn’t soon forget.

Tonight, Nezumi decides he’d rather wake Shion gently, so as to avoid any vengeful repercussions.

He reaches for Shion’s shoulder and gives him a light shake. A low groan of resistance rumbles in Shion’s throat and Nezumi gives him another nudge. “Shion. You asked for this, remember?”

Shion’s brow creases and he burrows his face deeper into the pillow, until all Nezumi can see is the mess of his sleep-mussed hair. Nezumi’s mouth twitches. Cute.

The mischievous part of his brain tells him to blow in Shion’s ear, but the rational side knows better. Nezumi slips his fingers into the soft strands of Shion’s hair and gives it a ruffle. It’s criminally soft and warm against his winter-chilled fingers.

“Wake up, Shion,” Nezumi whispers, combing the snowy locks behind his ear. “I’m hungry.”

Finally, Shion lifts his head and squints at him. “Mm. Hey. Did you just get here?” he manages, just before a huge yawn claims him.

Nezumi slides his fingers once more through Shion’s downy hair while he’s too sleepy to really notice, then folds his arms over his chest.

Shion sits up and stretches his legs out in front of him, bumping his feet against the base of the coffee table. “How was work?”

Nezumi screws his mouth to the side, but his headache has dissipated and he can’t drum up the level of annoyance he felt on the walk over, so he answers with a blasé, “Fine. Everyone still sucks.”

Shion flashes him a quick, sleepy smile and nods at the table. “I made dinner.”

Nezumi plucks the fogged-up plate cover off the dish and discovers dinner is chili. “Finally got around to using that crockpot, huh?”

“It was really easy to make. You just throw the ingredients in there and time does the rest.”

“Mhm…. You know you’re supposed to refrigerate this, or keep it in the pot until it’s ready to be served?”

Shion shrugs. “It hasn’t been out that long.”

“It’s gone cold. How long have you been sleeping on the couch? Do you even know what time it is?” Nezumi glances over at the microwave clock.

Shion slants a look at him. “Time to stop being mean to me. I just woke up from a nap, and you know how I get when I’m woken up from a nap.”

Nezumi feigns a cringe. “Yes. All too well.” He takes the bowl and crosses the room to pop it in the microwave. 

When he turns back around, he finds Shion tidying the living room, heaping the dish towel, the plate cover, and his fancy work shoes into his arms before moving to the kitchen table for his tie and bag. He still looks half asleep. Nezumi leans back against the counter and watches Shion stumble around in the half light, his hands full of his mess.

For all that Shion has grown, he’s still very much the boy Nezumi remembers: soft and effortless and searching. Teenaged Nezumi had been a fortress, but Shion’s goodness always fleet-footed its way up the ramparts.

Shion’s quiet tenacity used to scare him. Now it feels like a blessing that someone cares enough to try to breach his walls. If Nezumi hadn’t had the memories of Shion’s warmth through the lonely nights of travel, he wasn’t sure what paths he would have taken, or if the journey would ever have led him back to No. 6.

Shion catches him staring and pauses on the other side of the island counter. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I haven’t made a sound.”

“Your eyes are laughing at me.”

Nezumi snorts. “My, we really are in a bad mood, aren’t we?”

Shion’s shoulders drop and he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Today was…long.” He shifts the heap he has collected in his arms and turns to the dining table, weighing his chances of success should he try to add the paper-laden briefcase to his horde.

“You should go to bed,” Nezumi says. “You look one object away from crumpling to the floor. I’ll clean up and leave once I’m done with eating.”

“No, I want to have dinner with you tonight. That’s why I invited you over. I just…” Shion hums in thought, still sizing up the briefcase. He clicks his tongue. “Oh, never mind. I give up,” Shion huffs, and dumps the collection in his arms onto the far end of the table to be fussed over at a time when he has more brain power to deal with it.

Nezumi chuckles, and turns to the beeping microwave to retrieve his food.

Shion settles himself in his designated chair, and Nezumi takes up the seat across from him.

“Where’s your bowl?” Nezumi asks. “You said you wanted to eat dinner with me.”

“Hm? Oh…” Shion colors slightly. “Right, well… I was hungry when I got home, and it was a while before you were supposed to come over, so I already ate.”

Nezumi raises an eyebrow. “And you were asleep before I even got here. I wonder why I came over at all. These are not the actions of a host looking forward to his guest.”

“I was looking forward to you coming over,” Shion insists. “I would have called you to cancel, if I wasn’t. And falling asleep was not on purpose.”

“It was on purpose enough that you had the forethought to leave a note to wake you up.”

Shion has no defense for that, apparently, and drops his gaze to the steam rising from the chili bowl. Nezumi bites down on a smile.

“I can make a small bowl for myself, if you want to eat together,” Shion offers, but Nezumi waves him off.

“Just keep me company and I’ll consider you forgiven.”

The chili is delicious, the perfect balance of spices and liquid consistency. But then, it’s Karan’s recipe, so of course it’s perfect.

When Nezumi first arrived in No. 6, he stayed in a room on the cusp between what used to be West Block territory and Lost Town. He remained there, alone, for a week, fussing over when and where and how he would announce to Shion he was back. He finally resolved upon visiting Karan first, since she was the mini boss in this situation.

Karan hugged him before he even finished reintroducing himself, and things snowballed from there. A month later, Nezumi found himself moved into Shion’s old room in the Lost Town bakery and having family dinners with Karan, Shion, Inukashi, baby Shionn, and occasionally Rikiga. The warm family atmosphere is at once disorienting, uncomfortable, and deeply satisfying. Being part of a greater whole appeals to a part of himself that Nezumi hadn’t even realized he had been missing.

The biggest perk of living with Karan, however, is that Nezumi has his pick of the most delicious foods and pastries imaginable. Nezumi has experienced some extremely novel, odd, and mouth-watering cuisines while traveling abroad, but Karan’s cooking could compete with the best of them. She makes simple things, comfort food, but every recipe is executed perfectly, and Nezumi would take common food made well over fancy dishes any day.

Shion rests his chin in his hand and says nothing as Nezumi eats. He looks more alert now. The glossy film of sleep has faded from his eyes, and Shion’s gaze is back to its usual level of penetrating. Shion’s ability to stare like he can see past all your bullshit directly into your soul hasn’t changed one bit. In fact, being a member of No. 6’s governing body seems to have made his perceptions more astute.

This is both a comfort and a cause of deep uneasiness.

“You must like it,” Shion says, “because you’re not saying anything.”

Nezumi spoons another bite into his mouth and chews on that comment. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating. It sounds like you think I only talk to criticize.”

Shion straightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Fishing for compliments, then?” Nezumi shrugs a shoulder. “Alright. Karan’s recipe is really delicious. You must give her my praises.”

Shion turns face away and shakes his head, but Nezumi still catches the curve of his incredulous smirk. Nighttime sparring is Nezumi’s preferred type, because Shion is usually too tired to win.

“Deliver the praises yourself,” Shion says. “You live there, not me.”

“I compliment Karan all the time. But I don’t think it means as much coming from me.”

“It means a lot. Mom loves you.”

Nezumi hums a sound of assent and decides to be civil and ask, “How was your day, then?”

“Fine.” Shion leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Everyone still sucks.”

Nezumi points his spoon at him. “Touché.”

Shion laughs lightly, but a moment later his face sours and he sighs. “Talking about work after work is depressing. Can we talk about something better?”

“I would love to, but I don’t think either of us do much else but work and read, Shion. And last time I tried to discuss literature with you over dinner, you told me to stop.”

Shion leans his elbows on the table and laces his fingers together, his expression serious. “You were playing devil’s advocate too much. I don’t get why people do that. If we’re having a discussion about something, I want to know your opinion, not an opposing opinion for opposition’s sake. And if it is actually your opinion, then don’t hide behind ‘playing devil’s advocate.’ Just be honest about it; otherwise, you come off as an uppity snob, parroting views that aren’t even yours just to pick a fight.” 

“…I feel like you’ve been sitting on that diatribe for quite some time.”

“I was thinking about it all week,” Shion admits. “People in the office do it, too, all the time, and it drives me crazy.”

Nezumi nods his head slowly. “Duly noted. Anything else you’ve been stewing on that you want to share?”

Shion’s expression goes quiet. His interlaced fingers tense, but he holds Nezumi’s gaze and says lightly, “No. That’s it.” 

The temperature in the room drops a few degrees. Okay… That’s concerning. Nezumi focuses on scraping the last remnants of chili from his bowl to mask his confusion. What did Shion have on his mind that he didn’t want to share?

Did I offend him?

Shion hasn’t seemed irritated or guarded around him lately, but then Nezumi doesn’t know him as well as he used to. Shion’s basically a politician now and is well-versed in evading uncomfortable questions and bending truths. But even though Shion has gained some important networking skills, he hasn’t changed that much in essentials; he’s still straightforward and fiercely opinionated. If Nezumi pisses him off, Shion lets him have it right then and there. So whatever it is, it’s a touchy enough subject that even Shion balks at mentioning it.

Does he want me to back off?

Nezumi’s stomach twists, and his appetite shrinks in the shadow of his thoughts. It’s barely been any time at all since Shion welcomed him back. He couldn’t be sick of him yet… Right?

Nezumi knew reuniting with Shion wouldn’t be seamless. They would have to relearn each other; they’re different now, and there’s no pretending that difference away when they’re in close quarters with one another. He had expected anger and hurt when he and Shion finally faced each other again, but Shion has shown him nothing but warmth. Shion’s emotions are more muted at twenty-four years old than they were at sixteen, but he is no less gracious or willing to throw open his home to Nezumi again.

Nezumi had been grateful for the warm welcome. It was proof that Shion still wanted him around, but he also recognizes that Shion’s willingness to try again merely meant Nezumi had gotten his foot in the door.

Nezumi knows very well he’s on probation.

The seven years of separation that had brought Nezumi so much clarity had apparently caused Shion a lot of pain. Nezumi has picked up enough from Karan and Inukashi to piece together the broken picture of Shion’s life in the first four years of their separation: anxiety, depression, periods of simmering misdirected anger. As happy as Shion’s friends and family are that Nezumi made good on his promise and returned—as happy as Shion claims to be—they have reservations about letting him slip back into Shion’s life. They want definitive proof that he’s here to stay, and will not make a ruin of Shion’s feelings a second time.

Nezumi thought he gave Shion that proof when he agreed to move in with Karan. He thought he’s shown his dedication through the family dinners, and casual conversations, and solicitude for Shion’s personal space over the last few months, but maybe he’s growing too slowly for it to work. Maybe for all the progress Nezumi has made he isn’t enough for Shion anymore.

In West Block, Shion needed him; he was marooned and uncertain, and Nezumi was his only support and source of information. But Nezumi isn’t Shion’s whole world now. Shion has work, and friends, and a mother who loves him, and he’s gotten by just fine while they were apart. Maybe he’s realized that Nezumi no longer fits into his life the way he used to.

“Nezumi? What’re you thinking about?”

Nezumi glares down into his empty bowl. He never wants to return to the angry, caged person he had been, but sometimes he remembers what a bitter hell it is to care about another person, and he wishes he could push away the feelings instead of letting them burn through him.

“Nezumi?” Shion reaches across the table and pokes his bowl with the tip of his pointer finger. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just thinking about what you said earlier, about being honest.” Nezumi pushes out his chair and stands. “Easier said than done sometimes.”

He takes the bowl to the kitchen sink and begins to wash it. Midway through soaping the spoon with the sponge, he hears Shion’s soft footfalls on the tile behind him. His presence pricks at the back of Nezumi’s neck like heat, but he keeps his attention on the sink.

“You can use the dishwasher, you know….”

“Old habit,” Nezumi answers. He rinses the spoon off, places it in the drying rack, and moves on to the bowl.

Stupid, Nezumi curses himself. Old habits indeed. He’s too old to be covering his insecurity with fits of pique.

And what is he so upset about, anyway? Shion hasn’t said he’s unhappy or he wants him to leave. He could be hiding something entirely different—he could be hiding nothing at all. Maybe Shion’s just tired. Maybe they’re both very tired and being weird for no reason and everything will settle itself in the morning.

Nezumi scrubs the bowl until the brilliant blue of the glass is completely eclipsed by soap.

“I made you mad,” Shion says like a revelation. “Why?”

Why? Nezumi doesn’t have to do any deep meditation on the question. He’s upset because he has feelings now and everything is inconvenient. Every one of Shion’s smiles makes him hopeful, and every frown and cautious reply sends his mind into a paranoid spiral. And although he’s in tune enough with his emotions now to acknowledge what he’s feeling, his stubborn pride is still an obstacle to expressing them.

So here he is, acting like a spoiled child about something that isn’t even confirmed.

Nezumi splashes a bit of water over the bowl and drops it onto the bottom of the sink with suds still clinging to the rim. He scrubs the water from his hands with a cloth and faces Shion.

“I’m not mad,” Nezumi mutters. “I’m…” Off balance. Terrified. Utterly inept. “Confused,” he hedges.

Shion bites his lip, his dark eyes wide and searching, and Nezumi tries not to sound like too much of an insecure fool when he says, “You lied to me just now. There’s something on your mind.”

Annnnd, now I sound accusatory. Nice. Shion doesn’t answer immediately and it makes the moment so much worse. 

Why did he have to be a masochist and call him out? He should have ignored the awkwardness and enjoyed Shion’s company instead. If Shion is uncertain of their relationship, he could have used tonight to convince him it’s worth giving them another chance. Instead, he’s forced Shion to tip his hand.

With every silent second that passes, Shion looks more uncomfortable and Nezumi wants to crawl out of his skin. He can’t stand the nervous tilt to Shion’s expression. Nezumi turns back toward the sink and runs the water over the bowl again, just to have a reason to escape Shion’s gaze, no matter how transparent.

“I didn’t want to bring it up yet,” Shion says softly behind him. The words trace a line of cold down Nezumi’s spine. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and I didn’t—” Shion pauses and clears his throat.

The bowl is clean, but Nezumi keeps the water running, staring down at the stream and dissociating while he waits for Shion to deliver the critical blow.

“It’s only been a few months, and I know you’re still settling in at Mom’s,” Shion continues. “I didn’t want to put too much pressure on you.”

Pressure? Nezumi’s racing heart makes it very difficult to think properly, but he vaguely realizes Shion’s words are a strange lead up to telling him to hit the road.

Nezumi flicks the faucet off and half turns to peer at him. Shion straightens when their eyes meet and a combination of relief and agitation flits over his face before falling into a guilty sort of apprehension.

“I was afraid,” Shion says. “I didn’t want to scare you away when things have been going so well.”

“Scare me away…how?” Nezumi is thankful he’s such an accomplished actor, because it allows him to deliver the question with completely calm curiosity. Internally, he is a mess of electricity. Shion doesn’t want to scare him away, which means Shion wants to keep him close. His heart is pounding so hard his head feels like it’s going to explode.

Shion opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then turns his burning face aside and fixes his eyes on the front door. He’s raking his thumbnail so deeply and incessantly against the second knuckle of his pointer finger that he seems in danger of rubbing the skin raw.

“I wanted to ask…” Shion mumbles to the door, “whether you might consider…staying here.”

Nezumi drums his fingers quietly on the counter but otherwise stays very still as he probes, “Here as in…?”

“Here. My house.”

The faucet releases an errant drop into the sink; the faint plop is thunderous in the silence stretched taut between them. Nezumi clears his throat and turns his body the rest of the way to face Shion straight on. Shion glances at him sidewise, probably trying to read his expression, but as Nezumi is keeping his face carefully devoid of emotion, Shion will get nothing.

Nezumi leans back, crosses his arms across his chest, and asks as casually as humanly possible, “You want me to stay over tonight?”

He’s pretty sure Shion doesn’t mean anything suggestive by it, considering they are not romantically involved anymore—yet?—but even as a platonic invitation it makes Nezumi’s breath catch in his throat.

Shion eyes Nezumi up and down, and although he knows Shion’s probably just trying to get a read on him, a flash of heat skitters over Nezumi’s skin. He shifts fractionally and Shion’s eyebrows twitch up in equal measure. Shion stops pretending to be fascinated with the door, and Nezumi has a sense that he’s given something crucial away.

“No. Well—not exactly,” Shion says. “I want you to move in with me.”

Nezumi’s mind sticks.

Move in. Shion isn’t trying to get rid of him. In fact, Shion isn’t tired of him at all. He wants to live with him again.

Which is…terrifying? Exciting? Baffling and blessed and wholly unexpected. Nezumi isn’t sure how to feel about this sudden invitation, because he hasn’t belonged somewhere in years. He had never thought he was the type to stay put.

Until Shion.

His whole impetus for slowing down and returning was Shion. They’ve been stuck in each other’s orbits since they were twelve years old, and Nezumi has finally reached the point where he’s ready to submit to the gravity of them. But that’s a two-way street, and Nezumi expected he would have to match Shion’s patience if he ever had a chance of winning him back. If he and Shion ended up together, this time it wouldn’t be an arrangement of convenience or necessity; it would be because they had chosen to build a life side by side.

And Shion is asking me to live with him again.

Nezumi realizes he’s been silent too long when Shion starts twitch and flutter, a telltale sign he’s about to launch into a nervous ramble. God, Nezumi is so grateful time hasn’t trained that quirk out of him.

“I know it’s kind of… Kind of quick, maybe?” Shion babbles. “And maybe it’s a little backwards, since we’re not…together anymore, yet, and people usually move in after they’re already together, but…” He flushes, but pushes through the stumble quickly. “But we’ve done it before, and it worked then, and I think it will work just as well now. Better, even. We’re older, and we both know what we want out of life—and each other.”

Not the most coherent speech, but Nezumi agrees with all the sentiments. Even so, he finds himself asking, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Maybe it’s a dumb question in light of Shion’s confession, but Nezumi has to ask it. He has to hear the answer in order to quell the doubts bubbling up from the darkest parts of his mind, the parts that have grown quieter as he’s grown, but still whisper he’s not worth it, that he’s twisted and broken and taints any goodness that comes his way.

“I’m sure,” Shion says. “I’ve thought a lot about it and I realized something.” He takes a deep breath and stares directly into Nezumi’s eyes as he says, “I don’t need you anymore, Nezumi. I can get on just fine without you; I know that. But I want you in my life. And it seems like you want that too?”

“Yes.” Nezumi’s answer lacks Shion’s conviction, but it’s alright; Shion knows him well enough to realize he wouldn’t agree to something so serious if he isn’t committed. “I would like that.”

Shion releases a small breath. “So it’s a yes?” He slides a bit closer along the counter. “You’ll move in? You don’t have to. I know it’s fast and you’re used to being alone. I won’t be offended if you need more time.”

“I don’t. I’ve had plenty of time to think too, you know.”

“Right,” Shion laughs lightly. “Okay. Good.”

Nezumi and Shion smile at each other in the wake of their new understanding. Despite the wintry draft slipping in under the front door, the kitchen feels warm.

Too warm.

“I’m not as clean as you,” Nezumi blurts. Moving in together is fun in theory and Nezumi definitely wants to, but it’s only fair he be upfront about what Shion’s about to get stuck with.

Shion’s smile is incandescent. “I know. It’s fine.”

“And I’m told I still kick in my sleep.”

“I have a queen bed now, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I shower in the mornings, and it takes at least twenty minutes, so you’ll have to factor that in when you get up for work.”

“I shower at night, so I think it’ll be fine.” Shion pauses. “But twenty minutes is a long time. What do you do in there for so long?”

Nezumi ignores the question and launches into his next point. “You’re going to need more bookcases. At least two more. I have a shit ton of books; they barely fit in my room as it is.”

Shion glances at his back wall. “I’ve been meaning to buy more anyway.” He raises his eyebrows. “Anything else?”

A million other things, but Nezumi decides that’s enough for the moment. Shion’s eyes are wide and full of laughter and the bit of scar peeking out from his unbuttoned collar is all of a sudden very distracting.

“You better not change your mind about this,” warns Nezumi. “Once I move in, I’m not leaving again.”

Shion’s eyes flash. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Nezumi can’t help but smile when he answers, “A promise.”

Shion lifts his chin and nods, evidently pleased. They regard each other shyly for a moment before Shion decides to diffuse the tension by announcing they’re going to watch a movie.

Ten minutes in and Nezumi pretends not to notice when Shion’s head starts to nod. Twenty minutes in, and Shion is back to being face-down on the throw pillow. Nezumi abandons the movie-watching farce and watches Shion sleep instead.

This is what I’m signing up for, Nezumi thinks, shaking his head. Night after night of Shion asleep and defenseless on the couch. He cards his fingers through the fluffy white hair at the nape of Shion’s neck.

He can hardly wait.

#no6 #no.6 #no. 6 #no 6 #pigeonsimba #crowmunculus #no6secretsanta #fanfiction #submission

[lifeofkaze]

An Art of Balance #8

Orion Amari x MC

A/N: I did it, under 2.000 words, hooray! And not because that’s actually HALF of a chapter that I had to split due to way too many words. Sigh. As always, Katriona Cassiopeia belongs to my amazing friend @kc-needs-coffee, I love borrowing her so much <3

Warning: mild swearing

 Word Count: ~ 1.700

______________________________________________________________ 

Chapter 8: Rain & Thunder

Much to her dismay, Lizzie had been right.

Skye had decided to cope with her emotions by converting them into anger, most of it directed at her. Although completely unwarranted, they hadn’t exchanged any words above the bare minimum since the incident at the Quidditch stands. Lizzie had tried to talk sense into her at first, but after a few attempts she had given up.

If Skye was intent on making Lizzie her emotional punching bag, good riddance to her.

As the usual mediator between the girls, McNully had suggested to get Penny to reason with her, but the blond girl had downright refused.

“She is embarrassed because of me, I’m the last person she wants to see right now.”

So they had had no choice but to accept Skye’s stubbornness and leave her alone. It pained Lizzie to be shut out by her friend once again, but there was nothing she could do to set things right. She only hoped they would work things out in time for the match against Ravenclaw.

 *

Lizzie shivered as she fastened the buckles of her Quidditch gloves tighter. The air in the Hufflepuff changing room was freezing, the icy winds howling outside making her wish the match was already over and done with.

The cold had hit them earlier than usual this year. It had been raining ceaselessly for the last week and today was not an exception. Even over the sharp gusts of wind Lizzie could hear the rumble of the excited crowd that had gathered on the stands to watch the match Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw despite the horrific conditions.

It was almost time for the teams to enter the pitch. Lizzie could feel the familiar flutter in her stomach settling in. Even after all these years, she had to fight hard to keep her cool before every single match. Pacing up and down, brimming with anticipation, she glanced over to Orion. He was fastening his captain’s armband above his jersey, looking as deeply relaxed as ever; nothing seemed to be able to shake him out of his balanced state of mind.

Trying to distract herself, Lizzie’s mind wandered back to their last tutoring session in the greenhouse a few days earlier. They had talked about her strained relationship with Skye and discussed tactical options for the match ahead. Developing strategies for possible scenarios while trimming leaves or repotting plants had become somewhat of a habit for them.

Unfortunately, Rowan got left out of the conversation when she and Orion started discussing team matters; and while Lizzie did feel guilty about not exactly furthering her friend’s ambitions, somehow, she just couldn’t help herself. She had always found Orion easy to open up to, but since they had started sharing something besides Quidditch, Lizzie had discovered he was much more faceted than she had thought before.

Sensing her nerves, Orion casually strolled over to her and put his hand reassuringly upon her shoulder.

“Relax, we’ll be doing fine. Just remember our strategy. If the universe does not interfere, we will come out on top.”

A derisive snort behind them had them turn their heads. Skye, who was leaning against one of the poles supporting the huge tent, was shaking her head in disbelief.

“Our strategy is bollocks if you ask me. Ravenclaw’s Beaters are far too skilled for this nonsense you came up with. Cassiopeia almost never misses a target and I know personally what it does to you to take a Bludger from Rath.”

“This is not the time, Skye. We have agreed on a plan and we are sticking to it. Changing everything now will severely unbalance our team. More so than it is already,” Orion replied calmly, but Lizzie could make out an edge of tension to his voice.

“We wouldn’t have to change anything if the plan was decent. I could have come up with something better suited in a heartbeat,” Skye huffed.

Lizzie’s had heard enough. She was already on edge as it was, and Skye criticising Orion mere minutes before the beginning of the match was enough to make her snap. She abruptly turned around fully to face the other girl.

“Tell you what, Skye I’m so fucking great Parkin. Orion’s strategy is sound, Orion’s strategy is valid and Orion’s strategy will help us win this thing. If you have a problem with this, I suggest next time you don’t run off practise as soon as your feet hit the ground, just because you have a problem with your overinflated ego!”

Skye’s face turned red, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Who do you even think you are, you- “

“That is enough, I believe.” Orion firmly stepped between them, keeping them apart with his hands, their eyes shooting daggers at each other. For a moment, his calm eyes caught Lizzie’s, begging her wordlessly to back down before things got even worse.

Lizzie was not nearly done with Skye; all the times she had been the target of her unwarranted anger were bubbling to the surface with force. But the steady look in Orion’s dark eyes cooled her fury enough to let her draw a deep, steadying breath. Without a word she spun around and stalked to the other end of the changing room.

As Orion called their team towards the huge blackboard at the far end of the changing room soon after, she tried to put her racing mind back to order. This was not the time for fights.

She sat down between Everett and Lucy, watching Orion prepare for their obligatory moment of vivification. Now he was all captain, entirely focused on the task ahead of them.

Listening to his enthusiastic speech, Lizzie felt herself relax. Her boiling rage subsided as her mind focused solely on what was to come. The tingling sensation in her stomach turned to burning excitement to finally get going. Even Skye seemed to be listening attentively.

“This match will set the tone for the rest of the season. Together, my friends, we will vanquish the challenge ahead of us. We will fight for one another as we will fight for the Quidditch Cup. We will fight and we will win, as one team,” Orion concluded his speech.

“One team!” they echoed, firing themselves up. Everybody grabbed their broomsticks and headed towards the exit of the tent when Orion called Lizzie and Skye back. Both girls eyed each other warily, neither saying a word. Orion sighed, his frustration palpable.

“My friends, I hope both of you take our motto to heart. We are one team. We need to be a union to succeed. Especially the three of us; we need to work together in harmony, or we will have a hard time against our formidable opponents.”

Lizzie said nothing, waiting for Skye’s response. She already felt sorry for having had a go at her, and just before the match at that. But she was adamant not yield to her this time. If Skye felt the need to fight, she could very well have that.

Skye’s expression was motionless, however. “I think we need to go. Madam Hooch blew her whistle twice already, won’t wait for us much longer.”

Without so much as another look at them, she turned around and jogged out of the tent, leaving Orion and Lizzie behind.

 *

Lizzie was breathing hard. They were one hour into the match and it was exactly as Orion had feared.

Ravenclaw was destroying them.

The other team was in the lead, the score standing at 70 to 30. Lizzie grit her teeth every time McNully announced another shot had made it past their Keeper.

The Hufflepuff offence was utterly teethless. Most of their passes got intercepted and Andre, playing as Keeper for Ravenclaw, managed to block most attempts at his goal posts. Where Lizzie usually felt connected to Orion and Skye, she could have been alone on the pitch for what it was worth today.

Their defence was in shambles as well, the gushing wind making it almost impossible for the Hufflepuff Beaters to accurately aim a Bludger at the attacking Chasers. In fact, one of Everett’s Bludgers had almost knocked Orion out earlier.

This was not a problem Ravenclaw’s Beaters seemed to have though. Rath had been tailing Skye for the whole match, while KC had been keeping a sharp eye on Lizzie. They were effectively cancelling them out of the action, the Ravenclaw Chasers taking care of stopping Orion.

Frustrated, Lizzie wiped the stinging rain out of her eyes and gripped the Quaffle harder when a flash of blue robes and fiery red hair shot past her.

“Cassiopeia is overtaking Jameson, what is she up to? We are about to find out!” McNully’s magically enhanced voice echoed over the pitch, drowning out the roar of the crowd and the thunder rolling in the distance.

“A Bludger has set its path into Cassiopeia’s direction, there is only one way she can stop Jameson from a shot at the Ravenclaw goal posts, a good old-fashioned Bludger Back-Beat!”

Lizzie had seen it as well. The Bludger was racing towards KC who, with a quick glance over her shoulder, swung her bat expertly behind her, redirecting the Bludger towards Lizzie with full force.

She quickly leaned to the side, as the iron sphere shot towards her, but the distance between her and KC had just been too short. The Bludger grazed her shoulder, knocking her off course, a dull pain spreading in waves from where it had hit her. Gripping at the handle of her broomstick, she had to let the Quaffle go. It was immediately retrieved by a Chaser in a blue robe.

Meanwhile, McNully was practically losing his mind up in the commentary box. “And she did it! Cassiopeia pulls the Bludger Back-Beat off like a true professional! Only 12,9 % of all Beaters are able to hit their target with this technique! Ladies and gentlemen, this girl truly is Ravenclaw’s Rising Star!”

Lizzie grunted in pain and tried to catch sight of the Chaser with the Quaffle through the curtains of sleet. She would need to have a word with McNully later on.

Listening to him almost gave the impression he wasn’t as partially impartial as he set himself up to be.

#art of balance #hphm #hogwarts mystery #orion x mc #orion amari #orion amari x mc #lizzie jameson #skye parkin #murphy mcnully #quidditch #quidditch squad #the quidditch squad #why is tumblr making blank lines disappear #I hate putting * in there they're meant to be for POV change only -.-

[flowercrown-bard]

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1  part 2  part 3  part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 belongs to this

content warnings: memory loss due to old age

about 7k whoops

Yellow petals brushed Geralt’s cheek as the biting wind ripped them off the flowers. Since the sharp sting of autumn had chased away the suffocatingly thick air of summer more and more flowers had fallen victim to the harsher weather. Not many were left fighting defiantly against the approaching frost.

Amongst the strongest were the leaves of the dandelions that came back no matter what. Geralt had stopped trying to get rid of the stubborn little weed shortly after it had appeared. It seemed it still outbraved the wilting flowers.

Still, Geralt had done his best to save them. He missed his chance last year when Jaskier had beaten the cold to it and scattered the petals himself. Geralt had tried to put up a tarp around the flowers to shield them, but the wind had teared it down not soon after, along with more flowers.

Geralt sighed and threw a glance back at the cottage. He couldn’t see Jaskier through the well-lit window, but he knew he was in there, safe and warm and probably cosy under some blankets. It had gotten too cold for him to regularly come into their garden. Maybe it was better this way. At least he didn’t get to see the sorry state it was in, even if it meant missing out on the last blooms of the year.

Without much thinking, Geralt turned back to the flowers, cutting some of them – not all, always in the hope that there would be some that were strong enough to resist the cold a while longer – and held them gently in his hand, before turning back and seeking shelter inside their home.  

He shut the door behind him, not quite blocking the howling of the wind or the sound of the furious waves. He wasn’t greeted by the customary ‘Geralt, you’re back’ that he now half expected any time he left Jaskier’s sight for more than a few minutes.

Instead, soft snores drifted through the air. A smile danced around Geralt’s lips as he shrugged of his coat and watched the rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest. He had slumped over in his armchair, a blanket pooling around his waist and the book he had been reading hanging limply from his hand.

Trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Jaskier, Geralt put some water on the stove. Surely, Jaskier would appreciate a nice warm cup of tea once he woke up, cranky and aching from the cold weather.

Geralt must not have succeeded, the clanging of the kettle enough to stir the sleeping man. Jaskier gave a little whine and snuggled more into the armchair.

With a fond warmth in his chest, Geralt walked over to him, crouching down in front of the armchair. He took a moment to admire Jaskier’s sleeping form, the way his silver hair fell into his forehead and his nose crinkled adorably. Like this, his wrinkles almost seem to be fewer than they were. Geralt reached out and smoothed the lines on Jaskier’s forehead, brushing his hair away.

Grumbling quietly, Jaskier curled tighter around himself, before letting out a long and content breath, his eyes opening slowly. The moment his eyes landed on Geralt, his breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, Jaskier didn’t move a muscle, then his brows drew together and his eyes flickered over Geralt. There was something frantic about his searching gaze and the sour tang of fear mingled with the smell of the brewing tea.

“You don’t have to worry,” Geralt said in the soft voice he always used, when Jaskier scanned him for injuries. The spike of Jaskier’s anxiety tugged uncomfortably at Geralt’s chest, but it didn’t fail to make his heart flutter, knowing that even after all this time, Jaskier was still concerned for his safety.

Geralt’s words did nothing to soothe Jaskier. If anything, the hard lines between his brows got deeper.

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier asked, a barely concealed tremor in his voice.

Geralt frowned and threw a glance over at the hearth, where a fire was gleefully dancing. Maybe it was still too cold for Jaskier. It was no wonder, with the way the blanket had fallen off his shoulders. Geralt reached out and pulled it back up, noticing how Jaskier’s heartbeat picked up at the tender action.

“Believe it or not, but you’re not the only one who gets cold,” Geralt said with a teasing smirk. “The wind got too strong, ruined all my work.”

A small “Oh” escaped Jaskier’s lips, his eyes softening a bit, though they didn’t stop searching his face, for what Geralt knew not. “Sorry to hear that. Are you… do you need help? I could make you tea or something to warm you up.” There was a bit of a strain in his voice, and Geralt noticed with quiet disappointment that Jaskier didn’t offer to take Geralt into his arms for warmth. Whatever else could be said about Jaskier, he had always known when to make serious suggestions for help, especially when he was worried about Geralt.

Something melted in Geralt’s chest and moved lazily through his body. “I already made some tea. But thank you.”

Jaskier stiffened at his words. “You made…well, that’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” His tone was piqued and his frown came back.

Geralt sighed and couldn’t help the way his smile got wider. He didn’t think he could ever tire of Jaskier wanting to do something nice for him, even if it was quite unnecessary. It was almost adorable how sometimes Jaskier still insisted on doing things himself.

It was important that Geralt didn’t coddle him too much, of course. Taking Jaskier’s autonomy away from him was the last thing he wanted, but there was nothing wrong with letting others take care of you. That, after all, was a lesson Jaskier had spent years upon years drilling into Geralt.

Instead of dignifying Jaskier’s accusation with a response, Geralt stood back up.

“I brought you flowers.” Geralt turned to the cabinet, searching for an appropriate vase.

“Oh…thanks.” The uncomfortable tone was accompanied by shuffling as Jaskier got up as well, his bones popping.

Geralt didn’t need to look to know that Jaskier’s face was contorted into a grimace.

“They were among the last flowers out there,” Geralt said. Maybe if he kept talking it would distract Jaskier from his aches. “I figured they might be of better use in here, looking all pretty than out there where they wouldn’t last much longer anyway.”

Jaskier was quiet for a moment. The only sound coming from him was the sound of him nervously shifting his weight around. Then he spoke up again. “That’s… well, yeah that makes sense. But you really didn’t have to give me the last of your flowers. It’s… quite unnecessary, really.”

“Our flowers,” Geralt corrected him without missing a beat. They’ve had this conversation too many times already. Just because Geralt was doing the physical labour didn’t mean the flowers were any more his than Jaskier’s. Especially when Geralt was struggling to arrange them in a simple vase, while Jaskier knew how to create artful bouquets.

No reply came. When Geralt turned around, unnerved by Jaskier’s unnatural silence, he found Jaskier looking at him with a strange expression, as though he didn’t know what to make of Geralt.

“Jaskier?”

At the sound of his name, Jaskier startled. It was as if he was being shaken awake. But instead of coming closer and smelling the flowers, giving Geralt a radiant smile, he backed away.

“How do you know my name?” Jaskier’s voice was even, but the tightness of it betrayed him.

Geralt frowned. He took a step closer, halting immediately when Jaskier took another step back. “What? Jask, of course I know your name. What are you talking about?”

Jaskier’s tongue darted out, nervously wetting his lips, his unblinking eyes only leaving Geralt for a split second, dashing over to the door behind Geralt. He held the blanket up in front of him like a shield.

“I…I suppose a lot of people know my name. But just because I am a famous bard doesn’t give you the right to come into my house like this.” The look in his eyes bordered on panicked. “Thank you for the flowers, but I think you should leave.”

Geralt froze, his heart dropping like a stone. “Leave? Jaskier, what’s going on? You’re worrying me.”

Jaskier’s eyes grew hard. It had been years since Geralt had seen this look on him. It was the same expression he got when people had cornered him in some dark corner of a tavern or alleyway, thinking him an easy victim. He only ever got the look when he was truly scared, thinking no one would come to his aid and hoping that being stern would make him appear more able to hold his own in a fight than he was.

Jaskier was afraid of him.

The thought hit Geralt like waves of ice water pulling a drowning man under. He staggered back.

Geralt knew his own expression had closed off, only revealing how stricken he was to those who knew him inside out. Like Jaskier was supposed to.

But he was staring at Geralt as though he was a stranger.

“What is going on is that you, for some reason, thought it would be alright to break into my house and behave like you owned the place.”

Geralt’s mind was racing, unable to comprehend what was going on, why Jaskier kept looking at him like that. He huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “Like I owned – I didn’t break in.”

“No?” Jaskier’s eyes were blazing, but his shaking grip on the blanket was knuckle-white. “What do you call it then, when you come into another person’s home without knocking?”

Geralt was quiet for a long time, his eyes never leaving Jaskier. Jaskier, who just this morning had smiled when Geralt had kissed him awake. Jaskier, who stood in front of him, trembling in fear of him.

With a voice that was as small as if it belonged to the abandoned child Geralt had once been, he said, “I call it coming home.” A lump formed in Geralt’s throat, making it hard to breathe. His heart screamed at him not to say the next words, begging him, telling him he didn’t want to know the answer. And yet. “Jaskier… do you know who I am?”

“No.” The word cut through the air like a knife, knocking all air out of Geralt’s lungs. “And I don’t want to find out. Leave my home this instance.”

Geralt wished the distant roaring of the sea was loud enough to drown out Jaskier’s words, but instead he heard his heart break with the waves.

Be prepared for the worst. Yennefer’s words had been his constant companion since she had uttered them. Geralt had thought he knew what the worst was. He had shut his eyes to that quiet, venomous fear that had slithered in his mind like a viper. He hadn’t dared give that fear a shape and yet it had broken forth, winding itself around Geralt, suffocating him, as it plunged its teeth into Geralt’s heart in tandem with Jaskier’s cold words.

Without anther word, Geralt turned around. He pushed the door open, letting in a gust of wind that Geralt might see tearing at the flowers he had brought, if he had had enough strength to turn to look at them.

He didn’t linger in the door. Once again, like the coward he was, Geralt fled.

He didn’t go far, didn’t even leave the sight of the house. He couldn’t. A hole gaped inside his chest, growing deeper and darker with every step that took him further away from Jaskier.

He couldn’t lose him. He already has.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fists against them, as if it could erase the memory of Jaskier trembling before him, but the images kept coming, crashing into him like an avalanche. Jaskier’s fearful look, his trembling hands, his tight voice, Jaskier lying on the ground with Geralt unable to help and Jaskier forgetting, always forgetting.

He was tempted to never go back inside, if it meant never having to see Jaskier like that again.

But this has happened before, hasn’t it? Geralt had stormed away in anger when flower petals had fallen to the ground. Had it really been only a year ago? It felt like so much longer than that. It felt like a lifetime.

Still, the words he had said when he had come back to Jaskier were as clear in his mind as they had been when he had first spoken them, fighting their way to the forefront of Geralt’s mind, growing louder until he could no longer ignore them.

Jaskier had said he wouldn’t leave him. And yet here Geralt was, alone, with the wind pushing against him, as if attempting to drag him further away from Jaskier.

Maybe he should let it do so. Maybe he should just leave as Jaskier had told him to, become a witcher again, as he was always meant to be. He shouldn’t even get back to the cottage to retrieve his swords. He would be able to get new ones. His old weapons could rust away, forgotten and collecting dust for all Geralt cared. Then at least one part of him would stay with Jaskier, now that Geralt had no longer a place in his memory.

I won’t leave you either. I promise.

Geralt’s hand clenched tighter, his nails digging into his skin as his own words came back to him unbidden.

All thoughts of abandoning Jaskier left him, carried off with the wind. Geralt had never held onto them strongly anyway.

Still, he stayed outside unable to go back just yet. Unable to face Jaskier’s fear.

As if it would do him any good, Geralt listened to Jaskier rummaging around the cottage. Did he try to barricade the doors to protect himself from the stranger that had broken in earlier? Or had he already forgotten about that and gone back to mundane tasks? A treacherous glimmer of hope threatened to alight in Geralt, as much as he fought against it. Maybe when he saw him again, Jaskier would recognise him once more.

Geralt wasn’t able to face to inevitable disappointment just yet.

When he finally did push the door open again, his breath held and his heart beating rapidly in his chest, he didn’t find Jaskier cowering at the sight of him, but he wasn’t welcomed by arms being thrown around his neck either.

It took Geralt a moment to spy Jaskier. He sat hunched over in a corner of the room, seemingly not noticing Geralt, focussed as he was on the thing he held in his hands.

It was one of Geralt’s swords.

When Jaskier turned it in his hand, his head tilted to the side in contemplation like a bird, the steel caught the gleam of the fire.

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat when Jaskier lifted a hand to trace the sharp edge of the still deadly weapon.

“Don’t!” The word left Geralt before he could think about it. Jaskier’s head snapped up. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Jaskier put his hand down again, but otherwise didn’t react. His eyes that just moments before had been glued to the sword as if figuring out a riddle now raked over Geralt’s body. None of the heat from before was in it, but neither was there the warmth of recognition. Jaskier just looked startled, uncertain of how to make sense of who and what he was seeing. Of course he would. Geralt had once again entered Jaskier’s home without announcing himself.

His heart clenched painfully at the thought. Jaskier’s home. Not theirs anymore. Not for Jaskier.

Geralt cleared his throat, lifted his hand and knocked awkwardly against the doorframe he was standing in.

Any moment now, Jaskier would throw him out again, would see in him the man who had broken in earlier and reek once more of fear.

Geralt tried to brace himself against what surely was to come, knowing no amount of preparation would spare him the shattering of his heart.

The sharp words never came. Instead a twinkle of amusement appeared in Jaskier’s eyes.

“I’d say you could come in,” he said dryly, his lips twitching “but it might be a bit too late for that.”

Heat rose in Geralt’s neck as he cracked a sheepish smile, his tongue too heavy to form words. Was this… was this his Jaskier? He didn’t dare ask the question out loud. Geralt didn’t think he could bear seeing the glint leave Jaskier’s eyes again to be replaced by that damned fear when he realised the man in front of him was a stranger to him.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on Geralt’s face –whatever else Jaskier might have forgotten, it seemed he still knew how to read Geralt like a children’s book – for Jaskier’s grin grew a bit bigger and he lifted the sword a bit higher.

“Before you get any stupid ideas, I have a sword and I know how to use it.” There was no malice in his tone, only a mixture of confusion and a hint of the playfulness that Geralt yearned for.

Geralt couldn’t supress a snort. “You couldn’t use a sword if it came with a manual.”

He watched like a hawk as Jaskier’s arm shook from the effort of holding the sword up, the point of it coming dangerously close to Jaskier’s own flesh.

Instinctively, Geralt took a step forward, but before he could reach Jaskier he let the sword sink again. He leaned it back against the wall next to its silver twin.

“No, I suppose I don’t.” He shrugged and rested against the wall himself, seemingly uncaring that he had no way to flee like this. Despite Jaskier’s casual stance, Geralt shifted until he wasn’t blocking the exit for Jaskier anymore, as he had before. Jaskier’s eyes followed him. “To be frank with you, I don’t really know why I have a sword in here at all. It’s not really…I don’t think it’s quite my style.”

“It’s mine.” The words stung on Geralt’s tongue.

Jaskier’s eyes widened, a renewed beginning of wonder taking the place of the confusion. Geralt’s heart clenched painfully. His whole being shook from the hope he couldn’t keep at bay.

Recognise me, he begged silently. Please, know me.

Jaskier tilted his head again, beaming with something akin to joy. Geralt’s breath stilled as Jaskier came ever closer until Geralt would have to just reach out to touch him.

There was something in the way Jaskier looked at him, something so painfully familiar –

“Your eyes…” Jaskier’s own eyes darted between the swords in the corner back to Geralt’s eyes, swept over his wind-tossed hair and his imposing frame. Something shifted in Jaskier’s expression, an eager excitement took hold of him. “I know who you are.”

Geralt’s heart was hammering in his chest, about to burst out.

“Jask…” he breathed out, unable to give his voice more strength.

“You’re the witcher, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier spread his arms as if presenting something to behold. “The Butcher of Blaviken.”

Geralt’s world crumbled around him. All air was punched out of his lungs. Jaskier’s words cut him open like venomous claws. Never had Jaskier called him that, never except for that first and last time. Ever since then, he had made it his life’s work to erase the hated moniker from the memory of the world.

Yet here he stood, saying the name as he had back then, with excitement, almost in awe, as if it was something glorious to announce to the world. The name on Jaskier’s lips sounded worse than the cruellest insults people had spat at him.

Was this all, Geralt was to Jaskier now?

Witcher. Butcher. Monster!

Geralt staggered backwards. As though through a thick fog, Geralt felt himself shaking his head frantically and staggering back. He couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening.

Hands reached out to touch him, burn him. Push him away, hit him.

But instead they wrapped around his arm gently, steadying him clumsily.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier sounded so concerned, his tone sweet and poisonous. “Are you hurt?”

Geralt would have laughed if he hadn’t been so close to screaming.

He was once again nothing more than a witcher to Jaskier. Heartbreak and Death. The thought of the words Jaskier had said to him on their first day left a bitter taste in his mouth. If only he had known how close he had been to the truth.

Geralt let himself be ushered into a chair. On the edge of his conscious thought he saw Jaskier flutter about, trying to get him comfortable.

A cup was placed in his hands.

“Here, I made some tea.”

It was the tea Geralt had made. It was cold and had steeped far too long, left abandoned and forgotten until it was barely recognisable as tea anymore.

Geralt must have stared at the cup unmovingly for too long, for Jaskier made a disappointed noise.

“You don’t like it? I can make something else.” He sounded so eager, so desperate to keep Geralt here with him for as long as possible.

Geralt gave him a tight smile and lifted the cup to his lips. His face must have shown some of the disgust on his face at the cold and distasteful tea, for Jaskier’s face fell and his shoulders slumped.

“You hate it.”

Geralt’s heart clenched at the defeated sound. A familiar sting shot through his chest, one that had been his constant companion for the first years of knowing Jaskier.

Don’t make him hate you. Don’t disappoint him. Don’t make him leave!

He huffed and schooled his face into a pleased expression.

“No, no, it’s…it’s good. I just-“ He didn’t think about it, didn’t even realise he was doing it, until Jaskier let out a small gasp when Geralt used the tiniest burst of igni to warm the cup.

Geralt froze, his eyes snapping to Jaskier who was in turn staring at the now steaming cup in Geralt’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt blurted out, his grip on the cup tightening, as if that would somehow shield it from sight.

He shouldn’t have done it. The action had come so naturally to him and usually, Jaskier wouldn’t have batted an eye, but now…. who knew how Jaskier would react to seeing Geralt use signs. Who knew if he would feel threatened by how unnatural Geralt was.

Before Geralt could stammer out any other excuses or completely clam down, Jaskier moved. He rushed forward, grasping the hand that had made the sign in his, turning it around carefully, all the while studying it intently.

“What was that?” Jaskier asked, tracing one finger along a line on Geralt’s palm. “I didn’t know you could do magic. Show me again!”

Geralt’s brows furrowed, hesitant to move a single muscle, but Jaskier lifted his head to look at him, his eyes bright and eager. Goosebumps were erupting from where Jaskier was still tracing patterns on his skin.

Geralt chanced a glance away from Jaskier, towards the hearth where the fire was almost burned down. Jaskier followed his gaze and his face lit up in obvious expectation. He almost shook with anticipation.

Geralt took a deep breath, pulled his hand free of Jaskier’s grip though the loss of contact left him cold and empty and stretched his fingers towards the hearth, forming igni.

Immediately, the kindling flames burst back to light. The roar of the fire was only overshadowed by the sound of Jaskier’s delight. He threw his head back with a barking laugh.

“Oh this is brilliant!” His smile was almost too big to fit onto Jaskier’s face.

Seeing Jaskier like this loosened the tightness in Geralt’s chest bit by bit.

He didn’t hate him, wasn’t afraid of him. Meeting him again, like this, as a stranger coming unannounced into his home, he still wasn’t afraid of witchers. How could Geralt have ever doubted him? Brilliant, loving Jaskier whose first instinct was to reach out and befriend.

“Please tell me you will stay for a while.” Jaskier scooted closer with his chair. “I need to know everything about you. You must have so many incredible stories to tell.”

A tiny smile lifted Geralt’s lips. This was Jaskier. His Jaskier. Not the one who lived with him in a cottage, but the same one who had approached him a lifetime ago. He had more wrinkles and his voice was throaty, but he was Jaskier. He still looked at Geralt’s miniscule smile as though it was the most breathtaking sight. The small quirk of his lips was enough to get Jaskier to lean forward as if he didn’t want to miss any of it.

Just to see more of Jaskier’s reaction, Geralt widened his smile a bit and was rewarded by Jaskier’s eyes softening.

“I believe telling incredible stories would be more of your specialty,” Geralt said with the tiniest hint of humour that he allowed himself in spite of everything.

“So you will stay? Indulge me a bit?”

Geralt shifted in his chair, his heart beating uncomfortably strong. “If you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll have you!” Jaskier threw his hands up. “My dear Geralt of Rivia, it is a bard’s highest pleasure to meet someone like you.” He didn’t seem to notice Geralt choking at the endearment. “It would seem all those years of praising Melitele’s bosom and buttocks have finally paid off. Oh! The songs someone like you could inspire!”

The words send Geralt’s heart into his throat. Jaskier wanted to sing and compose again after years of barely doing either.

“You would sing for me?” Geralt’s voice was tight.

A sly smirk spread over Jaskier’s face. “How about a trade? You tell me all about your heroics and valiant deeds and I will sing for you. Oh – or I could become your barker. You could be the – the…”

“The White Wolf?”

“Yes!” Jaskier clapped his hands together, brimming with newfound energy he hadn’t in far too long. “That is marvellous! We are going to get along wonderfully, I tell you.”

Geralt’s eyes softened. “I’m sure we will.”

The storm inside him was still raging, but as they sat together and talked the time away, it calmed with every smile, gasp and laugh he managed to elicit from Jaskier. Greedily, Geralt soaked in each shift in Jaskier’s equally hungry expression.

He could almost pretend it was like it had always been, that they were sitting in some tavern with Jaskier nagging Geralt for details about a hunt, instead of a home at the coast which to Jaskier wasn’t Geralt’s anymore.

It was almost like a second chance he had never wanted. He still didn’t want it. If he could, Geralt would throw away this second chance at a first meeting in a heartbeat, if it meant getting back what they had.

But until Jaskier came back on his own, Geralt could do nothing but offer Jaskier everything that he was and have faith that it would be enough and wouldn’t chase Jaskier away.

Within hours, Jaskier was talking about Geralt as if he was a grand hero, with not an ounce of doubt in his voice. As if the knowledge that witchers weren’t fundamentally monstrous was a truth seared into his heart, unwavering even now.

At some point, Jaskier got up and produced a quill and a notebook from the shelf. He didn’t question why it was already half-full with verses about monsters and golden eyes.

Geralt watched him in silent admiration, as he scrawled down pages and pages of unreadable notes. It didn’t matter that Jaskier’s letters weren’t recognisable as such any longer. The scrawly lines, though in the middle of the book, marked a new beginning of sorts.

In his enthusiasm, Jaskier’s elbow got caught in the vase with the flowers that Geralt had brought in mere hours earlier, when the world had been a different one.

Before the vase could topple over Geralt reached out, catching it without much thought, but when Jaskier looked up from his notes, his face held nothing but easily given affection and admiration.

“Already saving me, are you? My hero, truly.”

Geralt huffed, but his lips curled.

“I’m sorry, my dear witcher,” Jaskier said with a sigh that dripped with false regret. “I’m afraid that if you just wanted a short rest, you have come to the wrong house. You won’t get rid of me for quite a while now, I fear.”

Something unfurled in Geralt’s chest. “Promise me?”

--

Throughout the day, Geralt’s hopeless hope kept flaring up again and again at the smallest hint that Jaskier might remember.

Every smile that Geralt received, every affectionate pat on the shoulder, every teasing comment made Geralt’s breath hitch, though with every passing minute, Geralt’s hope dwindled.

But it was fine. It was alright. As long as Jaskier wasn’t afraid of Geralt, he could deal with this, even if it meant breaking his heart over and over again when Jaskier looked at him with curiosity instead of love.

Against all of Geralt’s fears, it was companionable in a bittersweet way to watch Jaskier doing his best to get to know him, all the while being able to appreciate Jaskier for everything he was, unlike Geralt had done the first time around.

Then nightfall came, the reality of the situation hit Geralt again, with unexpected force.

As every evening, Geralt went through the motions. Jaskier didn’t complain, didn’t even give any sign that it was strange that he was being tucked into bed by someone he had just met.

As he had done for years now, Geralt brushed his hand over Jaskier’s hair – and faltered. His stomach dropped and he pulled his hand back as if he had been burned.

Jaskier didn’t remember him. To him, he was just a stranger; Fascinating, for sure, but a stranger nonetheless. Geralt forced himself to step away from the bed he wouldn’t lie in today. Maybe never again. There would be no more kisses on temples being returned by ones on Geralt’s knuckles. There would be no more listening to the sound of Jaskier’s breathing as he lay next to him, being comforted by his heat and his arms around him as he drifted to sleep.

“I’m going to sleep in the living room,” Geralt announced.

He half-hoped that Jaskier would protest, pull him closer by the hand and tell him that Geralt should continue to sleep next to him and that he loved him.

None of that happened. It had been a foolish wish.

Jaskier only mumbled something in the affirmative, already halfway to drowsing.

With one last lingering look on Jaskier, Geralt turned away, shutting the door behind him.  

For a long moment, Geralt just stood there, letting his eyes sweep over the room with a hollow feeling until eventually, he grabbed the thin blanket Jaskier had dropped earlier and went over to the armchair Jaskier had fallen asleep in just hours before.

A crack split Geralt’s heart and he had to close his eyes trying to shake the memory of the look on Jaskier’s face when he had awoken and found Geralt in the room with him.

He shifted in a vain attempt to get comfortable, a feat he knew he would not succeed in. The armchair was too small. Too hard for sleeping.

It had been too long since he last had to sleep on a cold forest floor. If Vesemir was here, he would say Geralt had gone too soft.

In moments like these, Geralt almost wished that his heart truly was as hardened as people used to say. A soft snore from the bedroom followed by nonsense mumblings made him reconsider. He couldn’t wish his heart to be any other than the one that had fallen in love with Jaskier and somehow earned his love in return.

And therein lay the problem. Geralt could sleep in spaces that were hard, uncomfortable or small. But he knew he wouldn’t find a minute of rest with the space next to him being empty, without Jaskier there with him.

Geralt couldn’t just reach out and hold Jaskier close like this. They might as well be a world apart instead of just in different rooms.

Maybe they truly were in different worlds.

Jaskier’s sleeping sounds were muffled by the door Geralt dared not open without Jaskier’s permission. It wasn’t the only door standing between them. The other, invisible door was finally locked and though it felt like ice seeping into his chest to admit, Geralt knew that there was no key for him to find. Jaskier might as well be locked away for good.

--

It had been hours since the sun had risen when Jaskier finally emerged from the bedroom, probably lured out by the smell of Geralt making breakfast.

Geralt looked at him with held breath, awaiting a reaction, any reaction, whether it would save or doom him. But Jaskier just looked sleepy as though he hadn’t closed his eyes to sleep at all. Geralt knew that to be untrue. He had been up all night, straining to hear anything from the bedroom, hoping to hear Jaskier’s confused voice call out for him, asking why he wasn’t in bed with him.

No such call had come. But neither had there been any screams or panicked breathing caused by nightmares. Though he had tossed and turned in bed, Jaskier had slept through, not once waking and wandering about, not knowing where he was going.

That, at least was a small blessing. And Geralt would be grateful for any bit of peace he and Jaskier would get.

When Jaskier’s eyes finally landed on him, he merely startled slightly, before a smile graced his lips. Was it big enough to be one of recognition? Geralt couldn’t tell. He didn’t dare ask.

They ate breakfast, Geralt in tense silence, waiting for the axe to fall, Jaskier chattering away as if nothing was wrong. But not once did he move to stroke Geralt lovingly or call him by an endearment again.

The anxious anticipation slowly faded into the sinking feeling in Geralt’s chest that almost felt like coming home with how painfully familiar it was becoming.

Over the next hours, days, weeks, the hollow filled again, slowly but steadily. Though it seemed impossible, this warped reality they lived became the new normal.

Some days Geralt could almost convince himself that Jaskier remembered him. Maybe he truly did. It got hard to tell whether the cheerful smiles and the soft way Jaskier spoke Geralt’s name were meant for the shiny new muse or the broken old lover.

At least he still knew his name, recognised it as something not to be feared or to scoff at.

Most days, Geralt was sure he was just someone who just so happened to live in Jaskier’s house and whom Jaskier enjoyed talking to. Hopefully, someone he felt safe with. The days when Jaskier recognised him as someone he loved became few and far between.

People had always said Jaskier’s affections were fleeting: easily given and gone just as quickly. Jaskier had never bothered to correct those rumours. They were true, for the most part, after all. Geralt was the only one Jaskier ever confided in, telling him that though his affections would leave his heart, they would never be forgotten.

Jaskier’s heart was a fickle thing, but it beat strongly and constantly for the things he truly loved. Music. A piece of beautiful poetry able to capture feelings normal words couldn’t describe. The first blossoms of spring when his step would gain a new skip at the promise of more adventures. Closing his eyes and smelling the breeze, insisting it smelled of the heroics to come.

Enough time spent together had passed for Geralt to grow certain that he was one of those things for which Jaskier’s affections would be lasting.

The soft smiles Jaskier still gave him when Geralt told him of the things he had seen in his life made Geralt hope that maybe he could be such a beloved thing once again.

Jaskier loved freely and quickly. Maybe it was foolish to hope that Jaskier could rekindle or remember even a glimmer of what he had felt for Geralt. But Geralt had the suspicion that he had given up on trying to be sensible as soon as he had allowed the bard to attach himself to him back in Posada anyway.

The little noises Jaskier often made when contemplating a new rhyme brought Geralt out of his thoughts.

“Do you think I should try a different rhyme scheme? This one is mostly used for love songs, but I don’t think it would do well for one about adventures, don’t you think?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Geralt asked, unheeding of the ache to come. It had been so long since Jaskier’s creations about him had been anything but love songs, whatever else they might be as well. He knew whatever Jaskier would now come up with would be far from such a thing. Jaskier’s love for the tales of adventure that Geralt could give him weren’t enough.

Jaskier made a dismissive sound, not knowing what it did to Geralt’s heart. “Eh, I don’t know. If I use that rhyme scheme, it will always remind me of a love song. And that’s just not right.”

Don’t ever let me forget I love you.

The memory of Jaskier begging him for this one thing, this tiny plea that weighed on Geralt as if he were carrying the world on his shoulders, echoed through his mind, mocking him with how impossible a feat it was.

How many fragile promises had Geralt made thinking he would keep them? How many more would be broken along with his heart?

He had promised Jaskier that he would do his best to help him remember what they had. It was a task that would only end in heartbreak, but Geralt would gladly sacrifice his heart, shatter it into a million pieces over and over again, if it granted him even a chance of getting Jaskier back.

So Geralt did everything he could think of. He spent hours reading Jaskier’s notebooks to him, as far as he could decipher his crooked letters. He told him about his brothers and Kaer Morhen, about Yennefer and Ciri and even Valdo Marx. Not even a muscle twitched at the mention of the troubadour’s name. But something seemed to stir in Jaskier when Geralt talked about their family. Nothing but a hesitant smile, a miniscule shift in his eyes. Sometimes Jaskier would repeat the names, as if he knew they held a meaning that he couldn’t find. Then he would look at Geralt and whisper his name as if it were something precious, something he had lost. Seldom did he find it in Geralt’s face.

Jaskier still called him his dear witcher. The endearment was bittersweet balm. Like rubbing salve on a tumour. It wasn’t enough. And yet, the small acknowledgement made Geralt’s heart soar, made him redouble his efforts.

Geralt started playing the lute, if it could be called so. He never learned any chords, much to Jaskier’s dismay, so he just plucked the empty strings. He played despite them being out of tune. Geralt didn’t know how to get them back the way they were supposed to be and Jaskier didn’t move to help. He just sat there, looking at the lute, stroking over the wood that Geralt kept polished still.

Taking care of Jaskier’s beloved instrument gave him a sense of calm and it clearly made Jaskier happy, though he never said so anymore.

It had taken Geralt a while to notice, but once he saw it, it was hard to miss. Jaskier’s signs of affection had changed. Whereas he used to give his affections a voice, he now showed them with happy hums and an expression as if he had so much to say, if only he could find the words.

Geralt still understood, or so he hoped.

He continued bringing Jaskier flowers until the last ones succumbed to the rapidly approaching cold. When Geralt apologised, saying that there were no more flowers left, Jaskier had hugged him, whether as thanks or to comfort Geralt, he couldn’t tell.

It was only a short embrace, but it felt like coming home. He belonged in Jaskier’s arms. Too long had be gone without feeling them around him.

He hoped Jaskier didn’t feel Geralt’s body wreck with a cut-off sob. If he did, he didn’t show it. It took all of Geralt’s will power to let go again, when all he wanted to do was hold Jaskier impossibly close and be held in turn, feel Jaskier gently rub circles on his back while Geralt pressed his face into the crock of Jaskier’s neck, safe from all the world and the cruelty of Jaskier’s broken memory.

But the world carried on and bits and pieces of Jaskier’s memory continued to crumble - once a palace, now an overgrown ruin.

And yet, glimpses of the old Jaskier continued to shine through. Whenever Geralt’s rough and broken voice attempted to sing one of Jaskier’s old songs, Jaskier would without fail join in, though some lines escaped him, they were still unmistakably his. Jaskier always seemed to light up, when he sang about the beauty of the world, of love and adventure with words that Geralt could have never come up with to describe any of it. No one could speak of those wonders quite like Jaskier’s songs. No one could see the world how he had.

Jaskier never questioned how those songs came into existence. Geralt tried explaining to him sometimes, telling him that Jaskier was the genius behind the lyrics and the melody.

Sometimes Jaskier would get a spark in his eyes, pride and a hint of a buried memory, when Geralt told him so. Other times, he would just nod along to whatever Geralt was saying, just to appease him.

Those vacant expressions, the apathy at being told of his own accomplishments drove a knife into Geralt’s chest.

Those songs, meant to remind the world of Jaskier, were now one of the only things reminding Jaskier that the world around him existed, that it always had existed and that he had lived a wonderful life in it.

His mind had become as fickle as people always accused his heart to be. And yet, he still recognised part of Geralt in his songs, still saw him as someone he could embrace and sing to. He still looked at Geralt as if he was beautiful. As if he was worth looking at. Even if he didn’t remember the times he had looked at him before. Even if sometimes he saw Geralt for the first time again.

Geralt had always thought that out of the two of them, Jaskier was the one so full of love that he could give it with abundance. Now, Geralt was the one who would have to love enough for it to suffice for them both.

He looked at Jaskier, humming to himself while doing his best to draw a kikimora based on a description Geralt had given him earlier. He looked back up at Geralt, so proud of himself, looking for Geralt’s approval as if it meant the world.

Geralt didn’t think it would be hard to have enough love for them both. The hard part was knowing that when he dared to whisper a soft “I love you” all he would receive in reply would be silence.

#geraskier #geralt #witcher #jaskier #memory loss #old!jaskier #old Jaskier #geratl x jaskier #my writing #fic #Birds still sing when they fall from the sky #the witcher #witcher fic #hey remember when i was able to write short chapters? #like two weeks ago? #i long for those good old times #this...this was not meant to be this long #sorry #accidental multichapter

[awesomerextyphoon]

Charred Briar Roses - 4

Meet the Family 

Paring: Orc!Bucky x Black!Reader, Orc!Steve x Black!OFC, Orc!Sam x Black!OFC

Rating: 18+/Explicit

Word Count: 3,500

Summary: The girls get to meet the family.

Warnings: Smut and Mentions of Death

A/N: I’m sorry that this took so long to publish. I had a major writer’s block. Also, the smut is not as good as I wanted so bear with me. Enjoy!

Back to Masterlist

It took five days to reach the group to reach the Orc Settlement. Most of the journey consisted of Fumnanya giggling at Sam’s (not so great, but whatever) jokes while sneaking in a kiss or two, Ghada acting like she’s above the romance then getting caught making out with Steve (she seriously likes it), and you giving Bucky the cold shoulder. You saw the regret in his eyes, but you were too stubborn to give him a chance.

The Orc Settlement was located in the lowlands of the Anchoria Steppes not far from the Tsurchack Forest with its center nestled between a segmented river and a good sized lake to its right. It consisted of a few hundred dwellings that seemed to be a nice cross between a yurt and a longhouse (**think Viking Longhouse**) built with reusable timber, metal, and stone. A couple of the dwellings near the edges were sectioned off into what looked to be farms of six to ten families. There were training areas and market places interspersed throughout the settlement. In the middle, there was a large arena like structure near the center next to what had to be the Elder’s Residence with more town like structures around them. Surrounding the whole settlement was a wall of stone, packed earth, and iron about 12ft high with sensors (probably a force field) sticking on top of it every five feet or so.

It looked beautiful, so different from your former home of extreme decadence.

“Welcome to our home. I know it’s not as-” Steve started.

“It’s beautiful!” Ghada exclaimed while turning her head to smile at him, “We don’t care where you live. We’re just glad you agreed to take us with you.” Steve responded with a low hum and gave her a kiss.

It would’ve been more, but Bucky cleared his throat, “We need to report to the elders as soon as possible.” It was followed by, “And not have you suck your match’s face.” Thankfully neither of the two lovebirds heard him.

Some of the children in front of the gates ran up to the group with bright eyes and smiles wondering if they brought back sweets and toys.

Steve smiled and responded with a ‘You’ll see’ and motioned to the elder’s residence.

Once you passed the front gates, you and your sisters were greeted with reactions ranging from awe to outright contempt. You wondered if they knew of your identities, but Bucky assured you that it was because his people are a bit weary of outsiders. He decided not to tell you about how some of Sophronius’ forces had the almost the exact same hair color and types of clothes, but that was for another time. Right now, he needed to get the elders to let you three stay.

––––––––––––––––––––––––

When they reached the Elder’s Residence – a large longhouse consisting of wood, stone, metal and sturdy fabrics at the top – you stopped yourself from taking another step passed the threshold. What if they didn’t accept you? What if the elders or other members ratted you out to Sophronius? Or will they just have you exiled once they get the riches you and your sisters brought?

Bucky sensed your trepidation and put an enormous hand on your right shoulder, “It’s okay. You’ve got this.” With that your group entered the building.

The elders sat on a raised rectangular dais in the middle of the room with two guards on either end. There was a chandelier and torches all around the main room. Various statues and artifacts of elders passed are placed/hung around the room.

It was intimidating to say the least.

“Welcome back, warriors! Were you successful in your mission?” One of the elders,  Argusa, inquired in Orcish.

“We ran into an old woman who directed us to the lost capital of the Nephrashim.” Steve explained.

“That is nothing but myth, Rogers! If you found nothing than just say so. Honestly, one would think that the halflings would be better at excuses than this.” One of the guards, Figrel, scoffed. He later raised his hands in surrender when Bucky moved in to pummel him.

“Enough, Figrel! Please continue Steve.” Cladista, another elder, gently urged.

“We found the capital to be deserted...except for the princesses. They were at the palace. They agreed to come back with us and we were able to procure valuable medical supplies, building materials, and treasure that we might use for trade.” Steve reported as the elders fixed their gazes onto you and your sisters.

The staring went on for three minutes. No one made a sound as the elders were casting their initial judgement upon you.

With a loud sigh, Argusa spoke in Common Tongue, “We will hear their case. Tell us, why should we let you stay with us?”

Ghada took a cautious step forward, “My sisters and I can offer our services. Fumnanya is a skilled medic and scholar, Y/N is an amazing inventor and metalworker, and I am trained in trade deals and negotiations. Furthermore, all three of us are pretty well versed in combat and culinary arts.” She appealed while searching for any sign of approval from the elders.

“We can attest to their skills if it’s of any consequence.” Sam piped up when it got eerily quit again.

“Interesting. What do you think, Zadia? You’ve been awfully quiet.” Argusa inquired as she turned to the last elder.

“Hmm. They can stay with Bucky’s sisters and stepmother for now. We shall see about their services another time. Enjoy your stay, girls.” Zadia decided while motioning the group to leave.

The short excursion to Bucky’s family’s place was nice. More people warmed up to you (and by that I mean no one gave the three of you blatant glares of contempt), some even walked up and asked questions about you.

It was nice, but all that didn’t matter if Bucky’s family didn’t like you.

You kept telling yourself that you didn’t care what they thought of you, but you knew that was a lie. It angered you that you cared so much. He was the one that said no! Then why did it hurt so much?

Bucky’s sisters and stepmother lived on a farm near the outskirts of the settlement. It comprised of one large dwelling with four smaller ones surrounding it in a circular fashion. Outside of the dwelling circle were smaller cabins and huts for storing food, livestock, hunting tools and combat weapons, and stables for their dire wolves and eagle horses.

It was nice getting to know Bucky’s family. He had three younger sisters – Rebecca (Becca/Becky), Isolde, and Melisende (Meli) – along with Aspasia, his stepmother, a brother-in-law and three nieces and one nephew. They joked and laughed with you three about embarrassing hijinks the guys performed during their youth. You shared some of the your stories about Nephrashim and your former lives. They quickly accepted the three of you as family.

Furthermore, it was nice not having to worry about princess duties and royal decorum. All of you helped around the farm doing several chores for the first time; you didn’t have any hiccups besides Fumnanya freaking out over one of the eagle horses, but Sam handled it.

The only thing that could be better is the treatment you got from the rest of the settlement. Most of the inhabitants either scowled or just pretended that you three didn’t exist. Becca explained that it was because almost none of them had seen clothes and features (hair/eyes) like yours before, but you knew better. It was because they knew you were from Nephrashim. Bucky’s family never breathed a word about it outside the farm’s borders and you doubted the elders would say anything.

Well, you hoped that it would get better. And it did.

An outbreak of Sxtatzia (a cross between Smallpox and Influenza but for orcs) swept through the settlement. Most of the inhabitants who were infected got better except for Zadia.

Just about everyone had lost hope when Sam and Bucky marched in with Fumnanya and Meli in tow (Fumnanya had been teaching Meli some basic medical procedures and best practices). Fumnanya was able to work her magic after Sam threat-, ahem, insisted the guards let her look at the elder. It took the team four hours to create a viable and effective cure.

The day after Zadia was shown to be steadily getting better, the elders put the former princesses to work. Ghada assisted the traders in negotiations, trade deals and some body language/social cues that surprisingly holds up. Fumnanya taught the medics the different practices, poultices, and minor surgical procedures she knew. You taught the metal artisans what you knew about engineering and metalworking techniques.

The warriors couldn’t be happier with this new development. Well, maybe they missed having the three of you near them most of the time, especially Bucky.

––––––––––––––––––––

It had been three weeks and you still hadn’t talked to him besides an occasional sentence and he was getting pissed. Everyone else tip-toed around the subject of you two and it didn’t help that Steve and Sam were getting closer with their matches. Bucky had to go on hunting trips on his own if only to have a respite from the non-stop lovey-dovey chatter about their matches.

He finally got his chance when he was walking (lurking) around the blacksmiths/artisan section where you had your workshop set up. You were giving a welding demonstration when a little shit, Figrel’s younger brother, attempted to grab your ass.

Bucky strode right into the workshop, punched the little shit, threw you over his shoulder, and went on his merry way back to his dwelling on his family’s farm.

“What the fuck was that?!” you shouted as he plopped you onto a nest of cushions.

“I can’t let you go back there. All those eyes leering at you.”

“What do you care? You were the one who said no at the baths!” You countered as you stood up to take your leave.

You didn’t even make it past him because he growled in frustration and spun you around to face him.

He inwardly smirked at your whimpering, loving the way your lower lip quivered.  

“Because you’re MINE!” Bucky bellowed.

You gazed up at him with coy smile, “Prove it,” and he smashed his lips against yours and pushed you onto his bed.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Bucky may have had plenty of sexual partners, but he never kissed anyone...until you. Now he could see what all the fuss was about.

He pried open your mouth with his tongue and groaned when you accepted him while wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He loved the way your tongue danced with his and ended with your graceful but fierce submission.

Once he finally broke for air, Bucky moved to your jaw and neck gently nipping your skin with his tusks. He peppered you with kisses causing small moans to escape your desperate lips.

“Bucky please!” You pleaded as he sent waves of heat to your core.

Bucky stopped his touches, looked you right in the eye, and responded with, “Not yet,” and continued undoing you.

He ripped off your vest and worker blouse and hummed at the sight of your chest. Seeing you now, panting with a ‘giddy fucked’ face, looking at him with half-lidded eyes, made almost all the blood in his face go straight to his cock.

He dove into your chest, licking and gently sucking your breasts while you grabbed his soft dark brown (almost black) hair moaning his name. He worked your breasts so well that you came for the first time in your life within minutes.

“Bet you’ve never had one of your human boys do this to you, woman?” Bucky remarked with a smirk as he ripped off the rest of your clothing like it was tissue paper.

You could only gasp out a ‘No’ before Bucky sprinkled your midsection and hips with sloppy, desperate kisses (he used a lot of tongue) which again caused you moan. You wondered how much more you could take.

The Fae’s training never prepared you for this!

When he finally got to your thighs, Bucky hummed as he took in the sweet smell of your arousal. He faintly kissed and nipped at your inner thighs causing you to cry out in euphoria and impatience. He ignored your cries and gave your slit one long, slow lick.

You hissed at the sensation both from how amazing it felt and frustration from both Bucky and yourself for denying it from happening sooner.

Bucky’s enormous tongue attacked you pussy alternating between your clit and your folds. He soon added a thick finger to the mix causing to edge again and again until you beseeched him to let you come.

“You’re MINE princess! SAY IT!!”

You whimpered at his demand and Bucky stopped moving altogether.

“SAY IT!!”

You mewled, “I’m yours! I’m your bitch!”, you answered remembering what Becca said male Orcs loved to hear their women say.

Bucky chuckled and got up to remove his clothes and decided to make a show of it.

You were sober enough to gaze lustfully at his sleek, muscular, ruggedly handsome frame. You heard the women in the settlement gossip about how they thought the likes of Bucky is wasted on a ‘stupid trollop’ like you.

Checkmate bitches!

He removed his loincloth, his last bit of clothing, to reveal a behemoth of a cock.

You almost gulped at the size. You and your sisters have heard about cocks from gossiping maids and servants before the curse. Those ones sounded like they were a good size, but Bucky’s was on a much higher level.

Bucky, the lovable but cocky bastard, smirked, “Never seen one this big, huh?”

You bit your lip and looked down in shame, “I haven’t seen one at all.”

“And it’ll be the last one you’ll see, sweetheart.”

You let out an uncharacteristic giggle as Bucky parted your legs and lined his cock at your entrance.

He went in slowly as to not hurt you, but you still hissed at the size of him. You’ve never felt so full in your life.

“You’re doing so well for me,” Bucky grunted, “So tight!”

He filled you to the hilt and stayed there for a few minutes while he helped you get your breathing under control.

He started with slow strokes, savoring the way your pussy squeezed him, like you were made for him. He tried to keep it slow out of respect since it was for first time, but you felt so good so he picked up his pace.

The earlier feeling of discomfort at his size soon faded into euphoria. You never dreamt of pleasure like this. Now you understood what your and Bucky’s sisters were going on about. You mewled when Bucky hit your G-Post just right.

It wasn’t long before your first orgasm hit you like a tsunami and you convulsed around him a wave after wave of carnality washed over you. Soon Bucky came with a roar, shooting long thick ropes of his cum into you to the point of creating a bulge in your midsection and you passed out.

When you awoke, you felt a strong arm wrapped around you and a hand gently stroking your hair and back.

“I know you’re awake, sweetheart.”

You open your eyes and looked up to see love (actual love, not lust) and understanding etched in Bucky’’s features. You never knew you needed it, for someone to actually see you for yourself, not what you could give them.

He exhaled, “I’m sorry for the baths. It’s just that I didn’t want to have sex and then you’d leave me. I know it selfish, but-”

You stopped him with a soft kiss on the lips, “Why would I leave you? You actually see me for myself and not for my former station or as an annoyance. Okay, minus your sisters, stepmother, nieces and nephew because they are awesome.”

Bucky chuckled as his some of his long hair fell in front of his face, “I’ll be sure to tell them that, but not Becca. She has a big ego as it is.”

You giggled in response,”That’s fair,” you bit your lip and shot Bucky a coy look, “Do you want to go again?”

You didn’t need to ask him twice.

You two were at it for the rest of the day. The sounds of your lovemaking evident to the rest of the farm’s inhabitants.

“Finally!” Becca exclaimed as she and Ghada were sewing new clothes for the orclings.

Isolde chose that moment to walk into the common room, “Yes! I get my room back!”

The princesses and their matches were in bliss. Everything was right with the world...until it wasn’t.

––––––––––––––––––

It was two months after you and Bucky officially got together. The whole settlement had gotten into an easy rhythm of things when one of scout’s warning horns went off.

“It’s the Horde!”

Everyone who was not fighting was running to the shelters. Bucky had asked you to stay with Becca’s children and mother. You wanted to get angry, but you knew it was because he  wanted someone he trusted and loved to have his stepmother’s back. So you grabbed Waning Swan and ran to the shelters.

The battle lasted until morning and the settlement won, but at a price. Casualties came in at  80 dead and 200 wounded. The scariest thing wasn’t the gore or the corpses, it was the words, “He Knows”, scorched into the ground in front of the arena, or the Assembly Place.

Later that day, everyone who was able crowded into Assembly. Everyone’s eyes were boring into you. Fumnanya kept her head to Sam’s chest, but it wasn’t working.

“I knew those harlots were trouble the moment they strode into our settlement!” A woman who lost her mate to the battle shouted. A chorus of shouts of agreement followed.

Ghada was getting nervous as evident by her squeezing both yours and Steve’s hand. Luckily someone stood up for the group.

“I understand that you’ve suffered, Brida. I lost a son to the Horde, but we can’t blame it all on them. Sophronius has been after us for years. Be reasonable.” Agi stated while the guys gave him a nod of appreciation.

“Fuck that! You’re only saying that because you were they’re mates instructor and your nephew married one those mongrel bitches!” Baldo, another older warrior, exclaimed.

Big mistake.

It would take ten years to ascertain what really happened in the five minutes that followed. Baldo was thrown out of the Assembly, Brida was nursing a broken jaw, Becca had a wound on her left forearm from a sword, and Bucky had to be kept from attacking an idiot by Sam, Steve, Agi, and five other orcs. Everyone else was in an uproar and honestly, a full on fight was going to break out.

“SILENCE!” Argusa roared.

“We need to rebuild. Callisa, can we get a status report by the end of the day?”

Callisa was about to answer when someone demanded that they should do something about the Horde.

Steve gave everyone in your group a knowing and somewhat crestfallen look, “We’ll go to the Resistance and see if they can help.”

It took some minutes before Argusa gave the group an answer. The settlement tried to stay away from Sophronius and the war, but one could say their chickens have come home to roost.

“Alright then, you three take the girls and go first thing tomorrow.” Argusa decided.

“It’s not fair! You just got ‘ere, Auntie! Ingunn cried as she hugged Ghada. All of the orclings were crying and it was breaking your and your sister’s hearts. They’ve made such an impact in your lives that it hurt to leave them now.

“I’m sorry, love, but we have to leave. We’ll be back before you know it.” Ghada reassured her, but you had a feeling it would be a while before your group would return.

With one final hug and a pat, you said your goodbyes to the orclings. Meli, Isolde, Aspasia, Becca, and her mate, Gernot were waiting for you all at the gate.

“I know you’re sad about leaving us, but we will meet again my dears.” Aspasia uttered as she gave each of you a hug.

“Take care and keep these knuckleheads in line.” Becca joked while she gave Bucky a playful punch to the shoulder.

So with a heavy heart, you left the place that felt more like home in many ways than the place you were born.

The group headed southwest to the coordinates a trader said that he saw some Resistance Members. You were crossing a valley when an unscented flash landmine went off and everything went blinding white then black.

Next thing you knew, your group was in chains surrounded by a group protected by shadow...except for five individuals wearing necklaces and a medallion that belonged to…

“Mother!”

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