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sunnyrealist · 2 months

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Chapter 32: Butterflies

The Sun, the Moon, and All Our Stars

Summary and Details…

Chapter Background and Summary: Sebastian and Kate are on an adventurous camping trip in the Scottish Highlands. Their first day involved a great deal of hiking, and they eventually made camp near a dense forest. Kate served a beautiful dinner, during which they discussed hypothetical situations they might have found themselves in had they met as kids at Hogwarts. The night ended with the two making sweet, sweet love.

Pairing: 25-year-old, post-Azkaban Sebastian Sallow x Kate Mayflower (my OC)

Content warnings: In general, this story is rated 18+, so MNDI. For this particular chapter - discussion about sex, implied male-receiving hand job.

The full chapter is available below the cut; it can also be found on AO3 (link is posted below). Please leave some feedback. A comment, like, or Kudos would be quite motivational. 🥰

Chapter 32: Butterflies

Sebastian’s nose is first to awaken, enticed by the scent of bacon, potatoes, and… more?

He quickly reaches out to touch the spot in bed next to him. Where his girlfriend had been sleeping is now empty and cold. “Kate?” he calls out, sitting up quickly and looking around.

He hears some rummaging, as though she is getting together some plates, and then he hears her coming up the ladder from her extendable bag. She is followed by floating plates, cups, and silverware. As soon as she glances his way and sees that he is awake, she rushes over to his side and pulls the covers up, sliding in.

“Bash!” she calls out excitedly, climbing right back into his arms.

Sebastian smiles at how cute she is and relishes in the feeling of her snuggling up to him.

“I woke a little early,” Kate murmurs, looking up at him. “You looked so peaceful, sleeping, and I didn’t want to disturb you. I know how much you needed your energy after last night…”

Sebastian chuffs. “Well, so do you, then…” he trails off, leaning in to kiss her lips. “Gods, I’ll never forget the dessert you treated me to last night…”

Kate kisses his lips again, and his hand finds its way to her arse, squeezing.

“You’re a little minx, you know,” Sebastian tells her playfully. “I have such a hard time keeping myself under control around you. I just… I want you all the time.”

Kate chuckles. “I’m sore. Not now.” She moves his hand to her hip. “It’s your fault, Seb.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry,” Sebastian murmurs proudly, his lips pressing to hers again. “I won’t push you to do it again this morning, but just know… if you change your mind…” He takes her hand and brings it to his erection.

“Good gods,” Kate whispers. Her eyes slowly meet his as her hand wraps around his firm arousal. She smiles seductively. “Well… my body might be sore, but I can certainly use alternate methods to help you take care of this if you’d like…”

Her boyfriend nods enthusiastically.

After some clean-up, Kate tells Sebastian that breakfast is ready. They decide to dress for the rest of the day prior to the meal.

He heads to his own extendable bag, pulling out clothes for the day - a white tunic, a dark brown vest and tie, boots, and a wool-lined tweed jacket for later. Kate heads back down the ladder to her storage “closet.” Unbuttoning the simple dress she had been wearing, she slips it off, standing naked while she selects undergarments, a white tunic, a forest green sweater, dark brown pantaloons, boots, and a light brown scarf for the next leg of the journey. Sensing a stare, she quickly turns, her eyes climbing the ladder to detect Sebastian watching her with a grin. She giggles as he realizes he is caught, but rather than rushing off, he continues to gaze upon her, smiling. Quickly pulling the clothes on, she takes a moment to freshen up and fix her hair, pulling half of it back.

Kate finds Sebastian seated at the table when she makes her way back up.

“You are spoiling me, sunshine,” he says happily, surveying the spread of food laid out.

“I just wanted to make sure we had hearty, filling meals on the trip, since we’ll be walking and hiking so much,” Kate replies humbly. “So… Here's what we have.” She points to each item. “Roasted potatoes, smoked bacon, baked apples with cinnamon, oatmeal, and breakfast tea.” She grins. “Eat as much as you like. I promise I have more than enough for the entire trip.”

“Thank you so much,” Sebastian replies, starting to fill his plate. “I love you. And my stomach loves you, too.”

Kate laughs and begins to take some food as well, eating slowly while Sebastian absolutely stuffs his face.

Packing up the tent goes rather smoothly, and soon, the couple is moving once more. Today, they’ll traverse the forest and eventually make camp near a river.

Kate inhales deeply as they get a bit further into the dense woods. “I love the smell of pines here. Everything just feels so much more… fresh. Simple and clean.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees. “I just feel so much more… alive out here. More free. I can think clearly when I’m out in nature like this.”

“It’s peaceful,” Kate notes, listening to the birds chirping. She adjusts her scarf.

“It is. Just… don’t let your guard down too much. There can be danger here, too. Wolves, wildcats, and potentially some magical beasts. But I’m here with you, and you’ll be safe, my sun,” Sebastian explains, taking her hand.

Kate smiles in response, locking her fingers around his.

After some minutes pass in comfortable silence, Sebastian says, “That pumpkin pie last night… it really hit the spot.”

She chuckles. “Had you ever eaten pie in bed before?”

He shakes his head. “Can’t say I had. But I’d do it again in an instant.”

Kate reminisces about the previous night. She had slipped away after their second round of lovemaking to retrieve what was supposed to have been that evening’s dessert: pumpkin pie with fresh whipped cream. Rather than plating two slices, she just brought a fork along, and they ate it in bed right out of the pie tin, taking turns feeding it to each other and giggling at the outrageousness of the entire situation. After eating half of the pie, they had gotten… distracted.

“That cream… was delicious,” Sebastian reminds her suggestively, causing her to crack up.

“I love you, Seb,” she replies, still laughing and squeezing his hand.

After a few hours of walking, Sebastian finally concludes that it would be a wise idea to take a break. He assures Kate that they will rest as soon as they find a fallen tree, clearing, or somewhere else suitable.

The conversation as they walked had been pleasant. They discussed their mutual interests in books and music, as well as several random topics. Sebastian learned that Kate hated when people chewed food loudly, that she had about twelve friends that still were in touch from their Hogwarts days, that she loved ball gowns even though she almost never went to balls, and that her favorite gems were emeralds and pearls. Kate learned that Sebastian loathed selfish people and those who were cruel to others purposefully, that he had frequent nightmares, that he learned to apparate completely on his own when he was only 14 years old (two years before it would have been legal), and that his family had owned an Old English Sheepdog when he was young, before the twins were moved to Feldcroft (its name was Endy - short for Endymion). His Uncle Solomon decided to give Endy away, considering a dog far too much work when he didn’t even know how to raise children. The twins had cried for two days straight.

They are just about to discuss a lighter topic - their favorite holidays and seasons - when Kate suddenly squeals with delight. She has plucked a little white flower and seemingly disturbed a family of common blue butterflies. They flitter into the air, almost dancing in a circle. The couple watches them with fascination - Kate especially.

As the butterflies begin to fly off as a group, Kate scampers after them. After a moment, she turns back towards Sebastian. “Bash, do you mind if I follow them?” she asks excitedly.

He chuckles in response, completely amused. “Go ahead, my love. Perhaps they’ll lead you to some of your so-called forest treasures.”

Kate grins widely, then strides off quickly, trying not to lose sight of the butterflies. Sebastian picks up his pace as well, trying to stay somewhat close by.

“Where are you going?” Kate questions the butterflies softly.

She deviates from the path, into a denser area of the woods. She has to pull branches out of her way, and at one point, practically trips over an exposed tree root. She recovers quickly, waving to Sebastian to prove that she is alright.

The forest gets darker and darker as the blue creatures fly ahead of Kate further and further.

“Kate, maybe we should turn back to the path,” Sebastian suggests. He doesn’t want to end her diversion, but he doesn’t know the area all that well, and it doesn’t seem like the best idea to travel so far from the path.

“Just a little longer,” Kate replies. “Maybe a minute or two more, and I’ll give up.”

“Alright,” he says, just a little ways behind her.

Eventually, their new “route” becomes brighter, and although Kate can hardly see the butterflies anymore, she feels almost instinctively that this is the right way to go.

When she realizes where the butterflies have brought her, she gasps.

“Sebastian!” she calls out, waiting for him. “You won’t believe this!”

He catches up, and Kate pulls aside some branches to reveal a large meadow in the middle of the forest, filled with colorful wildflowers as far as the eye can see. It’s an absolute sea of purple - heather, orchids, thistles, foxgloves, and more. Intermixed are white and yellow flowers and tall, green grasses.

“Wow…” Sebastian murmurs. “I’ve… I’ve never seen so many flowers in one place…”

“Please say we can stop and rest here,” Kate begs. “I’d love to pick flowers, Seb.”

He smiles. “Of course. We can have lunch here, too.”

“A picnic!” Kate exclaims. “I’ll set it all up.”

Kate disappears into her extendable bag. She reemerges a few minutes later with a blanket and basket. Throwing the blanket down, she motions for Sebastian to sit, and then she begins to take items out of the basket.

“Cucumber sandwiches, grapes, roasted almonds, crackers, cheddar cheese, and venison sausage,” she murmurs as she places the food on the blanket. “And cool water for us to drink.”

“You’re the best,” Sebastian tells her, beginning to eat without hesitation.

Kate leaves a peck on his cheek, then takes a bite of her sandwich. “So, earlier… you were saying your favorite season was autumn, right?”

“Yes,” he replies, internally reminding himself to slow down once again with the food. “Autumn always meant that it was time to go back to school. I loved being at Hogwarts and getting to study all day. I was fully in my element. It was also a welcome reprieve from my uncle. Plus, all of the trees change colors, and it’s so stunning here in the Highlands. Then, of course, there’s Halloween and my birthday. Mine and Anne’s birthday, that is.”

Kate nods. “Did you do anything special on your birthday?”

“It was tradition to carve pumpkins every year. We did it when our parents were alive and we still continued every year after. My mum would roast the pumpkin seeds while my da helped us with the carving. She would always bake a spice cake with vanilla icing for us,” Sebastian explained, smiling. “We didn’t have the cake anymore once she died, but we still tried to keep the tradition alive every year. We’d carve pumpkins in the Undercroft with Ominis and light them up in the Slytherin common room with candles inside. Afterwards, we would go into Hogsmeade to have butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks and buy cupcakes from Honeydukes.”

“I’ll bake you a spice cake this year,” Kate says suddenly, touching his hand and looking in his eyes intently. “I will.”

Sebastian melts. “Really?”

“Yes,” she replies. “I promise I will. And we can carve pumpkins to place outside the cottage. Then, we can chaperone the Halloween ball together. ”

“What?” he asks. “Halloween ball?”

“It’s a tradition at Hogwarts now. I think it started the year after you…” she trails off, realizing it began after Sebastian went to Azkaban. She smiles again, not wanting to bring up bad memories. “Well, that is… Every year on Halloween, there is a dance, and everyone - students and staff - wears costumes. It’s quite fun. They even have a separate costume contest for the adults.”

“Do we have to?” Sebastian asks.

“Well, I have to, as a staff member. It’s up to you whether to accompany me or not. Otherwise, I can ask Henry Finch to be my date…”

Sebastian chokes on his water. “No, no! I’ll be there.”

Kate chuckles, having known full well that he would panic at hearing that was a possibility. “Then, it’s a date. We’ll have to come up with costumes, I suppose. We can see what Augustus Hill has available at Gladrags or make our own.”

They continue eating lunch, with Sebastian murmuring praises about how wonderful and thoughtful Kate had been in planning out all of their meals. He seems to particularly enjoy the cheese, Kate notices, tucking that information away for later.

“What about you? Favorite season and holiday?” Sebastian asks.

“Guess,” Kate requests with a glimmer in her eyes.

Sebastian laughs, then turns more serious, considering his answer. “Hmm… Well… My first instinct is to guess summer, but that feels too easy. I’d like to guess spring. You make me think of spring, Kate.” He pauses. “One look at you, and it’s like the world has reawakened for me. A barren forest suddenly blooming green, colorful flowers bursting through the soil, through the snow. A fresh beginning after the winter.” He smiles and reaches out to brush a lock of hair out of her face so that he can gaze into her eyes clearly. “You might as well be Persephone, the Goddess of Spring, come to revive me.”

Kate’s cheeks turn pink as she looks up at him. Sebastian leans in slowly, and he kisses her softly, his lips lingering.

Kate adjusts her position so that she can sit directly next to him and nuzzle into his neck. She whispers, “I’ve never had anyone say something like that to me, Sebastian.”

“I love you, Kate,” he tells her, pulling her closer. “And I’ll never stop loving you - romancing you, worshiping you like you deserve… You’re a goddess.”

With both hands settling gently on her cheeks, he leans down to press his lips to hers again, this time much longer and even more languidly than before. Slowly, both of them lay down, side by side, and they kiss for so long that they both find themselves lost in each other. Nothing matters at all - nothing - but this feeling, this perfect moment, this declaration of love, as they kiss in the sunlight, surrounded by a field of wildflowers.

#hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow x oc #post azkaban sebastian #hufflepuff x slytherin #aged up sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy oc #hl oc #hl sebastian #hogwarts legacy romance

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july-jackson · 2 years

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The Potion Master’s Assistant.

Chapter Two.

Circe was already awake when she heard the lock click open, she was dressed in the black robes that Severus had left on the bed for her the night before. Now, she sat cross legged before the cold stone of the hearth, the wooden handled brush in her hand, its carved design now worn down on one side. The sound of the lock had startled her and she threw the brush under the bed.

Severus sauntered into the bedroom, his wand held by his side, “oh good, you’re already up.”

He beckoned someone from the hallway to enter the room and small young woman hurried in, carrying a metal tray. She laid it down on the bed and shot Circe a furtive glance, she seemed meek and afraid.

“Hurry along now, there are other hungry people here,” Snape said to the woman. There wasn’t a hint of malice in his voice, but his eyes were dark and cold, devoid of feeling.

The quiet woman unloaded the tray, placing a plate of plain toast, a banana and a cup of black coffee upon the side table, then she hurried away out of the room. Severus glared at her until she was out of sight.

“Eat,” he demanded.

“I’m not hungry,” Circe answered without looking up.

“You will eat. You need the energy to work. I won’t have you collapsing from hunger while you do the jobs that I have assigned to you,” he hissed.

“You expect me to have an appetite after what you did to me last night?”

Rage flashed in Severus’ eyes, “Ungrateful wretch,” he stormed over to her, pulling her up by the arm, “You’ll eat the food that was made for you, or you’ll spend the night in the dungeon.”

Severus dragged her over to the bed and threw her down. Circe grimaced with the pain of his grip on her already sore wrists, his long fingers left red marks on her skin. She picked up a piece of cold toast and nibbled at one end in an attempt to placate him, it seemed to work as he released his grip. He reached for the mug of coffee and held it in front of her lips. She sniffed the mug suspiciously and took a tentative sip, it was as bitter as expected and she nearly spat it back out, but Severus held the mug steady, and she swallowed. Circe repeated a mantra over and over in her head as she gulped down the rest of the lukewarm coffee.

Just keep playing along, just keep playing along.

She took bigger bites of the toast now, it was dry on her tongue, but it was still food and Severus had a point. She had no idea how long he would have her cooped up in the potions lab, or if he would offer more food during the day. The whole time she ate, he watched her. His straight mouth sat beneath a long pointed nose, his dark eyes were heavy with slight dark circles that were noticeable against his sallow skin. The more Circe looked, the more he seemed to be miserable, the blank expression that was menacing at first, now seemed like a mask.

“What are you staring at?” he growled.

Circe looked down at the last bite of toast in her hand, “Nothing.”

“Just eat.”

He began fumbling inside his robes, pulling out a long green ribbon. He threw it in her direction, and it landed across her lap, “You will make sure your hair is neat, I don’t want stray hairs in my potions.”

Circe fought the urge to make a comment about his own lank, greasy hair. She pushed the rest of the banana into her mouth and smoothed her hair backwards, securing it in place with the ribbon. She tugged at the robes she'd been given were stiff and long, buttoned all the way up to her chin in a way that was stifling.

“I suppose that will have to do,” he said with a flat tone, looking her up and down with a curl of displeasure at the corner of his mouth.

Circe smoothed the robes against her figure defensively, then slipped her feet into her leather boots. Severus waited at the door again, tapping his wand impatiently. The hallway looked different in the daylight; the stone walls seemed colder without the candlelight. Wax was dripped down the walls in long trails from the unlit candles in their alcoves, the red carpet was dotted with dark stains.

He stood waiting at the door to the lab again, the way he looked at her caused flashbacks from the night before, when he had watched her strip in the bathroom. An empty, cold expression, that made her heart jump with unease.

Inside the room, Severus lit every available candle and then the fire. There was now a book in the centre of the table Book of Potions by Zygmunt Budge.

“It’s not the original copy. That particular one resides in Hogwarts. I want you to turn to the section concerning the Invigoration Draught, that is what you’re brewing today,” he explained, tapping at the book with a spindly finger.

“You received an O in Potions, so this should be child’s play for you. My stores are running low, and Voldemort needs his Death Eaters on top form. Do... not... fail me,” Severus got up close to Circe’s face with the last words, his nose almost touching her own.

Before Circe had time to wonder how he knew so much about her, there was a brief but loud knock at the door and Severus stretched his lips into a thin smile, “That will be your wardens for the day.”

The door creaked open, and a man and a woman entered, both were short and broad with similar faces and sour-faced expressions.

“Circe, meet Amycus and Alecto Carrow. They will be watching you closely today,” at the mention of their names, they both gave equally disturbing smiles in unison.

“Put one foot wrong and you will be on the receiving end of their torturous tendencies.”

Circe looked at the Carrows, then back at Snape, “How long will you be gone?”

“That's none of your concern. But I expect you to be finished by the time I do return,” he responded.

“As you wish,” Circe said, biting back the sarcasm.

Severus raised a thin dark eyebrow at her response, but said no more, swinging his long dark robes as he turned and left.

There was nothing left for her to do but begin her task, she flipped open the book as the Carrows circled the room, twirling their wands menacingly in their fingers. Circe browsed the shelves for the supplies she needed, balancing a few phials in her arms.

“Careful girl,” Alecto warned, “Severus will be most displeased if you break anything.”

“And who knows what he’d have us do to you,” Amycus added with a sneer.

Circe didn’t even bother to look at them, she read and re-read the instructions for the Invigoration Draught over and over until she was satisfied that she knew what she was doing. The heat in the room had become overwhelming again and she itched to remove her robes.

Why does he think I can do this? How long will he keep me here?

Working in silence gave Circe ample time with her thoughts, although most of them were questions. All she had right now were questions, and thoughts of her friends and family. She was sure that her parents were going out of their mind with worry, but they’d warned her, begged her to come back to the family home for safety, that the streets weren’t safe anymore. Circe hadn’t listened, and now it ate away at her.

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At least a few hours had passed since Severus had left, she had no real way of knowing as there was no clock in the room. The fire had died down and the Carrows had ceased their pacing. Circe stirred the potion with care, it was ready. She put out the fire beneath the cauldron, the mixture shimmered and began to turn a deep shade of blue as it cooled slowly.

She hadn’t noticed him come into the room, her focus had been entirely on the liquid in the cauldron, but she was suddenly aware of his presence beside her.

“Acceptable,” he remarked quietly, low enough that the Carrows didn’t hear.

He flicked a hand towards the Carrows, “You may go.”

The siblings looked disappointed that they wouldn’t get to have any fun, but they left without saying a word.

Circe hovered near the cauldron, unsure of what to do next. Severus stirred at the potion, grabbing a small wooden ladle and taking a sip from it. She wondered if she’d got something wrong, maybe she’d find out if he suddenly keeled over in front of her, but sadly he remained standing.

“This needs to cool, then we can bottle this up,” he told her.

She got ready to be escorted back to her room until he needed her again, and then he said something completely unexpected, “Are you hungry?”

Circe nodded, “Yes.”

“Follow me,” he said, hurrying towards the door.

She did as she was told, dashing behind him to keep up with his long strides, his black robes flowed and billowed behind him like dark cloud. They went the full length of the long hallway, turning left at the end down a smaller hallway. This one lacked any decoration, its walls were bare stone. In the distance, Circe could hear the howls and screams of a man.

Severus spoke as if he could read her mind, “It’s one of the Dark Lord’s prisoners, he’s being tortured for information,” he told her, so matter-of-factly.

“That won’t be you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I have everything I need from you,” he continued.

“How do you know that’s what worries me?” Circe asked.

“Does it not?” he replied, stopping right before a shoddy black door.

“Of course it does,” she asserted.

“It is what everyone who comes here worries about. That tiny little seed of doubt in the back of their minds, ‘Will the Dark Lord accept me?’ ‘What do they want from me?’ ‘Will my family be next?’”

Circe watched him as he spoke, there was no joy in his voice as he spoke, no evil twisted smile like she would expect from the Carrows if they were stood here talking about torture. He pushed the door open to reveal a large kitchen, the daylight streamed in through the windows and Circe could see nothing outside but a vast expanse of snow covered fields.

There was one woman in the kitchen, it wasn’t the same one who’d brought her breakfast this morning. She was humming a soft song as she cleaned up a pile of vegetable trimmings. Beneath a large leaded window, dishes scrubbed themselves in the sink and then stacked themselves neatly on the side. She was tall with a rounded figure, her long apron was marked with stains.

“Oh!” she exclaimed and jumped, “I didn’t see you there, Master Snape. Have you come for the Peppermint?”

“I’ll come back for those later. I just wondered if you wouldn’t mind making my assistant a sandwich?”

The cook peered at Circe, who still stood behind Severus, “Of course, will ham and cheese be ok?”

“Yes, yes. That’s fine,” Circe uttered, not entirely sure of what was happening.

“Sit,” Severus said, pointing at a small table made of wooden planks.

Circe didn’t hesitate, she seated herself on a round, three-legged stool. The wood of the table was old and dented, there were deep grooves along the grain, but it was smooth to touch. Pots and pans hung above her head on a long rack suspended from the ceiling, they too, were old and well used.

The cook placed a large sandwich and a mug before her, “Apple cider, keeps you warm on days like this,” she added.

“So, you’re Master Snape’s new assistant? What a wonderful opportunity. He’s quite the expert on potions. No wonder the Dark Lord counts him among his favourites. Not a lowly kitchen worker like myself, but... I’ll serve Voldemort anyway I can.”

Circe felt her throat go dry as she listened to the fanatical cook, “Yes, I’m very honoured,” she lied, afraid that any wrong words she might say at this point would result in an accidental poisoning the next time she ate a meal.

“Well, enjoy your food. I have some errands to run.”

The cook removed her apron and hung it on a hook beside a back door, pulling on a thick outer robe before she opened the door and stepped out into the snow.

“Frida is quite loyal, and an exquisite cook,” Severus said once the cook was gone.

“Is everyone here a supporter of Voldemort?” Circe asked.

“Everyone except the ones you can hear screaming in the dungeons. Enough questions, finish your food. We still have work to do.”

Circe finished her sandwich and gulped her drink enthusiastically. She had no idea what to make of what was happening here, with Severus swinging wildly between aggressive and attentive. How long would it be before he no longer needed her, and what would happen to her when that day came?

#snape #severus #severus snape #fanfic #snape fic #severus x oc #potions

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lexosaurus · 3 years

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A late fic for day 3 of dp side hoes week!

Character: Wes Theme: Denial

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Wes held his breath, watching the upload bar slowly increase.

Uploading 94%

Anxious energy buzzed in his veins, but he was still. Frozen. As if a single muscle twitch would bring this all crashing down.

Uploading 95%

It wouldn’t have been the first time his plans were thwarted at the last minute. Just last week he had been on his way home, camera in hand, when suddenly he felt the familiar chill of intangibility pass over him and his camera swiped from his clutches. He looked up to see Phantom, in all his egotistical glory, reach inside the camera, grab the memory card, and melt it in his palms.

Uploading 96%

But with each failure, months of countless iterations of the same plan, he had grown. He had learned. He had become more cunning, more discrete.

It really was only a matter of time before this day would come.

Uploading 97%

He was so close.

So close.

Uploading 98%

His mouth was a dessert. His hands clutched the edge of his desk, shaking. He couldn’t remember when the last time he blinked was, but it didn’t matter, nothing else mattered right now except how close he was he was so close.

Uploading 99%

So close.

Finally.

After all this time.

It was happening.

Upload complete

A breath escaped his lips. And then another. And another. Until the breaths quickened, and sound followed. A laugh. A breathy, weightless laugh.

He leaned back in his chair, allowing hilarity to overtake his body. This was bliss, it was pure bliss.

Wes stretched his arms out and stared up at the ceiling.

He had won.

After months of trying, he finally caught the perfect video showcasing the tail end of Phantom’s fight today with the infamous mecha ghost Skulker. Phantom sucked the ghost into his ghost thermos, flew behind a tree, and glanced around suspiciously for a brief moment before triggering his transformation sequence. Then, like icing on the cake, Foley and Manson appeared and had a conversation with Danny Fenton about the fight that Danny Phantom had just gone through. Fenton displayed the ecto-thermos and uttered the perfect lines about needing to “get him back to the Ghost Zone,” before turning his hand and the thermos intangible and shoving the object into his backpack.

The video was, by all accounts, perfect. Simply perfect. It was the exact undeniable proof that Wes had spent months trying to capture.

Now it was online for the world to see.

All he had to do now was share the link to the popular Phantom fan forum, sit back, and watch the internet work its magic.

If Wes was right, Phantom would be trending in an hour. News sites would be covering him by tonight. By tomorrow, everyone would know who—or what—Fenton really was.

A liar. An abomination. A danger to society.

All because of Wes.

He was victorious.

This was—

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—wrong.

Wes pressed a hand against the glass, his eyes wide as he watched as red streaked against the green splatters dotting the panel.

This was all wrong.

“Come to gloat?” an icy voice sounded from beyond the glass wall.

“I never wanted this,” Wes whispered. He couldn’t take his eyes off the green stains on the glass, on the wall, on the floor. It popped against the otherwise barren room, painting the bleached scene with a terrifying story.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” The voice coughed, and then groaned. “You did this to me, Wes. This is your fault.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up.”

Wes’s eyes snapped over to the figure beyond the glass. It was sallow, decrepit. Nothing more than a bony mess of black, white, and green in a torn jumpsuit.

And it finally connected in Wes’s brain where he’d seen Phantom’s uniform before. It looked exactly like the suits worn in ecto-science labs.

Because when he saw the ghost now, Phantom looked right at home. He looked like he was made to be a lab rat.

And that made Wes nauseous.

“I didn’t ask to be this way. I didn’t want to be—to be a freak.” Phantom’s head lolled back against the wall. A trickle of ectoplasm dripped from his chin, peppering the floor with even more green, but he made no move to clean his face.

Wes’s hand fell to his side. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m gonna get you out of here.” His voice didn’t sound too convincing. It sounded pathetic, weak.

Phantom snorted, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“I will,” Wes reiterated.

“Whatever you say.”

His pulse quickened, and before he could stop himself he choked out, “I just need to know. I need to know. What—what are you?”

Phantom’s eyes narrowed, snapping onto Wes.

Wes could have forgotten how to breathe. “Please, I need to know. Are you dead?”

“No.”

Wes’s blood ran cold.

“As in no, you don’t get to know what I am.” Phantom said. “You don’t get that privilege. Do you understand, Weston? You posted that video knowing that everyone, everyone, would see it, including the federal organization established to capture me. You knew deep down that this was going to happen. You just didn’t care because the only thing that mattered was that you were right and everyone else was just in too deep denial to see it, am I right?”

It was so hard to breathe.

Phantom leaned forward, his head drooping down to his chest. “You took away everything. I have nothing left. So now you can just sit there for the rest of your life and think about the fact that you have no idea if the person who you condemned to a lifetime of imprisonment was human, or ghost, or something in between.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing, you know,” Wes said, frustration seeping into his tone. “I just threw away my life too by doing this. I can’t exactly go home either.”

“Oh what, am I supposed to thank you now? For ruining my life but then coming back to ‘save’ me?” Phantom snapped. “Shut the fuck up.”

He could have left. He could have just turned around and left Phantom to rot in this compound for the rest of his afterlife.

But no, he’d come so far. And as today, he was officially a criminal.

He could never go home now. He couldn’t waste this trip.

And besides, he knew that he needed Phantom’s help in escaping the compound. This plan was a one way trip, put together after months of planning. Months of working with one of the most notorious hackers Wes knew online.

This was the best plan he had. But it wasn’t foolproof.

“I can get you in,” the hacker said from the other side of the screen. “After that? You’re on your own.”

Wes nodded. “That’s all I need.”

Silas was silent for a moment. “You know, when you reached out to me on Reddit, I thought you were delusional at first. I thought that this plan would never work, that you were out of your mind. But I figured I’d entertain you for a minute. At least hear you out before I wrote you off completely.”

“And I’m grateful.”

“But now, Wes? Now I just think you have a death wish.”

“You don’t understand,” Wes said bitterly. “This is my fault. I need to get Phantom out.”

“You’ll kill yourself before you make it out of there.”

“Please, just tell me what I need to know.”

There was a fingerprint scanner mounted on the wall next to the glass pane. Wes approached it cautiously, trying to ignore Phantom’s eyes that tracked his every move, and stopped before the wall.

“The hacker I’ve been working with programmed my thumb into this lock,” Wes said. “I’ll unlock it, then we run. Once we clear the door, you phase us out of here. Okay?”

Phantom didn’t say anything, but Wes didn’t need him to. There was no alternative plan, no other way to make it out of here intact. It was either this, or they both die.

Wes lifted his trembling hand, pressing his thumb to the scanner. The scanner came to life, lighting up green as it read his finger print.

For a moment, nothing happened. Deafening silence permeated the room, the mounting pressure slowly suffocating Wes’s lungs. Each millisecond that the scanner spent on his thumb felt like an eternity.

And then, just when he felt like he was about to collapse, the scanner turned red.

Time stopped. Wes’s eyes widened, and he drew in a short, shuddering breath.

No.

The blaring started.

NO!

The room filled with red light and high-pitched wailing. Wes’s legs cemented to the ground, and all he could do was turn his head and watch in horror as Phantom’s terrified eyes rolled to the back of his head before the ghost collapsed on the ground.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t have been real.

How did their plan fail?

Wes heard the door open, and the sounds of footsteps filled surrounded him. He couldn’t turn around, he couldn’t watch as his worst fears unfolded in front of him.

“So you were the rogue fingerprint,” a deep voice from behind him said. “You know, we thought it was odd when all of the sudden one day, a twenty seventh fingerprint suddenly was logged into the scanner seemingly overnight.”

No…

“Teenager, huh? Always think you’re invincible.”

Wes opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

His body was numb. He couldn’t feel his limbs. His brain was screaming at him to run, get out of here, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen, not because of anything the government had done to him.

No. It was fear.

“Too bad for you, you’re not as invincible as you think you are.”

---

Thanks for reading!

#danny phantom #dp side hoes week 2021 #wes weston #phicc #my writing #angst #😈😈😈#just a little bit of pain #as a treat

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thisisthehardestthing · 4 years

Text

18+

GOLD

TENDŌ SATORI X FEM!READER

Pleasant & Strider Present: Fantasy AU Writing Collab. This is a loving dedication to my favorite fairytale as a child: Rumpelstiltskin. 9k words of smut, I apologise for it’s length, but it has to mirror Tendo’s big dick energy, y’know. wordcount: 9,300 Warnings: yandere-ish, virgin reader, oral (receiving), fingering (receiving, penetrative sex, one derogatory word (whore), cheating (this is just to be safe). Nothing too wild, but it’s hella dirty. Tags: @joyousandverywarlike I love you wifey, thank you for beta-reading before we both crashed. Thanks for the eternal hype @whats-her-quirk you make my heart sing! @pleasantanathema , @present-mel and @linestrider . I am so, so happy to have met you three xx

> MASTERLIST HERE <

GOLD.

You pace the small space of your house, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath your weight. The King summoned your father three days ago, and by your calculations, he should be back any minute with news. Your eyes are downcast, watching your bare feet shuffle across the floor, the tattered hem of your skirt rustling with each movement. You sigh, smoothing down the white of your apron and catching a glimpse of your reflection in the polished tin on the wall.

Huffing, you turn away and close your eyes, not wanting to see the worry laced in them. You are a pauper, your father a poor miller. There must’ve been a terrible reason for his presence to have been so urgently demanded at the court. The land has been in crisis for a while now; businesses have started shutting down, and you fear that it is now your small family’s turn to be thrown out onto the streets.

The doorknob twists and the heavy door swings open as your father steps across the threshold, removing his grey cap, cheeks sallow. His best clothing no longer looks dapper but rather worn in, lackluster.

“Father! Welcome home,” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck, bringing him in close to smell the lingering scent of a mare and travel. You can tell something is off from the way he half-hugs you, grip weak around your waist. You pull back, that gnawing fear in your gut itching its way up your spine.

“Pray, tell me, what did the King want? Must we shut down the mill?” you ask, helping him to undress, taking his single-breasted coat from his frail shoulders. Was he this small when he left? He chokes back a sob, clutching his chest with one hand to cup your cheek with the other.

“Oh, daughter, my sweet, beautiful daughter,” he begins, his palm sinking to your shoulder, his voice watery as he continues, “that was his original intent, yes.” You feel the weight of his hand pull you beneath the earth, yet there is some hope in your chest as you suck in a sharp breath.

“And what of now?”

“I’m sorry, my darling, I’m sorry,” your father repeats his words, hanging his head before meeting your stare with a shaken one of his own. His lower lip trembles beneath his thick moustache, and you clutch his hand in a vice, it’s ice cold. “I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s madness.”

“Tell me, please.”

“The King asked me if I had anything worth more than the mill to barter with, to absolve us from not affording the tax, and I replied with you, my daughter. You’re worth more than any precious metal to me.” Tears begin to pool in your fathers eyes, and your hands tighten around his, unsure of where the conversation is heading.

“I had told him that you are the most beautiful maiden in the kingdom, however, he cares not for beauty but for material possessions, and without thought I exclaimed that you could spin straw into pure gold,” he says. You gasp, releasing his hand as if made of ice, the cold burning you.

“Father!”

“I am to send you to him by tomorrow evening. You’re to leave on the morrow. I will pray that your beauty is enough for our King to be merciful.”

Merciful? The King is anything but. You feel your world begin to crumble. How are you to spin straw into gold? That is a power only the Fae possess, and you tremble at the thought of what will happen once the King realizes your father has lied.

***

The looming gates of the castle are opulent, brass shining bright in the late afternoon, glinting against a peach and lilac sky. You have ridden on your father's mare through the day and can feel your thighs twitch from the exertion. You’re weary from the hot sun, the travel, and your frantic nerves twist knots in your stomach. Soldiers in fine armor stand to attention, and although they do not move, you can see how the men leer at your features, feel the difference in status crawl over your flesh like spiders.

Although you are wrapped in a dark green cloak, you feel bare beneath their stares, as though they can see the beige shift dress. Clutching its opening tight against your body, you keep your eyes straight ahead to avoid contact with any lingering gazes. You dismount, giving your horse a final stroke before you follow servants into the stone castle.

They walk fast, and you struggle to keep up, taken aback by the marble floor. The stained glass windows litter a rainbow of colours against the white stone, dancing across your skin as you walk through it and into a large hall where King Ushijima is waiting for your arrival. He’s handsome, but the scowl on his features twists your intestines, knotting them intricately. As you move closer, however, his eyebrows begin to relax and lift, his eyes widen, only slightly, taking in your appearance. You keep your head bowed in respect, eyes on the tips of your leather slippers peeking out from beneath the cloak.

The servants excuse themselves, and the doors close. All you hear is the beating of your heart and the drumming of the Kings fingers against the armrest of his throne.

“Lift your chin, girl.”

The King’s voice is gruff, commanding, and you find yourself obeying and straightening up tall so that he can see your face. He huffs, standing up and walking down grey stone steps that seem to glitter in the candle light and the last of the sun. The red of his coat is akin to blood, and it sweeps graciously around his tall frame as he stands over you.

“I thought your father was lying when he said his daughter was the fairest maiden in the Kingdom, yet he has proven me wrong. It gives me hope that the other claims he has made are not false and you may not hang in the morrow after all,” he announces, peering down over his nose at your frame. “Follow me.”

“Your Majesty,” you curtsy, and trail behind the King as he leads you through the high ceiling hallways of the castle, up and up and up the stairs, to a wooden door.

He pushes it open, the weight of the door pulling a groan from the iron hinges and steps aside for you to enter. The smell hits you first, earthy and overpowering, and you see towering piles of straw completely covering the floor and walls. In the center sits a spinning wheel in a pale birch. Your heart drops to your stomach and you feel the colour drain from your face. This must be a dream, a cruel, cruel dream.

“You have until the sun rises to transform all this straw into the finest of gold, or I will have to sentence you for trickery.”

With that, the King shuts the door. You hear the lock turn with a resounding clank. The room is shrouded in darkness and you fall to your knees, sobs uprooting in your chest at the predicament you find yourself in. You tug at the ribbon of your cloak, letting it fall open to the floor as you cry, the tears silver in the light of the full moon shining through the window.

You sob for a while, tremors shaking your body as you curl in on yourself. You barely notice the door open an inch, pale fingers curling around the side before a head with hair the shade of pomegranate peers at your sunken figure.

“Oh, ho ho! What have we here~?” a lilting voice shocks you. Your head snaps up to watch a figure bound into the room. He is tall, waif-like, with heavily lidded eyes. Your breath is snatched away as you gaze upon his hair that seems to stand on end, as though wind travels through the air, but the room is still and the window shut. The door was locked, how did he enter?

“Why are you crying, little girl?” The strange man asks, bending over at the hips with his long fingers reaching out to lift your chin up, wiping at the tears under your eyes. You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry, feeling embarrassed for your weakness, and being called young. You are of proper age at three and twenty.

“I have to spin all the straw into gold before the sun rises or I will be hanged. It’s an impossible task and I’m not sure what to do!” you begin to cry again, the tears streaming down your face and slipping down the nimble fingers that hold your jaw. The stranger tuts, tilting his head as he regards your solemn appearance.

“It’s not impossible. What will you give me if I complete this task for you?” There’s a smirk on his lips, and a glint in his garnet eyes that ensnare you to fall into them.

“I have nothing on me to give, I am a pauper,” you whisper, ashamed of your low class. The hand withdraws and you see him stretch up, a hand on his hips as he waves at your body in a grand gesture, fingers seemingly bending backwards.

“False, you have your beauty, and I am a lover of beautiful things~,” the song in his voice then drops an octave as he asks again, his eyes narrowing as if you’re prey, “so what will you give me in return?” You ponder his words, feeling blood flush your cheeks at being complimented by someone so boldly.

“I can only gift you a kiss,” you finally say, pushing up to stand. He eagerly grabs your arms, tugging you close, against his chest. You smell spice and the green of the forest after a heavy rain, transporting you to a far away land, an escape.

“I accept this trade~.” His lips crash against yours, soft pillows melting into your skin. He tastes like molasses, sweet yet dark. The kiss is bruising and his hands wander across your back and down to your waist, pulling you ever closer, letting you fall drunkenly into the taste that is him. He pulls away too soon and you have to bite the protest from escaping your lips.

Humming an odd tune, the stranger sits down at the spinning wheel, picks up a handful of straw and weaves it into a glittering gold thread. It takes only three turns of the wheel before the bobbin is full and he picks up more straw. Like this, he works throughout the night until all the straw has been transformed into precious metal. You’re still drunk from his touch, mouth agape at his elegant movements, and when you next blink, the work has been completed with plenty of time before the sun is to rise.

Wordlessly, he rises from his seat to tower over you, cupping your face delicately between both palms, he plants a lingering kiss to your forehead. He resumes humming, a devious smirk on his mouth as he saunters out of the room and the door closes behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the stillness.

The sun rises, and the King walks through the door with a purpose, expecting for you to have failed at the test. When he sees the glittering gold in the morning light, his eyes darken and a smile splits his face in half as greed consumes him.

“You can live for another day, but do not think you are liberated yet. I will need you to prove it to me once more as this could be the work of illusionment and fade throughout the day,” King Ushijima booms. Turning on his heel, he strides out the room, ordering you to follow.

He leads you into another stone room, this one larger than the previous, filled with even more straw to the top of the ceiling and you start to feel dread claw up your ribs, piercing your skin. There’s no telling what would happen the following morning.

“Turn all this straw into gold by the morrow and I will let you live,” the King states, and curtly exits to leave you alone with the scraps of your freedom.

You spend the entire day in the room, pacing and crying at the thought of failure. When night falls and casts its shadows, you hear the door click open and a familiar tune carry through the air. The handsome stranger from the night before curves around the door, peering at your frightened yet hopeful body. The moon is brighter tonight, almost full, casting a glow around the room and onto your skin.

“Miller’s daughter, you need not cry~,” he sings, making you freeze at the mention of your father’s profession, but the tears continue to pour down your face. He closes the distance between your bodies with two steps of his long legs. His flaming hair wafts around him as he wipes the salted water from your cheeks.

“What will you give me tonight if I spin this straw into gold?”

He notices your brow furrowing and sees how you swallow down your nerves. It makes him want to chuckle at the depravity of his question. You are so innocent, and so desperate for help.

“You are a maiden, are you not? Unwedded, unbedded?” The stranger asks you and he feels how your cheeks warm beneath his palm, letting his smirk twist into a wide smile. You nod, shifting awkwardly under his hold. He drops his cool hands to your shoulders and his skin is the colour of porcelain in the moon’s light. “Then give me your first sexual death in return.”

You step backwards, bewildered, unsure of his advances. You can’t let a man defile you in a way that is meant for your husband, yet here he is, requesting something so perverse. The memory of his lips against yours, the weight of his palm into your waist, flood your mind and you forget to breathe. The straw seems soft enough, your head swims. The King’s warning echoes in a chill up your spine, so you agree to his offer, which is met with a cunning grin.

Either you weigh less than a feather or he’s strong as an ox when he lifts you by the waist and over his shoulder, the round of your ass in the air, which he playfully taps and elicits a squeal from your tear-swollen lips. He hushes you while spreading a pile of hay with his foot.

“You cannot be too noisy, little girl~” he sings, placing you gently on your back, crouching between your ankles, “we wouldn’t want anyone to hear you.”

He seems utterly feral as his deft fingers ghost over your calves to thumb the hem of your simple shift dress. The fire in his eyes burns with impatience as he bunches the fabric up over your knees, to the gentle curve of your thighs where the hem of your breeches end, until it's on your waist. He takes a deep breath, you hold yours, and with your heart beating in your ears, the drawstring of your undergarments comes undone.

You realise he’s humming that strange tune when you shimmy out of your modesty, and the song hitches in his throat when your untouched cunt comes into view. It turns into a low moan and then a whistle, throwing the cotton pants behind him.

“Your sheath is as beautiful as your face, cunning as it calls out to me.” There’s no hint of rhythm in his voice, but rather a deep vibrato as lust takes over and he licks his lips. It makes your heart throb, pounding in your chest and in the delicate skin of your sex.

He lets his strong, long fingers knead the flesh of your thighs, smooth and supple under the glow of the moon, inching them upwards. You bite your bottom lip to keep from sounding out, sure in the fact that a guard may pass at any moment. The wine-haired man shuffles forward, pulling apart your legs until you’re spread for him, accessible. You can feel the blush start from your pubic bone and catch fire all along your body to heat the very top of your head. His intense stare summons your need to shut your knees but he lays down to his stomach, wedging his body so that you are at his whim.

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?” he asks, the palms of his hands so large they cover the meat of your inner thigh, his thumbs ghosting over your outer labia. Your head falls back in shame— no, anticipation. His movements are precise, teasing, and you shake your head to answer him.

“No one, you are the first.” You say silent thanks to the Lord that your voice is unwavering, breathy, and the strange man’s eyes darken to sangria.

“Lucky me to be the first to taste the sap of your fruit, your ripe nectar~!”

His thumbs glide over the soft casing and into the fold between your inner lips, unfurling them, your clit jutting out as the skin pulls taught. You suck in cool air as the nerves tingle against his warm breath. A second passes, and then three more and you’re almost tricked to relax when you feel a wet muscle press against the opening of your cunt. You shiver as he moans, the tight muscles tingle within you; your spine lifts into a delicate curve in response.

He wastes no time in making you writhe, lips encasing the displayed clit and sucking powerfully. You feel yourself drop into him, hands flying down to grab his hair, fingers burying themselves in his locks. There’s immense pleasure, instantly. Tiny shockwaves travel outwards from his mouth into your feet, and they curl in the straw, bending, snapping, folding them beneath your toes.

Soft whimpers escape, struggling to keep them contained as you bite down on your lip. No sooner than a minute must’ve passed for you to feel the heat building in your chest, the tips of your ears burning and your core clenching.

It feels as though a spring winds itself, tighter and tighter, your walls oscillate and spasm around nothing and his warm tongue laps at your slick and sucks at your clit. It draws alphabets and circles, spinning you into a dizzy haze and when he inserts the tip of one of his long, magical fingers, you lose it, snapping that cord within you.

The moan you’re holding back releases, freeing your soul as your eyes roll to see the stars in your mind, a bright light, la petite mort. Your body goes rigid and you can only see black, think of nothing but your own ecstasy as it rolls through your body, tremors in your skin.

The finger withdraws, the mouth gives a final suck, jolting you, and then a lick to lap up any remaining juices before the nymph-like man in front of you sits back onto his haunches. He leaves you trembling in your orgasm, analytical eyes absorbing the far away look on your face.

“And how did death feel~?” he asks, likening your orgasmic wave to an ascension to heaven. His voice returns to a playful tune, coaxing you back to earth.

“I’ve never known such pleasure,” you admit with tears in your eyes and longing in your voice. There’s a small bout of shame in your chest from greed at wanting another, from him.

“Now, you do, hmm,” he hums, trailing off into his signature beat as he stands and begins work on the straw.

You watch him from the ground, tugging up your undergarments with heavy limbs and smoothing your shift down. With three spins of the wheel, the handful of straw is transformed into a full bobbin of gold. The curve of his spine hunching over the machine ignites a curiosity in your mind. Who is he? What does he want? Why is he helping you? But the focus in his eyes, the cheery tune he hums and light tapping of his feet forbids you from asking him these questions.

He’s a savior of your life, there’s no need to know the reason.

The nymph works until two hours before dawn, at some point you drift off into a light, sex-induced slumber, but wake the moment he stands and stretches his popping spine. He gives you a final look, sucking on the finger that was in you, before skipping out the door, humming. It shuts with a click, the lock back in place. You are to live another day.

***

You hear a cock crow thrice before the door opens and the King stands, almost as broad as the frame. The gold in the room reflects in his amber eyes and in the glint of his adornments on his cloak and crown. You curtsy low until his voice booms.

“Arise, girl. You have kept your word and so I will keep mine, your father is free from his debt.” He rubs his chin, rings catching the rising sun as he muses out loud, “however, with a daughter like you, it’s a wonder there were dues to be paid.”

You curtsy again, saying your thanks, expecting to leave the castle and be back in your village by the following day, but King Ushijima has other plans. The sight of all the gold has swallowed his mind with greed, and the thought of being the richest King in the world is a goal that is so near, so attainable. He peers at your frame, slender from malnourishment, your simple garb, the way you instinctively shrink under the gaze of someone with so much of a higher rank than your own. It’s enticing.

He leads you to a third room in the granary, larger than all the others, the center of his stores. He sees the confusion and worry on your features, waving his hand around the room as he explains.

“Turn all this straw into gold by sunrise tomorrow and I shall take you as my wife.”

The glint in the Kings’ eyes is dangerous. He thinks that even though you are but a miller's daughter, low born, he will never find a richer wife. There’s no room for refusal as he turns to leave, ruby red cloak flurrying behind his tall frame and the door shuts for the third time that week.

You’re dazed, swaying uncontrollably as you fall to your knees, the stone floor bruising. The thought of becoming queen makes you giddy, nauseous, terrified. Although you’ve had help these last two evenings, what’s to say the stranger will appear again? And at what cost will it be? Tears prick your eyes, and you think of the last time you were happy; when you weren’t trapped in an exchange for your life.

The sky melts into orange, geranium, the sun falls below the skyline. Your heart follows, dropping to your stomach as it turns and you dry heave. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and that familiar, welcoming hum returns. The stranger practically hurtles into the granary, fingers like the crest of a wave as curls and swings from the ends of his arms.

“Innocent girl, why are you crying again~?” he sings, stooping low to cup your tear-stricken cheeks. His fingers are cold against flushed skin.

“I am to turn all this straw to gold by sunrise. He will make me queen if I succeed and if not, I cannot bear to consider the consequences!” you wail, peering into the quizzical vermillion eyes of the waif, nymph, or whomever this magical being is. His laughter echoes in the room, deafening your ears with it’s cadence.

“And what will you give me if I complete this task for you?” the question is not a surprise, but you have no answer, shaking your head as your lower lip pinches between your teeth in regret.

“There’s nothing left to give.”

The hands on your cheeks grip harder, fiercer, beneath your jaw to pull you up to standing.

“Nonsense, you are a virgin, are you not? Let me do this for you and in return, give me your maidenhood.”

His request is so shocking, so taboo, that it takes you several seconds to comprehend. Your mouth drops, heart hammering away at an unfamiliar beat in your ears. You tremble. There’s no way you can give him what is meant for your husband. He seems to register that thought as soon as it flies through your mind. His hair crackles like lightning, standing on end, his eyes are dark and stormy, and although he speaks with a song, his words are dangerous, dragging you beneath the waves.

“Surely, your virginity is not worth your life?”

With nothing to barter with but your body, you wonder if there is an alternative. Will the King realise you have been tainted if the marriage is consummated? You hope he does not. The stranger's tongue clicks, his hands fall from your face to leave the skin cold and you feel the desire for their return coursing through your veins.

“Time is wasting, Miller’s Daughter, do we have a deal?” his question flips over in your mind, your fingers wring together as you stare up at the looming figure. There’s impatience in his eyes.

“Yes.”

He claps his hands together gleefully, before interlacing them and stretching overhead. Tonight, he doesn’t collect preemptively, sitting down at the spinning wheel to begin. A hand full of straw is scooped up, the wheel spins thrice and the bobbin fills with glittering gold thread. It clatters to the floor as he begins on the next spool, his work methodical and timely. You watch him for a while, the way his heart shaped face is complacent, as though it was second nature to practise this magic. He hums that strange tune. His skin is milk under the pale glow of the moon, and suddenly, you’re thirsty.

Memories of the previous night play through your mind, clear as though a mirage. The way his eyes surveyed you over your mound, the obscene noises you made when his tongue dipped into your tight hole. It leaves you dizzy, breathless, and the enormous room is all of a sudden too small, too confined. You begin to pace. He never stops his humming. The sound bleeds into your pores, into your veins and pumps through you. It calls you to touch him. It’s wrong. You can’t. The night drags on and you don’t notice his song stops, or that he’s standing behind you.

His hands snake around your waist, pulling you back against his chest so that your head hits the firm muscle beneath his tunic. His nose finds refuge in your hair and with his inhale, your breathing stops.

“Mmm, you smell like fresh snow,” he mumbles into your skin, the meaning behind his words not lost on you: uncorrupted, untainted. It sends shivers down your spine and there’s a crackle in the air as every muscle in your body freezes.

His palms drift lower to rest on the meat of your thighs, digging to inch the fabric up slowly, methodically, until the hem is in his grasp and he pulls it over your head to leave you near-naked in the gold-filled room. Your bloomers are tied in a simple bow that loosens with a tug, the cotton dropping down your legs. You haven’t taken in oxygen yet, your lungs screaming at you to breathe, your knees trembling under his shadow. You gulp air hastily.

It is not that you do not want him, in fact, your body craves the very touch he bestows. You’re frightened, anxious at the implications of the act you’re about to perform. He spins you around, and you find those ruby eyes glinting down at you with ravishment, devouring the apex of your nipples in the full moonlight before tracing the length of your collarbones, the line of your neck and jaw, and feasting on your lips.

The way the lid of his eyes wilt, pupils widen, instinctively ushers you forward and into his waiting kiss. Your lips barely touch before his tongue darts out to swipe yours, tasting you impatiently. He’s waited far longer than he usually would to take what he wants, and he’s almost reached his limit. You’re pliable in his grip, body bending and arching with his palms, pressing your bosom flat to his chest. With rough fingers, he trails them up your spine, inciting a moan from your throat, filling the room with a richer sound than the clinking of golden yarn. He almost falls apart at your whimper when his teeth nip at your lips.

His hands advance up, scorching before touching the base of your skull, fingers wrapping around to grip the soft skin of your neck beneath your ears. His palms are so large, manipulating your body so that your jaw tilts up, away and you lean back onto his forearms. His lips slide from yours, trailing fervent kisses down the column of your throat. It’s all you can do to keep up with his strokes. Your lack of experience is evident when your hands dangle lifeless at your sides, almost touching the floor as he bends you backwards to lay down on the hard stone.

It’s sobering, clammy, welcome against your heated flesh. The stranger continues his descent. You feel gravel pressing into the blades of your shoulders, and you shift unpleasantly. All is forgotten when your right nipple, trembling and painfully erect, is captivated by a silky, moist touch. Your saviour suckles, bites, licks, and the static in your skin begins to crackle at his touch, threatening to spark. Luckily, there’s no more straw to ignite a fire. Your left breast is stimulated by massaging presses, five fingers gripping roughly, but not enough to bruise. No, there will be no trace of his defilement on you tonight, for now.

The other hand trails down between your legs, dipping experimentally into your slick folds, testing the waters. Your wetness had begun to grow when your imagination raged earlier, in truth, you don’t think it disappeared from the night before. You bite back a moan as a finger toys with your clit, the shivers current your spine in small convulsions. There’s a warning that you might come undone with just this, and he feels it too, the pulses of your walls contracting the muscles of your lower abdomen.

As though controlled by the impending orgasm, your body moves. Gripping his wild hair harshly, your jaw goes slack, eyes rolling to see nothing as the explosion rips through your body. He does not stop sucking at your nipple, flicking the bud harshly, a finger tracing lazy circles to your clit as you fall back into your body. His lips move to the side of your breast, planting increasingly desperate kisses into the plump flesh. Your grip does not loosen, it follows the winding of his head as it trails to overwhelm your collarbone, your throat with heavy licks.

You can feel a fresh burst of slick drip from your slit. He catches it knowingly and his face lifts from your skin to peer into your eyes. He brings his coated finger to your parted lips, pressing your nectar onto your tongue. It’s tart, musky, unlike anything you’ve tasted before. You swallow it down into your aching stomach, feeling the flames of your orgasm dwindle. You want more, and he sees it in the hungry way you suck. And oh! How he wishes it was his cock sheathed between your plump lips.

“Isn’t it splendid~?” he sings, pumping his finger in and out of your mouth, your tongue curling around to massage the individual knuckles automatically. There’s a heavy silence in the air, your breast is squeezed. You realise he’s waiting for you to answer, even with your mouth full.

“Yesh,” you fumble with the syllable, warmth spreading to your cheeks and he seems glad with the answer. Removing his finger for his palms to push up a knee, he leaves a gentle kiss on the bruise from your morning fall into despair.

You’re spread for him. He only then realises how clothed he is. He retracts his touch, tugging his tunic over his head to reveal smooth, unblemished skin that reflects the golden thread and garnet hair. He’s a stained glass window of colours, an inferno burning bright. It’s breathtaking. There’s a trail of red hair, enticing you to look lower, beckoning you to discover what is underneath. He doesn’t remove his breeches completely, choosing instead to loosen the leather lacing on the front, the fabric splaying open to unveil phallic gold. It makes you squeal, the implications of what is upcoming ramming into your chest, your body humming with ferocity. An eyebrow quirks up in response, along with a simpering chuckle.

“How amusing,” he quips, wrapping his large hands around an equally thick and long cock.

“Will it fit?” you can’t help but ask. Surely not. His laugh is raspy in response, erupting from deep within him rather than on the tip of his tongue like his usually lilting words.

“It will. Or I will make it.”

There’s something in his tone, in his ambitious stare, that sends your skin into overdrive, shivering and vibrating with anticipation. You’re openly waiting, nerves fissioning and calling out. He answers. Your mouth drops open, gasping in shock. It's so soft. And wet. The head of his cock slides up between your folds, tapping your sensitive bundle of nerves teasingly. He’s teasing you, making your hips shake and twitch. A hand comes to stabilize you, pinching the bone. Your eyes are wide, heartbeat in your ears and cunt and when you lock stares, time freezes as his hips move.

You’ve never seen a wider grin on someone’s face. It’s wild, face splitting, imitating your stretching slit as he slowly inches in. There’s a low whistle, a hum, turning into a chuckle as you feel a pressure unknown begin to build within. It’s choking, your throat swelling and with no inhibitions, you moan. Heaven above, hell below, all listens attentively as the desire to be sinfully fucked explodes in your womb. Your hands scramble to grip onto something, him, slinging them around his neck to pull him low. There’s a grunt, his breath tickling your ears, and a jerk of his hips as he sings,

“How needy, how desperate, How infinitely tight and perfect~”

It melts into your skin, the same rhythm as the hums you’ve grown accustomed to. The wind of his words fan flames, your eyes rolling back to escape the heat. But oh, how it’s inside you, boiling in your veins and you clutch on tighter as his hips rock into yours. Each pulse of your walls around his cock makes him vibrate, giddy as he pulls out an inch, only to sheathe himself in completely once more. He hears your whimpers against his neck, so soft, so delicate, not enough.

He sets into motion, plucking your limbs from around his neck, pinning them above your head as each snap of his hips jostles your being. Your simpering cries turn into moans and before you realise it, you’re screaming out for God and his Angels to witness the rapture happening within these stone walls. The man keeps a hand on your wrists to secure you, the other to your sensitive breasts, pinching and massaging as he grins salaciously.

Those fingers trail down the soft skin of your stomach, watching as it leaves indents against your skin before the flesh plumps back up. He raises goose-pimples, your shivering spine clenching your cunt tighter. Each thrust sends a ricochet through your body, bouncing it up before it falls back in rhythm. His blunt nails trace from bone to bone of your hips, lowering until it runs over the tuft of hair on your mound.

There’s enchantment in his eyes, reeling you in deeper, lulling you into a sense of security. A thumb finds your hooded nerves, grinding down until you see stars on the roof of the granary, past the glowing face of your savior. Has the ceiling fallen away? How magnificent. They reflect in your eyes, in the shine of drool on the corner of your lips, your tongue darting out to lick it up before you suck down.

“More.” The words are a caress to his ears, and the smile on his face splits wider until it swallows you whole. All you know is his touch.

He can feel you slipping beneath the waves, your silken walls oscillating around his girth. He leaves your wrists to grab your right thigh, lifting it so that it rests on his shoulder. With your hands now free, they fly out, pressing into the stone floor like trying to stay afloat as the swell of the ocean begins to ripple within you. It’s torrential, the rain within, and unlike before, when it was just his fingers, the dam explodes.

You feel perfect wrapped around him, dragging him down into the depth of the sea along with your desire. He doesn’t want it to end, no, he can’t let it end. He pistons his hips, the rhythm knocking the air from your lungs as he nears his release. The stars above give way to black, then white, and he sees it in your face as you reach a higher plane of existence, one he knows only he can provide. That fire returns, lighting up your insides, evaporating the spray of the ocean, making room for the foam of his seed to take place and fill you.

His hips slow, the fluids within you stirring around until you’re dizzy. Your thoughts can’t be strung together, mind blank. Satisfaction ripples in every corner of the room: carnal and raw. It can be tasted on the air, like the salt on your skin. He withdraws from your swollen walls, adamantly watching as the efforts of three days trickle out of you. His pounding, soaring heart drops as he thinks of the morning. He’s grown addicted to you, he realises. You’re his. This cunt should be no one else's, he’s ruined you for all men, he’s sure of it. It’s dangerous, this feeling in his chest, the plan hatching in his mind. You will not be able to forget him soon.

The rise and fall of your chest is soft, your body exhausted and blissful as you’re already in a post-orgasmic slumber. He traces your skin with open palms, seeing the way you react, even asleep, to his touch, committing your curves to memory. You’re angelic, surrounded by gold. His gold. He stands, limbs heavy, before snapping up to stare at your splayed out frame from above an upturned nose.

“I’ll see you soon, Queen,” he hums beneath his breath, waving his hands so that you’re dressed again, clean and tidy, prim and proper for the King to inspect the room within an hour. He skips out the door, the bounce in his step a little more pointed, sharper, and the lock clicks back in place.

***

You’re sour, like wine stored in the sun. Once married to the King, he promised you that you never had to work another day in your life, the gold spun from straw enough for twelve lifetimes over. And he was right. Your days are spent doing nothing. You have time to spare, and more often than not, you find your thoughts drifting to a red haired stranger, his face contorted in lust, desperate for the taste of your skin. It has been a year since your encounter with him.

It’s midnight, a waning half-moon. There’s no sleep. It has been avoiding you every night, so you lay awake next to your husband. The rise and fall of his deep breathing does little to lull you, and your body is charged with a sexual fire. You’re unsatisfied; richer than you could’ve ever dreamed, but unsatisfied.

Like many nights now, your fingers creep beneath the silk bed sheets to swirl at your ignored sex. A soft sigh kisses your lips as your nerves tense up at the touch. Before you can stop yourself, you hum a familiar tune that melts into your skin as you stroke to the rhythm. With your eyes closed, you picture that strange man that brought you to a place of such intense pleasure, something you had not felt since that night. The next morning when you woke, you had only the residue of what he left behind between your legs. That was the only proof that it was not a dream.

Like the swell of a wave, it begins to crest. You spread your ankles slightly wider, tapping the King’s legs delicately. He stirs but doesn’t wake. He never does. Your hums come out in ragged breaths as you imagine every thrust, every pinch against your body. And when his hands grip around your neck, you almost break against the shore of your orgasm. The familiar smell of forest wafts around you. Are you so starved that you can conjure up scents and touch?

Your eyes fly open, staring up at twinkling rubies above. A dark grin is spread onto a face you had not seen for a while. A cool hand is against your throat, floating up to palm your lips and halt a squeal that would’ve flown from between them in shock. He raises a finger to his lips in a signal to keep quiet, eyes darting to your husband face up next to you. He hums lowly before he whispers to you.

“What do we have here~?” his voice carries a jovial, teasing tune, releasing your face to peel back the edge of the sheets and reveal your naked form. You cover your breasts with one arm, the other snaking down to press flat against your quivering sex. Your orgasm had been so close before it was snatched away, the thoughts blazing through your mind nothing except immoral.

“Does the King not satisfy you, millers daughter?” he pokes at your thigh, hard fingers trailing up, leaving burning lines that sink into your pores greedily. You swallow down the rising heat in your body, the shame of being seen touching yourself.

“I am queen now,” the husk in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed by the strange man.

“Ah yes, but you are still your father’s daughter,” the pinch of your hip jolts your being, and you snap your legs shut, the bed bouncing slightly. King Ushijima grunts, rolling to face away from you and the intruder. You let out a shaky breath that you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“What are you doing here?” you ask the man, slowly sitting up right, shielding your lower body once more with the covers. His grin falters at your actions, feeling a tightening in his gut at how you hide what’s his. He swallows down his fury, standing upright. His form blocks out the little light trickling in from the moon outside the window.

“I had come to steal you away from the comfort of your new life,” his eyes flicker to the back of King Ushijima, his voice hushed and low, disdain dripping into his words, “it’s the only proper way to pay for my skills, afterall.”

You swallow down your nerves, feeling a pooling of heat between your legs at the thought of being carried far away, somewhere wild and unknown. It’s an escape you would not be against. Long fingers reach to caress your hair, picking up a strand to twirl it. He inspects the way you shiver under his touch, feeling pride at the reactions he can evoke from your body, but his eyes are hesitant. You may very well not want to leave behind all you have gained in the year.

“Please do.”

That same grin reappears on his lips, splitting his face wide open with giddy pleasure. Oh! How he was not expecting the night to unfurl like this at all. He can feel the desire roll off your skin in waves, and he drinks it in. He can’t give you what you crave so easily, he must play a game with you first.

“Oh ho ho, miller’s daughter, how desperate you are! I can taste it.” he sings, palms boxing either side of your thighs. The touch doesn’t dip the bed, as if he is made of air.

“I will give you three nights to find out my name, or I will leave you here with your eternal longing for more than what he can bequeath,” he propositions, the words dancing around you. How badly do you want to feel such pleasure again? You barely have to think.

“Three nights,” you agree.

With a squeal, he leaps away from your bed, skipping over to the door of the chambers. It’s a miracle the sleeping King besides you remains asleep. Or it’s magic. Head swinging around to looking at you with such intensity, you almost melt as he says one last thing.

“Don’t touch yourself until then.”

***

That night, you have no rest. All the names in the world run through your mind, but how are you to know which one is his? You spend the day compiling a long list, feigning it as names for a future child with the King. ‘You are getting old, I must have an heir within the year.’ It was a curt discussion, not one open for arguing. It is also why every night has been loveless tumbles, only leaving your core soaking with his seed, but nothing grew inside you.

The sun sets below the horizon, the moon rising and you sit next to a warm fire in your chambers. The King is passed out on the bed, fast asleep and unaware of your musings. You can feel how the slick inside you trickles out, unwanted but you resist the urge to wipe it away. It is your wifely duties, after all. Instead, you focus on calming your nerves, trying to untangle the knots in your belly before the strange man visits. He enters, skipping soundless as he hums under his breath.

“So, miller’s daughter, what is my name~?” he flops unceremoniously onto the floor next to you, head coming to rest on your lap. His lidded eyes stare up at you expectantly, a knowing smirk on his face at just how difficult of a challenge he has given you.

You begin to list the names compiled, with each name, he shakes his head, ‘that is not my name,’. As the night drags on, he tantalises you with what you so badly want. The laced hem of your night dress is hiked up around your knees, his unabashed fingers cloying with the soft skin of your thighs, inching closer to your dripping cunt.

“Abel, Balthazar, Oikawa, Hisoka,” you recite, each name getting huskier as he teases you. He barely touches you, instead feeling the remnants of the Kings spill, before pulling back and standing. The movement jostles you.

“The sun is rising, you have two more nights.”

His usual lilting tone is gone, voice hard. He wipes the semen on his finger against the black of your dress, leaving a patch of white, and strides out the door without looking back.

The next day, you send out messengers and knights to scour the town for new names, asking every servant in the castle for theirs. As evening creeps up and your nightly tossle with the King ends, you clean up all that is left over with a dampened washcloth. The stranger peers around the door, taking in the sleeping figure of the King before floating into the room. The static of his gaze as it rakes over your skin catches flame, and the fire beside you seems to dim against the red of his hair.

He leans over you, hands gripping the arms of the wooden chair as he asks you the question. You begin to list the stranger of the names you’ve heard, Martinko, Rumpelstiltskin, Melchior, but each time, he replies that it is not his name. His breath ghosts over your face as you speak, his eyes closing to listen to the whispered cadence of your voice. Instinctively, you widen your legs for his to slot between. He falls to his knees, cheek once more pressed against your thighs, lips mumbling quiet no’s into your hips. With a deep inhale, he smells that you are clean tonight, and it makes his heart soar. His fingers come back to stroke beneath your dress, a deep forest green. You don’t stop saying names.

“This task is impossible,” you whisper out of breath. He had two fingers up to his knuckle inside you, pumping lazily as you recite. Like many times throughout the night, he stops his movements at the brink of your collapse, pulling back to suck at your nectar. He licks his fingers off fluidly, trapping your gaze in a trance.

“You have one more night, or you remain unsatiated,” his grin splinters at your will, a groan tearing from your lips in the quiet room. The crackle of the fire had stopped hours ago. The King twists on the bed, mumbling under his breath at the noise.

“Hush, miller’s daughter, don’t be so desperate.” the man warns, standing and skipping over to the door, humming as he shuts it behind him.

On the third day, you ache for sexual release. The opulent castle walls seem too small for you, and so you wander around the forest just outside the walls. With the sun shining overhead as you stroll, it warms your skin to the degree of the never ending heat between your legs. The earth is soft, and with each step, you seem to fall in deeper to the ground, wanting it to swallow you until you’re no longer charged and lusting.

You are seconds away from turning back when you hear a familiar hum, except this time, there are words. You hide behind a tree, peering out at a small clearing in the woods. Red hair dances like the fire in front of him. The stranger moves around the fire in a trance, celebrating something unknown. You strain to listen in on the words he sings.

"Today I dance, tomorrow I sow, In the evening, I will steal her away from home. And oh! I am glad that she does not know, That the name I am is Satori Tendō!”

That night, you can barely contain your gaiety. You even enjoy the love-making your under enthusiastic partner pounds you with. You take in his heavy touches, the way it doesn’t bleed into your skin, but rolls off like oil with water. It’s your last night with him after all. He’s deep asleep, you had slipped something into the drink he has after the ritual.

You’re waiting for Tendō to enter the room, humming his tune under your breath as you pour wine into your chalice. The nightdress you’ve worn is a red, like the seed of a pomegranate or the sky when the sun sets, the colour of his hair. Sturdy arms wrap against your waist to pull you back against a muscled chest. He laughs into your ear, nipping at the sensitive skin.

“Tell me, Queen,” he spits the name out as though it was too bitter for his taste, “what is my name?”

Feigning ignorance, you list names for the final time. ‘Jack, John, Harry’, hands stroke up the back of your legs, dragging the linen up until your bare ass is on display and pressing against a growing bulge behind you.

“That is not my naaame~” he sings, kissing the side of your neck. Cupping your breast with one hand, the other snakes between your thighs to swirl around at the mess he coaxes from you. You can’t hold in the whimpers, tearing up at the touch given to you after almost a year of loveless sex.

He had introduced life beyond living in those three days, and it was so close now, you can feel it between your fingers. His name is on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it back. It’s not the right time. He folds you forward, your chest resting on the table top, your head turned to see your sleeping husband, so blissfully unaware of the presence in the room. Tendō pulls at the strings of his pants, letting the leather slip down his toned thighs, lining up the head of his cock with your pulsing core.

“Daichi, Bokuto, Ryunosuke,” you mumble out, shifting back against him to feel the silken hardness poke at your folds.

“No, that’s not my name, miller’s daughter,” and he presses in. With all the strength you can muster to not scream out, your knuckles grip the table's edge at feeling so stretched out.

“Oh, fuck,” you swear, the crude word not suitable to pass from a lady’s lips. It sparks a chuckle from the man thrusting into you. He inches in, knees going weak at feeling your walls wrap so deliciously around him once again.

“What’s my name?” he asks, the snap of his hips with each word. Your body jostles against the table top. You moan, clenching around his thick dick.

“Tendō.”

He freezes, twitches inside you, and you hold your breath in anticipation. A large hand wraps around your hair, pulling it up so that your back curves, tightening the space that clamps down on him between your legs.

“Who told you?” the question seeps into your skin, chilling your bones with their weight. He begins to pound into you again, pace picking up considerably to attempt to rouse your husband from his sleep. The sleeping aid you gave him is strong, but you still worry he would see you, not that it would matter after tonight.

“No one,” you moan, pushing up against the wooden table to try and lessen the tug on your scalp.

“Lies!” he roars, fury fueling his thrusts. Although he is getting what he ultimately wants, he has lost the game of cat and mouse. You have won. Oh, how his blood boils. A hand snakes around your throat, squeezing as he fucks into you with ferocity. You cry out, whimpering his name over and over again. Each time it leaves your lips, he feels his anger dim, and instead begins to revel in how the syllables tease his ears, echoing in the room.

“Who told you, whore?” he asks yet again, not expecting you to react to the rude name. It’s all it takes to fall off the cliff within you after three days of bringing you near the edge. Your skin is on fire, being called a ‘whore’ bristles your nerves, scratches you, and you need more, another orgasm, another death to ascend higher.

“No one, I swear,” you retaliate by bouncing back against each thrust with as much vigour as what he pours into you. “I saw you- uh, in the woods, singing.”

He slows, stills, and leans to kiss at the moist skin of your exposed shoulder. With a smile, he manages to twist you around, unsheathing for a second, only to reenter when you’re seated on the table. Legs spread around his waist, you cross your ankles behind his back to draw him closer.

“A promise is a promise, Tendō,” you whisper, arms locking around his neck to pull him close to your lips. “Take me away from here.”

You close your eyes in the kiss, tasting sweet molasses, smelling rain and dirt, and when you open them, you’re not in the castle anymore. Trees reach up past where you can see, multicoloured stars shine in the night sky. You laugh, the sound bubbling from your chest, and Tendō grins, dipping to litter kisses along your neck. His hips begin to move, your fingers curling into his hair as you moan louder than ever before.

You are free.

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

fuck, this is long. sorry! I hope you enjoyed it.

MASTERLIST HERE

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softbtsickies · 3 years

Text

Just deal

I said I wasn’t a writer because I wanted to keep this account separate from my Wattpad but I found this old draft that i was never ended up posting on wp but after reading it again Ig it’s not that bad and it’s grown on me a tiny bit so I decided why not. Hope it can be enjoyed <3

*Based on the vid*

♡Sickie: Taehyung

♡Caretaker: no one 😀

♡Tw: emeto, small mention of skipping meals all day and very light fluff and angst (if it can be considered) hurt no comfort, but with sickness instead

Taehyung breathed in deeply while repeating a mental chant of the same affirmation “You’re fine, You’re okay,” over and over again like he was some type of scratched CD, he wasn’t quite sure if it was a breath of convincing himself into a false relief or to push down the ever climbing pressure in his esophagus. He found it was best to nervously fiddle with the beading and cuffs of his sleeves as an act of ignorance to the feeling of a wave of stomach acid crashing inside him likewise to bubbling ocean, as it had been doing all day. Taehyung had made it through many concerts having an ‘upset tummy’ without upchucking all over the place, and he was determined to keep that track record running, even if it meant having to survive the day on a tiny amount of water and the littlest human interaction he had in years to preserve energy and to refrain from having his mouth open long enough for his stomach to take the window of opportunity to reject everything when talking. He moved onto rubbing his sweaty hands against his stage pants while the stylist continued to prick and prod at him, everything churning inside him picked up in pace as he realised how close the concert was getting to opening. The stylist finally backed away from him, at the same time one of the stage crew stood behind him looking at the both of them in the mirror. Taehyung straightened his posture up as much as he could to show the worker had his attention (there definitely being no ulterior motive of trying to stop the compression of his tummy.) “You coming out or staying in here to get some rest before the opening number?” Taehyung looked at himself one more time in the mirror, the stage make up perfectly covering his lack of wellness. “I’ll...” he had to clamp his mouth shut to sallow the airy belch that left the familiar taste of the last time he was sick in his mouth. He knew it would raise more concern and questions to stay behind instead of meeting up with his brothers, but the thought of being around seven noisy members and even louder workers made his head spin. He didn’t need to add a headache on top of a sour stomach. “I think I’ll just stay here for a while, thank you.” He could feel the air from swallowing flutter in his stomach again, to his luck, it not releasing any noise until after the stylist and crew worker left the green room. He waited till the door had been shut for a good ten seconds before scrunching one side of his face with a pained “ohhh,” hunching over to wrap his arms around his stomach. The organ curdled loudly under his hand when he put it under his shirt to rub away the nausea. He looked at himself one more time, his face now morphed into a hurt pouted, and he raised to his feet. One finale attempt to feel better, he gently tapped on his belly to get one more burp out in hopes to ease the tension inside and made his way to find his spot backstage.

Pretending he was fine while performing was something that years of experience helped him perfect, but it never stopped the constant panic that at any moment would end up puking in front of thousands of the viewing eye, this could not be his next viral moment. His tummy had been quietly gurgling under the music the whole performance, and he probably was noticeably sloppy even laggy during the choreography sections, but apparently luck had favoured him as, soon enough, the lights dimmed, calling for a short break and instead of following the rest of his members to the green room, he changed his way to the bathroom instead and locked himself into the first stall in there. Tae stood over the toilet, hand massaging his stomach again until it made a sick rumble at the bottom of his middle, travelling upwards, making the floor of his mouth pool with saliva. Now being seconds away from vomiting, he realised his two bug mistakes of the day. Number one being the regret of not telling anyone. Why does he always play this game? Why doesn’t he bury the insecurity of opening up about his sickness and stop messing everything up when he finally gets caught?Questioning himself leads to the yearning of wanting someone to hold his hair, maybe pat his back or rub his tummy until and tell him everything is fine, it turns his eyes damp. The other mistake, not being revealed until his throat is starting to close and open up while his breathing is becoming more rapid and uncontrollable. It hits Taehyung that he had gotten away without eating a bite the whole day and now that his body thinks there’s something to expel, all it has to work with is plain vile. “Oh uh.” He hiccups into his fist, stomach finally jerking. Leaving no time to ponder on any more regrets, his body forced him to bend at the waist while something acidic poured out of his mouth. The second wave came with no warning and this time his legs stumbled to hold him up and a hand slammed onto the wall to keep his balance. Having a quick break, Taehyung rushed to his knees, one arm gripping the bowl the other hugging himself while his belly began to clench, looking for anything else it can bring up. He went through a couple more rounds of productivity until it was physical impossible to vomit anything else up. There was still a heavy churning inside him, and he knew this was just the beginning, however there wasn’t time to cry about how much pain the ordeal caused him or to get his breathing back to normal. From the bathroom he could still hear the cheers of thousands of army waiting to see him again. He would have to and pretend everything was fine, even if his voice would probably sound like shit from burning with acid.

He would just have to deal.

#bts emeto #bts sickfic #sick!taehyung #Guess how many times i reuse the same 5 words #Like i said it’s not the best #not sure why i saw that vid and was just like hmm #✨Nausea ✨

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thesleepiesthufflepuff · 3 years

Text

Nothing More Than That

When Harry woke, the world was silent, the earth covered in a fresh layer of snow. Pale overcast light fell in through the crack in his curtains, highlighting small particles of dust floating through the still air. A blanket of coldness hung over the bedroom, sinking into Harry’s hands and seeping into his spine, and he burrowed further under the covers.

That is, until he remembered that it was New Year’s Day, and New Year’s Day meant going over to the Burrow for a grand lunch that Molly had poured her blood, sweat, and tears into.

With a heavy groan, Harry sat up and rubbed his eyes. After a moment he reached over to his nightstand, grabbed his wand, and lazily cast Tempus. Blue numbers appeared in the air, glowing against the early morning light, and revealed that it was eight o’clock. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, he peeled back his duvet and slid out of bed, the soles of his feet meeting the icy wooden floor. He padded to the bathroom, relieving himself before wandering to his wardrobe and exchanging his pajamas for a pair of fitted black jeans, a light pink cable knit jumper that complimented his golden brown skin, and canvas high-tops.

Once dressed, he ran a comb through his hair, although his black waves still sat at odd, unusual angles. After a minute or two he gave up, spraying himself with eucalyptus and pine aftershave. Then, giving himself a final once-over, he felt reasonably content and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

He sat in a stupor and drank coffee while the porridge cooked, occasionally casting a glance at the clock hanging on the wall to make sure that he was alright for time. By nine o’clock, he’d chucked on his coat and a matching set of a grey scarf, gloves, and a beanie that Molly had knitted for him several years ago. Then, stuffing his keys and wallet into his satchel, he headed out the door of his flat, down the stairs of the building, and out into the brisk morning.

The sky was heavy with dark clouds, threatening to unleash a new flurry of snow and slush at any moment. This caused Harry to frown, a deep crease settling in between his eyebrows as he made his way towards the nearest Tube station. The path was slick and wet with snow that had fallen overnight, and his shoes were already soaked and uncomfortable. Silently, Harry thanked himself for having been reasonable and putting on a second pair of wool socks over his first.

After hopping on his train, he arrived at his stop thirty minutes later. Weaving his way in between clusters of people on the platform, he made his way up the stairs and onto the street, turning right. Down the road a little ways, he could make out a wooden sign jutting out from one of the shops up ahead, reading Rosemary’s Garden in faded, light green print. He let out a sigh of relief, having found it.

Walking into the shop, he was immediately hit with the sweet, aromatic smell of roses. The right wall was made up of a refrigerator, which was filled to the brim with a variety of flowers. Harry recognized a few, such as baby’s breath, gardenias, and lilies. The rest of the shop was filled with premade floral arrangements and bouquet accessories, all looking rather attractive in the silver light that fell through the broad front window.

Harry looked to the till counter, but there wasn’t a shop employee in sight. However, there was a silver bell sitting on the countertop, which he diligently rang, the tinny sound echoing throughout the shop. He heard shuffling in what must have been the back room, and then a figure all too familiar emerged.

Draco sodding Malfoy. He looked better than he had the last time Harry had seen him, which had been at his trial seven years ago. Malfoy had looked worn then, his skin sallow and taut and a dull look in his pewter colored eyes. Now, though, there was a light about him, as though someone had flipped a switch. His soft, ashy blond hair was cropped just above his ears, shorter than it had been, and the frown lines that had riddled his face were now faded.

As Harry stared at him, he realized with quite a horrible shock that Malfoy was … fit.

Malfoy awkwardly cleared his throat, moving to his position behind the counter. He was clad in a charcoal colored turtleneck and, Harry was quite startled to see, blue jeans. On top of the turtleneck laid a forest green apron with the shop’s name embroidered in loopy gold letters on the chest.

“Potter?” Malfoy asked hesitantly, his voice breaking the deafening silence.

“I―” Harry began, his tongue suddenly feeling dry and far too large, “I didn’t know you worked here. Why … why do you work here?”

“Well,” Malfoy said, his voice weary, “I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I? With the wizarding world casting me into exile, and all.”

Harry was taken aback at his bluntness, and he recoiled slightly. “That makes sense. Do you … like flowers?”

The corners of Malfoy’s mouth turned upwards slightly. “I suppose.”

“Right,” Harry said nervously, looking anywhere but at Malfoy. “Well, I’d like to buy a bouquet of flowers.”

“That’s a bit … generic,” Malfoy said flatly. “Could you be more specific? Type of flower? Size?”

“Oh. Um, well, Molly likes zinnias. Dahlias too, I think. And nothing too fancy. She wouldn’t want that,” Harry said.

“Would you mind if I put some eucalyptus and baby’s breath in the bouquet? Just to break up the dahlias and zinnias,” Malfoy asked.

Harry shrugged. “You’re the florist.”

He swore he could see Malfoy smirk as he set about putting the bouquet together. Meanwhile, Harry wandered around the shop, putting all of his frazzled energy into admiring the different flora.

Ten minutes later, the bouquet was ready. It was filled with bright orange and pink flowers, which paired nicely with the paleness of the eucalyptus leaves and baby’s breath. A cream satin ribbon had been tied neatly around the stems, which were held in place by a plastic bouquet covering. It looked right up Molly’s alley, which made Harry feel thrilled.

“It’s perfect. Thank you,” Harry said, digging out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“Sixty pounds even.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, not having expected such a steep price, but paid it nonetheless. He’d pay anything to see the smile that he knew would appear on Molly’s face when she saw the bouquet.

As Malfoy printed the receipt, he looked up, an amused look on his face. “So, I saw in the Daily Prophet that you’ve come out as bisexual. Is it true?”

Harry, after briefly choking on his spit, let out a surprised laugh. “Yes. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Malfoy said, handing the receipt to Harry. “I’m gay.”

“Oh,” Harry said lamely, his mind churning. “In that case, how would you feel about dinner sometime this week?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “As in … a date?”

Harry nodded curtly. “A date. You’re rather fit, you know.”

The tips of Malfoy’s ears grew a steady pink, and he shot Harry a soft smile. “You’re not too bad yourself, Potter. Dinner sounds lovely.”

Harry could feel his cheeks burning as he took the bouquet. “Well, thanks for the flowers. Oh, and are you still living at the Manor?”

Draco nodded.

“I’ll send a letter your way with the dinner details,” Harry said, his stomach a mess of nerves and excitement as he wandered towards the door. “Happy New Year’s, by the way.”

Draco grinned, offering him a small wave. “Happy New Year’s, Potter.”

As Harry emerged back onto the bustling path, he thought about how he would have the opportunity to get to know who Malfoy was now, their schoolboy days long forgotten. He wanted nothing more than that.

#4 hours to go here until New Years #but hey! I got impatient!#happy New Years everyone #<3 #drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #draco x harry #Harry x Draco #Drarry fanfiction #Drarry fic recs #my fanfiction #flower shop au #Drarry fluff

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goodmorningmissmorgan · 3 years

Text

More Blackwall/Evelyn angst (unedited first draft) inspired by the escape from Haven. CW: light swearing and allusion to adult activities.

His whole body goes numb as he watches her cross the threshold of the Chantry. There’s a low buzzing at the base of his skull, a chatter to his teeth. He can’t seem to move his fingers, his feet rooted to the spot.

Maker’s breath, but not like this. She’s playing the part of a sacrificial lamb, and he can’t bring himself to do a thing to stop it. You coward, Thom. You absolute fucking coward.

There’s a determined set to her shoulders, but she hesitates at the doors. For a moment, he isn’t sure if she’s going to turn, or simply march forward into the cold without a backward glance. Inanely, his mind flashes to images of the nights they lay together: her peach-fuzz skin, soft with fat and supple with muscle, her fingers slender and wandering, her verdant-green eyes curling into pleased crescents.

Almost as if sensing his gaze, she turns; her eyes flicker first to him, standing stock-still in the middle of the hall, but then she winces and clenches them shut. When she reopens her eyes, they’re casting over his shoulder to where Cassandra, Dorian and Vivienne are gently shepherding a huddle of pilgrims to the tunnels. He glances back to follow her gaze, and then - aching with sympathy - he takes a step toward her.

Her gaze remains on the fleeing villagers, but she sees him; she takes a slow step back, into the cold, not meeting his pleading eyes. The softness in her gaze solidifies into iron, and she turns from him.

“Evelyn,” he calls, voice low and husky with pain. She’s already gone, jogging down the slope towards the charred shell of the tavern, and his words do not reach her.

A leather-gloved hand clasps to his shoulder, tugging him along. “Help me with this,” Cullen says, not stopping to glance at him as he leans his shoulder into one heavy oaken door and shoves.

Obediently, Blackwall heaves his weight into the other door and together they close off the Chantry. The only remnant of Evelyn - the only proof she was there - is the faint smell of her perfume oil and sweat, and the heavy boot-tracks disappearing into the snow.

The low, reverberating thud of the shutting doors is hauntingly final. Blackwall sways on his feet, stricken.

He should have gone with her.

No. He should have stopped her. Insisted she stayed. Offered himself as the sacrifice.

In death, sacrifice, and he couldn’t even fucking do that right.

“Warden Blackwall - ”

Cullen’s hand on his shoulder again startles him back to the present. There’s a grimace there, too, the man’s scarred lips twisting with sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he offers, the ironlike fingers on his shoulder squeezing. “But we need to take advantage of her sacrifice, now. Let’s not let it go to waste.”

“I should have…” His throat clenches shut. He swallows thickly before trying again. “I should have gone with her,” he finally manages, voice a throaty rasp. “She’s going to die alone.” For a moment, he considers it: yanking open the doors and running after her, catching up with enough time to shield her body with his. Enough to buy her a few more seconds. He even pulls towards the door, but the hand comes down on his shoulder again.

There’s a sudden stillness to Cullen’s posture, a pause in his frantic energy where he stoops to look Blackwall in the face and guides his chin up with two fingers. “Warden. If anyone can survive this, she can. Do not despair just yet.” The commander offers a smile - one he intends to be reassuring, Blackwall imagines, but instead it’s just strained. “And if she - if she doesn’t - we will honor her sacrifice, Warden. Yes?”

“Yes,” he agrees, after a short pause. His belly twists with guilt. Cullen pulls him towards the tunnels.

“Help whoever you can,” he suggests, the kindly veneer shifting back to the mantle of The Commander, and he disappears shortly after into the crowd, bellowing orders.

. . . . . . . . . .

They barely make it to a rock-sheltered valley deep within the Frostbacks by the time the blizzard starts.

His need to be useful wins out over his anxious need to watch for her, and in short order he’s helped erect nearly a dozen tents. Cassandra shoos him away, finally, insisting that if he sweats through his leathers he’ll simply end up freezing to death, and so he keeps vigil on the edge of camp, instead.

Waiting.

Praying.

If anyone can survive this, she can.

He hopes Cullen is right.

For a time he paces to keep warm, glancing periodically at the mountain pass like a prowling wolf. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since they left the tunnels. Half an hour? An hour? Two? More? He snaps at the matronly woman who insists he come to the fireside for a watery bowl of porridge; he shrugs off Sera’s concerned tug at his elbow. His boots are long since waterlogged, toes chilled with melted snow, and while he knows he should retire to his tent and shuck his boots to avoid frostbite, he can’t tear his eyes from the pass.

Please, for the love of the Maker, Andraste guide her. He shies away from the inner voice that none-too-helpfully supplies that she is, almost certainly, already gone.

It’s the eerie, sallow boy who finally breaks his watch, soft voice piping up beside him. “She - ”

“Maker’s balls!” Blackwall startles and shoots the lad a dark look. “What is wrong with you, man? Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Cole blinks at him with large, too-blue eyes. “I didn’t sneak up on you. You just didn’t see me.” The boy touches his arm, and Blackwall recoils. “You need me.”

“Like hell I do,” Blackwall growls, but the tone doesn’t seem to dissuade him.

“She was thinking of it, too,” Cole offers in earnest. “Belly trembling, his eyes so dark and intense under his brows I feel like he’s going to devour me, no one has ever touched me like that - ”

“Stop it,” Blackwall begs, both confused and horrified.

“One last glance at the rest of them, they’re why I’m doing this and I can’t look at him, if I look at him I’ll stay - ”

“Please,”

“She wanted to stay. Fear was numbing, made her legs lock up and her chest catch but she wanted to save you, one good thought to keep her going,”

“Stop!” Blackwall roars, and stumbles away from the boy, away from the camp. “Stop,” he repeats in a croak.

The boy follows. “No, that’s not right. Let me try again - ”

Blackwall catches his hand as it reaches out, and lightly crushes. “Try that again,” he growls, “and I will end you.”

Cole blinks slowly again, eyes wide but not fearful, not understanding. It’s enough, however. He vanishes, leaving Blackwall alone to his guilt and his grief.

#dragon age #da:i #blackwall #blackwall romance #thom rainier #evelyn trevelyan #warrior inquisitor #escape from haven #my writing #my fics #snippet #wip

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takivvatanga · 3 years

Text

sick day

“Mum? My head hurts.” Stella coughs as she pads into the lounge on her bare feet, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her little face flushed, blue eyes burning bright with fever. She’s stayed home sick today, same as yesterday, same as the day before.

Whatever illness it is that is making its way around at school, it’s horrid. Neville has it too, apparently. Assire thinks about Mary, about how she must feel having a sick child to look after once again - even though this isn’t bad. Well, it is, but it’s nothing compared to… the horrible thing that happened. Assire remembers Mary’s little boy. Clever and quick and so very full of energy, full of life - until he began to fade, his body slowly but surely giving way to something dark, some insidious decay that got hold of him and would never let him go.

Assire had kept her distance, hesitant to interfere in another woman’s grief. They barely knew each other, back then. To reach out would have been inappropriate, surely. But Assire can’t help but feel that she let her sister in law down. Better give her a call, later on tonight. See how she is, see how Neville is. Assire might not be able to make up for the missed opportunities of the past, but she has here and now, doesn’t she? Never too late to set things right, do things a little differently. Yes, she’ll do that. She’ll call. “Mum!” Stella’s voice is thin and reedy, thick with congestion. She sounds much younger than what she is, when she’s unwell. Assire beckons her closer, and Stella doesn’t hesitate, climbing up onto the couch and curling up in her mother’s arms, blanket trailing behind. She coughs again, wipes her runny nose with a crinkled pyjama sleeve. Assire brushes a strand of dark hair out of her daughter’s face. Her skin is hot to touch, a little sticky. How bright her eyes are. Blue as the sky on a clear morning, blue as the ocean on a sunny day. Stella has her father’s eyes. Assire wishes Stella looked more like her, doesn’t realise that she is right there, reflected so clearly in the way Stella frowns, in the way she blinks her eyes in astonishment, in the restlessness in her little hands. Sometimes I still don’t feel as if you’re truly mine. A part of me. You feel so far away, and at the same time you’re so close. “Can I get a hot drink?” Stella shifts, pushing her bare feet against the armrest of the couch, pressing closely against her mother’s body. Assire pulls her close, presses her face to the crown of her daughter’s head, inhales deeply. Stella smells like green apples and Vick’s Vaporub, like wax crayons and unwashed pyjamas. She needs a shower, but Assire doesn’t want to force her to have one. Not when she’s unwell like this, not - Assire doesn’t want to force Stella to do anything. No. She wants her to choose, to make up her own mind, to walk her own path without restriction, without limitation. “She needs discipline”, Mary has told her, more times than Assire cares to remember. “She needs to learn how to cope with having rules. I understand what you’re trying to achieve, I really do, but it doesn’t work like that.” But Mary doesn’t understand, and as far as Assire is concerned, things are perfectly fine just the way they are.

“I’ll make you some tea, alright?” Assire stirs. Stella clings to her. “No, Mum! Don’t get up!” Assire sighs, relents, settles back into the couch, tugging at the edges of Stella’s blanket. “No hot drink, then.” “But I’m thirsty”, Stella whines, in her sick-little-kid voice. “Can I just have some of yours?” “No, sweetheart. That’s black tea. It’s not for kids. And it’s gone cold anyhow, see?” She picks up her cup - with its chipped rim and its fading print of cavorting cats, her favourite - and presents it to her daughter. Stella holds it tightly, with both hands, the remnants of bright pink polish still noticeable on her little nails. Stella has lovely hands. Nothing like Assire’s own, their skin thin and sallow, already flecked like those of a much older woman, the nails bitten down almost to the quick. Stella’s hands are slim with long fingers, her nails fast-growing, strong, perfectly shaped. The hands of an artist or a musician, a clockmaker or a surgeon. What will she grow up to do with those hands? Assire worries about Stella. Stella still cannot read. She only pretends, guessing the words based on the letters she can make out, relying on her memory to replicate the texts of her story books. At Stella’s age, Assire had been reading fluently for quite some time. As a matter of fact, she cannot recall ever not being able to read. Not like there was much reading material available when she was small. She’d read street signs instead, street signs and work rosters and every now and again that rare treat of a discarded newspaper that the wind had carried over the fences of the compound. FLASH SALE DON’T MISS OUT! Weekend Weather Unemployment at Record Levels Stella sniffs at the dark liquid in the cup, pulls a face, glances up at her mother with her bright blue eyes. The little girl takes a sip, erupts in a violent coughing fit. “It’s gross, Mum!” “I told you.” “I want a hot drink! Hot chocolate or milk with honey in it!” “Well, you’ll have to wait for me to make it then.” Another cough, smaller this time but twice as phlegmy. Stella spits into her pyjama sleeve. “Alright. Can I play on your computer while I wait?” “No, sweetheart. Now let me get that drink for you, yeah?” “I don’t want a drink no more. I want a story instead. Can I have a story, Mum?” Stella looks up at her mother with pleading eyes. As much as she sometimes resents her inability to be normal, like other mothers, her stories are the best. As far back as Stella can remember, Assire’s tales have taken her on a journey, deep into the centre of the earth or far beyond the skies, into other worlds, murky dreamscapes where nothing is ever quite as it seems. “Any more”, Assire corrects her daughter sternly. “Speak properly please, Stella.” The little girl sighs, rolls her eyes. “You sound like auntie Mary! She always tells me to talk properly too. I don’t know why it’s so important. You know what I mean anyway.” “You’ll understand someday. It’s complicated.” “You always say that when you don’t know how to explain something.”

Assire bites her lip, taken aback by the accuracy of her daughter’s observation. This is a discussion she is nowhere near prepared to enter into right now. “A story then. Alright. Are you comfortable?” Stella wriggles under her blanket, inching even closer, settling down to rest her head in her mother’s lap, her restless little hands tugging at the tassels on Assire’s scarf. She loves her fiercely, in this moment, with her messy hair and her sticky skin and her febrile eyes, in her unwashed pyjamas with her unbrushed teeth. Don’t grow up, she thinks. Or at least, don’t grow up too fast. “Am now.” Stella coughs again. Assire pushes a strand of hair out of her daughter’s face. “Let’s see. A story. Well, a long time ago, or maybe somewhere in the far distant future, far above in the High Wilderness Beyond The Skies, there was a girl. Only she wasn’t an ordinary girl. You see, instead of being born, she was made.” “Made? You mean she wasn’t a real girl?” “Oh, she was. She was just...where other people are made of skin and flesh and bone, she’d been put together from bronzewood and ivory and copper and steel and instead of a beating heart there was a clockwork contraption in her chest.” “Was she brave?” “She was. She was incredibly brave, actually. She-” “She was never afraid!” “No. She was afraid all the time. Of a lot of things.” “Then she wasn’t brave.” “She was. Because you see, being brave doesn’t mean never being afraid. Because if you’re never scared, that would make it easy to be brave, wouldn’t it now? But being brave isn’t supposed to be easy. It gets easier, though. What being brave means is being afraid and doing the right thing anyway.” Stella doesn’t reply. Assire can tell by the way she wrinkles her nose, by the way she purses her lips, that she is thinking very seriously about this. Good. Remember that, Stella. Remember that it is alright to be afraid. Because we’re all afraid, in our own way, and anyone who says they aren’t, well, they’re lying. “What did she do, in the Skies?” “She was a traveller. An explorer. She met a great many people on her journey, and if any of them were in need of help, she did whatever she could for them. Until one day…” Stella listens intently as Assire spins her tale, but soon her eyelids grow heavy, her curious questions and interjections become less frequent. Assire lowers her voice, little by little, and soon Stella’s breathing becomes slow and even, every now and again disrupted by a small cough. Assire begins to hum, deep and low in her throat, a strange melody that she cannot recall ever learning, but she has sung it to Stella for as long as she can remember. Stella’s Song, they call it. It’s something they share just between the two of them. She’ll be too old for it soon, just like she’ll be too old for bedtime stories. Assire wishes she could stop time, to keep her daughter here, like this, curled up in her lap, blissfully oblivious to life and all its hardships, its temptations, its wrong turns. Innocent. Where will you go, Stella? Who will you become? The thought fascinates and terrifies her at the same time. “We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”, she whispers as she straightens out the blanket that covers the sleeping child. “We’ll have to find out.”

#vignette: assire #vignette: stella #i started this ages ago and abandoned it #then today i came back to it while trying to do sth else #funny how that goes but i'll take it tbh #nothing happens just a moment between these two #i love them so much #also i am so proud of assire actually being responsive to her kid #i think that was the time when their relationship was at the best #when stella is like primary school age #it deteriorated pretty rapidly once stella hit her teens #and had to be rebuilt when stella came home as an adult #it's not until the end of assire's life when stella moves back in to look after her parents #that they truly understand each other and see each other for who they really are #it's GROWTH (tm)#also shoutout to the fact that the story assire is telling her #is pretty much stella's sunless skies verse

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itachi-uchiha-deserved-better · 4 years

Text

Gai strained against the rubble in the doorway trying against all odds to hope that the house he was about to search hadn't become yet another tomb in the destroyed remains of Konoha. It was getting hard, even for someone as optimistic as him, to continue to expect more survivors to emerge from wherever they had been trapped. It had a little over a week since the fight against pein had destroyed the village, but there was still so much if it to search and not neatly enough extra hands to search it all fast enough.

Gai had been pulling triple shifts on the search parties to try and pick up some of the extra weight on the search teams shoulders, but Kakashi had threatened to have Gai forcibly sent to the makeshift hospital if he didnt give himself some time to rest. So now he was down to double shifts and he refused to stop until they were sure all of Konoha had been cleared.

He hoped to find living people, some injured, some just scared and hungry from days trapped in collapsed buildings.

He expected to find bodies. Even with Pein's reanimation, people who had come back to life half crushed wouldn't survive long and without water more people would die alone in the dark.

What he didnt expect was the thing he found when the large chunk of rock that was blocking the entrance to the house finally gave.

Or rather the person he found.

Sitting in the remains of the kitchen, legs crossed, eyes up watching him carefully.

Itachi Uchiha.

Gai leapt back away from the door, his gaze dropping away from the Uchiha's face, those dangerous eyes, and his body instinctively slipping into a fighting stance.

He waited for a blow that never came. Itachi didnt so much as move a muscle.

"Might Gai...it's been a while."

His voice was deeper than what Gai remembered. He must have been 18 by now. If he'd been skilled enough to wipe out the whole Uchiha clan single handed at 13, Gai could only imagine how much more deadly Itachi would be now.

He needed to strike hard and fast if he had a hope of surviving, a hope of getting back to Kakashi. He had to get back to Kakashi.

Still carefully avoiding Itachi's eyes, Gai opened the first three gates and felt power, energy and strength rush through him.

Itachi didnt move. Didnt stand. Didnt even speak. Was he that sure of himself? That sure that he could stop Gai before Gai had a chance to cut him down?

It felt off. Gai scanned Itachi's body. Noted a rapid, pained breathing, dried blood on his clothes. Was he injured? Or was that the blood of the citizens of Konoha.

For Itachi to show up so soon after Pein's attack was too much of a coincidence to dismiss.

"Your not going to kill anyone else, Itachi. As the leaf's blue beast it's my duty to stop you here and now."

Still Itachi didnt move, "you're right."

Gai gathered himself, his courage, swearing that he wouldn't lose this fight. If anyone stood a chance here, to stop Itachi before he could sow more devastation, it was Gai.

Itachi's words registered late.

"Y-your not? Hey now what kind of trick is this? Stand up so I can fight you!"

Finally Itachi moved, but it was just to shift in his chair to find a more comfortable position.

"No."

Gai frowned. He didnt know what to make of this. Kakashi might have. Or Shikaku or Shikamaru. All he knew was that Itachi was one of the most wanted rogue ninja of the hidden leaf, a mass murderer.

It must be a trick. That was the only answer. Gai wouldn't fall for it. He raised his fist and started a charge.

He expected Itachi to move out of the way. Expected him to launch a counter attack. Expected him to do something. But as Gai rushed in Itachi just bowed his head. Seconds before he impacted, when it was clear Itachi really wouldn't raise a hand to defend himself, Gai changed the angle of his blow, instead connecting with the wall of the house and coming to a stop with his arms up to protect himself from falling debris.

Once the house settled again, Gai turned to face Itachi again.

This time he really looked at him. He hadn't been spared from the falling rubble. A fresh line of blood trickled down from a new gash on his temple. His head was still bowed, eyes closed. His skin was pale, his face sallow and gaunt. It was strange, so far removed from the bright young man he'd thought Itachi to be before-

"Why didn't you strike?"

"I wont harm an opponent who wont defend themself." It was one of his rules, something he would never compromise on.

"That didnt stop me." the words should have been intimidating, a stark reminder of what Itachi was capable of. But the way he said it caught Gai off guard. There wasnt any darkness in the words, just a blatant admission of fact.

"No. It didnt."

***

Itachi wasnt sure if he was trying to provoke Gai into launching another attack at him or if he was just tired of denying what had happened.

He'd heard someone moving rubble outside the house he had found to take shelter in. He'd assumed it was another root agent. Not that it mattered. He could hardly stand, much less run.

When Gai had pulled the rocks aside, Itachi had made his decision that this was where he stopped running. Of all the people who might have caught him, he was thankful it was Gai. He'd always held Gai in extremely high esteem and it was leaps and bounds from being taken down into Danzo's root headquarters deep beneath Konoha where he would likely never see daylight again.

"Why are you here, Itachi."

Itachi could hear the struggle in Gai's voice. A conflict in Gai between the desire to take down a dangerous enemy and whatever it was in him that had made him pull his strike.

"The roof fell in while I was sleeping." He knew it wasnt the answer that Gai was looking for, that Gai's question had nothing to do with why he was in this specific building, but Itachi was also honestly too tired to care. He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his forehead against them.

Silence. No footsteps, so he knew Gai hadn't moved.

"If you aren't sure about fighting me, then you can call the ANBU. They'll thank you for handing them such a high value target."

"An S ranked rogue shinobi." Gai said flatly.

Itachi nodded.

"A clan killer."

Itachi nodded again.

"A heartless, cold blooded murderer."

Itachi sat limply.

"Why are you here, Itachi."

Itachi sighed, "I'm tired. Are you going to attack me?"

"I told you, I wont fight someone who wont defend himself. Will you fight?"

Itachi breathed as deeply as the pain in his chest allowed.

"No. I'm done fighting. I've spilled too much blood and I wont spill any more."

Itachi heard a soft scraping of fabric and he opened his eyes a sliver. The green blurry shape was now sitting across from Itachi, his own legs crossed, facing Itachi.

"Why are you here?"

"Why do you care what my answer is? What will it change?"

Another beat of silence. But when Gai's answer did come, it surprised Itachi.

"Maybe nothing. But the Itachi I remember and the Itachi that sit before me do not strike me as the monster who slaughtered the Uchiha. Maybe you are that. But if you aren't, isnt it worth the chance that what you have to say might change something?"

This time it was Itachi's turn to let the silence linger.

He was done running. He was done fighting. It was time for Itachi to face his truth and let the rest of the world deal with him how they saw fit.

"It's a long story." Itachi warned.

"Then I suppose you ought to start."

***

When he was done, Itachi suggested that Gai blindfold him. He suggested Gai bind his hands and feet too, but Gai had refused, insisting that he believed Itachi, that he trusted Itachi. He agreed to the blindfold with the knowledge that it would prevent immediate action by the remaining uninjured jonin as Gai helped Itachi back to camp.

Gai hoisted Itachi, who was too weak to stand on his own power, and slung the young man's arm across his strong shoulder.

As soon as Gai was sighted there were shouts for a medic. Those shouts died as Gai and Itachi came closer and people began to recognize him past his loose hair hanging around his face and his eyes covered. A heavy silence fell over the camp at the center of the rebuilding process. Itachi didnt need to see to feel the massive amount of chakra around him and feel the stares of hundreds of Konoha ninja and civilians.

"Where is Lord Fifth?"

"Thats-"

"Where is Lord Fifth!" Gai roared at whoever had spoken.

"She's in the hospital tent. There was an incident."

"Danzo" Itachi mouthed the word. It was just like him to take advantage of a time of crisis in the village.

"Then find me Kakashi. Go."

Itachi let his mind tune out the mindless buzz of the camp as Gai directed someone to bring the Jonin together. His fate would be decided soon, based on the truth. The whole truth.

For better or worse, Itachi was home.

#itachi uchiha #non akatsuki itachi #prose #prompt #AU

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cagestark · 5 years

Text

WinterIronSpider Ch. 2

Read chapter one here.

Story spurred by this prompt: There's a meme about a poor college student being robbed; the robber, upon learning just h o w poor, stopping and giving the (empty) wallet back and being sincerely concerned. "You... you live like this?" What if the winter soldier/bucky barnes breaks into struggling college student Peter parker's apt and all his pre-serum steve instincts are triggered by the state of the place and how /tiny/ Peter is.

Chapter warnings: dubcon/noncon discussed, not between any of the OT3.

A note: In the brief teaser I gave of this fic before I’d written chapter one, Steve had skipped timelines to live his life with Peggy. But that is no longer the case.

Tony stands lounging against the back of the sofa, watching the elevator doors. FRIDAY alerted him moments ago that Bucky and his guest had entered the building—those are the exact words she used. Bucky and his guest. He finds himself drumming his fingers against his legs, filled to the brim with fizzing carbon bubbles of energy. They’ve been dating for two years now, and Bucky has never brought anyone back to the Tower. He’s tempted to ask FRIDAY to bring up video feed, to get a glimpse of whoever Bucky is bringing home, but the elevator is rising, rising.

“Here, boss,” FRIDAY warns, soft, redundant.

“Quiet from here on out, baby girl,” he reminds her. She doesn’t respond.

Then the doors open.

His eyes go to Bucky first. He can’t help that. Tony will never get enough of him, spends an embarrassing amount of time staring out of the corner of his eye (or unashamedly when the other man is sleeping). Bucky’s hair is past his chin, wind-swept and tangled. He’s dressed casually with his dark jeans and t-shirt—Tony’s, it’s Tony’s t-shirt, he notes with a burst of warmth in his chest—his gloves on, the soft leather ones that Tony had custom made. He stance is guarded, from the low eyebrows to the hunched shoulders.

Tony glances down to the figure at his side and sees why.

It’s a boy, man, maybe, anywhere from sixteen to twenty-six, if Tony had to take a guess. The sad, tired eyes belie the youthful features, so it’s difficult to tell a specific age. He’s petite to an extreme (sickness? Tony wonders. Cancer?), dressed in what appears to be the common man’s version of his Sunday best—dress slacks, a collared, long sleeve shirt with cuffs that gape around his tiny wrists. Paleness verges on sallowness, skin tinged faintly green, lips faint white. But he’s handsome: sharp features, if a little too gaunt, dark eyes and dark curls that are still damp from a shower, or maybe the rain on the way over.

Then he spots it: the hero worship. The kid has stars in his eyes. Tony can spot a fan at fifty paces, the slack mouths, the wide eyes, the oh my god, you’re Iron Man! And it gets him, gets him like a knife between the ribs. He loves the praise. It flatters him, it waters his ego (which isn’t ever flourishing the way the press makes it out to be).

Coming from the right person, it makes his cock hard.

Tony knows he cuts quite a figure, even in his sweatpants, socked-feet, and tee. His hair is un-styled, soft the way Bucky likes it. He’s wearing the blue-tinted glasses that contain his latest AI, his latest baby—but he’s always wearing those these days, even when he doesn’t have EDITH active. He must look soft, relaxed, alien, because the kid looks like he’s seeing something from outer space and not upper Manhattan.

“Hey, cupcake,” Tony says, hands in his pockets, watching Bucky nearly carry the kid out of the elevator. His face is white as a sheet, mouth quivering. “Who’s this?”

“This is—” That’s as far as Bucky makes it before the kid swoons. His eyes roll, body going lax, a puppet with the strings cut. Bucky, quicker reflexes, catches him before his head can hit the tiled floor. Kneeling with the boy in his arms, Bucky gives a tentative smile that looks more like a grimace. “—Peter. He’s sick.”

Tony clutches his heart. “And here I thought it was just my influence. FRIDAY, diagnostics please. Give me some biometrics.”

“Scanning, boss.” Peter’s eyelids flutter at the disembodied female voice, but even if he is regaining consciousness, Tony doesn’t think he’ll remember it.

“Send it to E, Fri.”

No response, but the words appear in front of his eyes. Sex: male presenting. BMI: 16. Which is—yeah, that’s too fucking low. Temperature: 102.8 degrees Fahrenheit. His girl manages to narrow the age from 20 to 24, and she has more. The information goes on and on: he’s sick with the flu, it looks like, but now it has blossomed into the beginnings of pneumonia. Evidence of long-term vitamin deficiencies. A heart murmur—probably benign.

Gonorrhea.

“I got medicine for him,” Bucky says, holding up the pharmacy bag. There’s where Bucky used his card, then. “He took some in the car on the way over, and didn’t cough so much after that.”

“He’s got pneumonia, cupcake. Nothing over the counter will help that. It won’t help his gonorrhea either.”

“He’s got VD?”

Tony hums. “Can I ask what he’s doing on my four-thousand dollar leather sofa?”

“He’s sick,” Bucky says. “I thought you could help.”

“How’d you two know each other?”

“We met today.”

“How?”

“I—don’t want to say.”

Tony softens. Bucky’s skills of deception are honed enough that he could have lied without Tony being the wiser. In the beginning of their relationship, it was a serious problem: Bucky hiding things from Tony that he was worried would upset him. It’s taken a long time for him to know that he can keep secrets if he wants to, that telling Tony I don’t want to say would, under most circumstances, be enough to end the line of questioning.

“Alright. But I feel obliged to say this: there’s no legal way you could have met that I would blink an eye at.”

It’s Bucky who blinks, once, long and slow.

“You met illegally?”

“You’re getting very good at reading me,” Bucky says. Which is nice of him, considering there are still days where his lover seems like a closed book to him. “Could we, like, get him a doctor? Do you have a doctor who makes house calls? Do doctors make those, these days?”

“I’m rich enough to afford one,” Tony says. “And luckily, I have a very discreet one on container. Fri, ask Bruce to come by. Tell him it’s an emergency and to bring whatever he needs to treat pneumonia and gonorrhea—God, I wish I could see the look on his face when you tell him that. FRIDAY, take an image capture of Bruce’s face. Don’t think I didn’t notice you sidestepping the question, either, mister. We talked about your extracurricular activities—”

“I couldn’t leave him there, Tony,” says Bucky, voice tortured. “He’s sick, and he’s got no food, no health insurance. I don’t want him to go back there.”

While they’re waiting for Bruce, Tony wets a rag to put on Peter’s burning forehead. His eyes flutter, and he is looking less pale—no chance he’ll be out much longer. “Here’s a list of things that are acceptable for you to bring home with you: stray dogs, some of those pastries from that cafe we love, a downright egregious number of sex toys–actually, a few of those things I would even encourage you to bring home. But Bucky, baby, a stray human is not on that list.”

“I know that, but he–” Bucky cuts off.

“Yes?” Tony prompts. He lifts a hand, slow, fingers still damp from the washrag to tuck some of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. It’s getting longer and longer these days, and the other man doesn’t trust any professional to cut it. That leaves Tony for the job: Bucky shirtless in their bathroom, hair damp, split ends being carefully trimmed to rain down around their bare feet.

“He reminds me of Steve,” Bucky admits. “Before the serum. Small, and sick, and with a heart bigger than his stomach. I didn’t turn away then, and I can’t turn away now.”

Steve isn’t a name they mention often, not since Thanos. For Bucky to bring it up now shows how serious he is for this. How much it means to him. That’s all Tony needs to hear to be sold. He’d give Bucky the moon, if he could.

“My sugar baby wants a sugar baby,” Tony sighs fondly. “What does that make me?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “A sugar granddaddy?”

Peter stirs. His eyes open, bloodshot, tender, honey-tinted eyes. They get wide again when they see Tony kneeling by the couch he’s resting on. He holds out a shaking hand, palm down, like he wants Tony to kiss his knuckles. “Mr. Stark,” he breathes, tongue thick and clumsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Behind him, Bucky snorts, the softest exhalation against his neck. Tony reaches out and takes the burning grip in both of his own hands. Peter is short for a man, certainly underweight, and though he has long fingers, they are thin and spindly, swallowed whole by Tony’s larger, tanned hands. The size difference between them makes him swallow—the size difference between Peter and Bucky? It’s—indecent. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, call me Peter, please,” he says. The softness, the earnestness charms Tony.

“Peter, then.”

A coughing fit comes on, lasting until the younger man’s face is red and tears are at the corners of his eyes. Tony fetches him some water that he sips at. He blinks like he’s trying to focus his eyes. “Did I faint?”

“Gracefully, if it makes you feel any better. Welcome to Stark Tower, kid. Sorry the experience has been less than ideal.”

The younger man gives a dopey smile—more than likely high off of whatever he took in the car. “The only way it could have been better is if you’d caught me, sir.”

Tony fights to keep his twitching lips from blooming into a downright grin. Bucky’s face is red, the only indication that he’s holding back laughter. “I’m sorry to say that my days of being quick enough to catch damoiseaux in distress are about ten years behind me. Luckily, Bucky was here to act as my hands. Trust me, kid, he’s got nicer biceps to cling to anyway.”

“Oh, I noticed that when he helped me to the car,” Peter says, craning his head back to wave frailly at Bucky behind the couch. Seeing Bucky wave back, stiff and straight faced, is a sight Tony will cherish for many years to come.

The elevator opens. Bruce is there with his bag in hand. He looks like a man who is about to face the gallows—but at the sight of Peter sitting on the couch with the half-empty glass of water in his hands, his eyebrows raise. This could hardly be what he was expecting when FRIDAY told him to come to the penthouse floor.

“Hello,” he says carefully stepping into the room. “Someone rang?”

“Bruce!” Tony rises on creaking joints to greet the man. The warm hug takes the younger man by surprise based on the way he tenses, returning it hesitantly. Tony says under his breath: “He doesn’t know he has the clap, and he wouldn’t understand how I know. Proceed with caution.”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Bruce mutters, patting Tony awkwardly.

“Oh, you know how it goes. In for a penny, in for a pound.” Then, louder: “Peter, this is Dr. Bruce Banner. Bruce, this is Peter Parker.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Banner,” Peter slurs. He’s looking remarkably like a damsel with the way he’s lounging on the sofa, the back of his hand pressed to the cloth on his forehead. “Call me Pete.”

“You’re not looking well, Pete. Under the weather?”

“Uh-huh. ‘ve got the flu.”

Bucky and Tony stand back while Bruce pokes and prods the kid, taking his temperature, listening to his heart and lungs, interrogating him about his symptoms, medical history, and current medications. He examines the bottle of cold medicine that Peter drank from on the way over, face serious and stern. His diagnosis only backs up FRIDAY’s findings: atypical pneumonia, something most people Peter’s age would have been able to fight off alone.

“I’m prescribing an antibiotic to help you along,” Bruce says.

“Oh, I can’t afford that,” says Peter.

“It’s on the house,” Tony calls from where he and Bucky are setting the table for three. “Consider it complimentary—like the bottles of shampoos at hotels. Bruce, are you joining us? It’s Thai.”

“No, thank you,” Bruce says without offering an excuse. He packs up his back but leaves the antibiotic on the solid fiberglass coffee table. If Peter wonders why Bruce already had the antibiotic on him, he doesn’t question it, just stares at the bottle looking a little glossy-eyed. Bruce gives Tony a pointed glance. “That there is azithromycin, which could clear up a wide range of illnesses. But Peter should still be seen by a doctor who can perform a thorough examination. Understand?”

“Understood.” Tony salutes. He owes the younger man one; actually, a million ones, considering how many sticky situations Bruce has gotten him out of over the years. With nothing but a tense smile, Bruce sees himself to the elevator. Once he is gone, they turn their attention to the young man on the couch who is cradling the bottle of medicine to his chest like a drunkard might the bottle. “Hey Peter. Are you hungry? Do you like Thai?”

“Starving,” Peter says. “And I’m not picky, I’d eat anything. But you don’t have to go through any extra trouble for me, Mr. Stark. I’m just honored to be here.”

“No trouble at all,” Tony insists. “The food is already here. I hope that someone eats it, lest it go to waste. Need help making it to the table, kiddo? Bucky here makes an excellent chariot. Quite the ride.”

The look Bucky gives him might send a lesser man cowering: the perfect mixture of scathing and unamused. But when Peter does nothing but sigh and say, I’ll bet, the former assassin gets distinctly red around the ears. And that is an interesting development, in all of this. It isn’t a stretch that Peter would be attracted to Bucky (anyone with eyes would be), but for the first time, Tony wonders if Bucky’s interest in Peter isn’t entirely platonic.

Peter stumbles on the way to the table, giggles, buzzing off of the cough syrup he drank on the way over. Bucky is nothing short of a gentleman, stiffly helping Peter to a chair, offering him first servings from all of the boxes of takeout. Tony makes a note to himself: no funny business. The kid isn’t in his right mind—even on his best days, he’s obviously vulnerable. As cute as he is, the idea of the kid as prey turns Tony off entirely.

Over dinner, they make small talk. Peter and Tony do, that is. Bucky listens, thoughtful and solemn while he fills and clears his plate twice. A few times, he smiles, when Peter does something absolutely goofy—like missing his mouth with the fork and smearing food on his cheek—and the look he gives Tony is so fond, a shake of his head, like he’s known Peter all his life and is telling Tony, Get a load of this kid, always so silly.

“Bucky tells me money is tight for you,” Tony feels comfortable enough to bring up after the plates are cleared, boxes are emptied, all of them reclining back in their seats, bellies full and sated.

Peter looks sleepy, eyes half-closed. He nods. “It is. I applied to NYU when my aunt and uncle were still alive. They said they’d help me pay for it, since my parents weren’t alive to help themselves. I got a scholarship that was going to do the rest, and everything seemed great my first few semesters. Then they passed away. I tried the work-study program, but there are limits on how many hours they’ll work students. So I worked a few other jobs too—but it just made everything worse. My grades slipped and I lost my scholarship.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters. “You’re one unlucky kid.”

“Look—Peter. It’s no secret that I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. Bucky here has taken a liking to you—” Peter gives a soft aww, looking so tender and touched “—I hope that you’ll let me help you out with some expenses. Get you back on your feet and focusing on your studies. How does that sound?”

Peter hums, one hand resting on his rounded stomach. “Mr. Stark—it sounds like a dream. Honestly. I’ve had like, three different dreams with hot older—uh—wait—what was I saying—”

“No, please, go on.”

“I just mean—I want to say yes.” His face grows serious, the thin, pretty mouth down-turned, a furrow between his eyebrows. “Not having any money—being poor, I guess—it’s really hard. And I know that I’m luckier than a lot of people. At least I’m not sleeping on the street. At least I’ve got, got clothes and stuff, you know. At least Mr. Rumlow lets me suck him off in exchange for rent. But my aunt and uncle, they didn’t raise me to—”

“Sorry, Pete, let’s back up,” Tony says. On his respective side of the table, Bucky has stiffened. He sits, stoic, hands clenched into fists on his lap, staring down at his empty plate. His jaw is a sharp enough weapon without it being clenched tightly enough to grind his teeth. Tony works hard to keep his own expression neutral and unalarmed, even though he feels nothing short of horrified. “Who is Mr. Rumlow?”

“Mr. Rumlow is the super. He runs the Lafayette Hall.”

“And you’ve got an arrangement with him.”

Peter hums, nodding. He coughs a little, and they wait, still like statues for him to continue. “I was late one month with rent. Single room apartments are so expensive. Mr. Rumlow was real understanding, though.”

Bucky gets up, chair screeching against the floor. He mutters some excuse and stalks to the balcony, opening the doors and stepping out into the wind. It’s starting to mist, and Bucky looks like a phantom haunting the building, a handsome gargoyle dressed in black, hair dripping, standing perfectly still with his hands on the railing. No doubt with his enhanced senses, he can still hear their conversation, but at least with his face turned towards the city, he can react however he needs to.

“It sounds like it,” Tony says, heart clenching. “Is that—something you like?”

“What’s not to like?” Peter asks. Something about this must be reaching through his drug induced fog, because his eyes are a little wider and more alert; perhaps, the haze of the cough syrup is fading. He sits up a litter straighter in his chair. “Free rent, Mr. Stark.”

“I mean to ask (and forgive me, kid, tactfulness is not in my DNA) if you’d engage Mr. Rumlow that way without the—ah—benefits.”

“Probably not,” Peter says. He looks down at his dress pants. The knees of his khakis are faded, worn, and he rubs at the spot anxiously. “He’s not really my type. But sometimes it does make me feel less lonely. Is that bad?”

It’s terrible. It’s heartbreaking. It’s illegal in New York. It’s immoral—the nerve of a person to take advantage of another’s financial vulnerability and coax them into prostitution—it makes Tony want to explode. But that’s not going to benefit Peter.

And that’s certainly not how Tony is going to get even with this Mister Rumlow. “No,” Tony says, soft. “I don’t think that’s bad.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, blinking slowly. “Could you call me a cab? I’m—I think I’m about to fall asleep on your table. It’s a nice table though. I’m sure it’d be very comfortable.”

“I’m sure that it wouldn’t, kid. I could call you a cab if you want. We’ve also got spare rooms here at the Tower, though. Why don’t you stay here tonight, take your first round of antibiotics and stick around for Bruce to be close by in case you need him?”

Peter turns pink, tickled at the offer. “You’ve already been so nice—I couldn’t—"

“You could. Like the Thai food, kid—if you aren’t enjoying those organic cotton sheets, then no one is. In the morning, we can talk more over breakfast. How do you feel about waffles?”

That sells him. The kid already looks hungry. “Alright. If you insist. Is Mr. Bucky okay? He’s been gone for a minute.”

“Mr.—” Tony laughs long and loud, unable to stop himself even as Peter’s face turns red. Out on the balcony, Bucky hunches over, and Tony thinks that maybe he’s laughing too. Smiling at least. Because the kid really is too fucking cute. “You can just call him Bucky. Formalities make him nervous. How about we check out the meds Bruce set you up with and then find you a room?”

“Sounds great,” Peter says. He’s the picture of contentment. “But I don’t have any way to repay you for all this, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony, kid. And don’t worry about it; I’m not looking for reimbursement.”

“I could suck you off,” Peter says, a little breathless. Coy, looking up at Tony through his eyelashes—only, no, that’s not coyness, it’s shyness. And instead of turning him on, the offer makes his heart break. “It works for Mr. Rumlow.”

“That doesn’t work for me, kid. Thanks, but no thanks.” He helps Peter out the chair, but with food in him, still feeling the benefits of the medicine he took, he is much steadier. Once he’s sure that the kid won’t tip out, Tony gives him space. He feels like a creep, thinking how adorable the kid is when obviously other people have seen it to—and abused it.

“In the morning, can I put peanut butter on my waffles?” Peter asks.

“You can put caviar on your waffles for all I care, kid.”

“I’ll stick with the peanut butter, thanks.”

After Peter has taken his first dose of antibiotics (and spent several long minutes ooo-ing and aww-ing over the guest room), he asks if he could speak to Bucky for a moment. Bucky is still on the balcony, soaked and unmoving. If he hears Peter ask, he doesn’t show it. Tony waves him ahead, standing back far enough that he knows he’ll have no chance at overhearing. Let Pete have his privacy.

Bucky is pale and solemn when he turns, blinking rain out of his eyes. The railing is twisted where he hands have been, but Tony doesn’t think that Peter notices. They exchange brief words, and then Peter hugs Bucky, wrapping thin arms around Bucky’s waist, resting his head against Bucky’s broad chest. They look like yin and yang. It’s art, he thinks. FRIDAY, image capture, please. The tenderness with which Bucky lifts a hand to cradle the back of Peter’s head is—God. Tony loves him.

When Peter comes back in, Bucky is on his heels. Peter’s shirt is wet from where he pressed against Bucky, and his cheeks are flushed, maybe with returning fever. Maybe. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

“Goodnight, kid. You need anything, just step out of your room and shout. Bucky here is a light sleeper.”

That makes Peter’s face turn even pinker as he bobs a nod and then disappears into the guest room, closing the door behind him softly.

“Are we, like, fucked over this kid?” Tony asks, jerking a thumb towards the guest room.

Bucky just shakes his head, and that’s all the answer Tony needs.

Tips not required but very welcome. Leave behind a prompt and I’ll write you a drabble in exchange. <3 Ko-Fi is here.

Tag list: @shinycreatoroafbonk @kkomusume @bound-vivisection @sorgmantel @phoenixwench @latenightsintherain @bros-before-ghosts @starkerthanreality @richieleeparker

If you want tagged please let me know. Not tagging my current starker taglist because since this is winterironspider, I wasn’t sure if you’re interested. <3

#winterironspider #winteriron #starker #chapter two #wip #poor!Peter

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mysticm3ss · 4 years

Text

let’s be forever [zen x fem!reader]

based on Normal Ending 2 of the April Fools DLC and also the reset theory. my interpretation of Zen’s POV during the final visual novel. enjoy~

Warnings: like one swear word. also angst but with a happy-ish ending.

Words: 1.5k

“I hope you’re not making a sad face. I’m smiling.”

It was only a half-lie, yet the words tasted bitter on Zen’s tongue. Though his lip was curled in a half-smile, the salty tears staining his cheeks and the sobs building in his throat far outweighed the acceptance he had so struggled to find.

He’d never see her.

Not her smile, her eyes, the blush in her cheeks...

The thought was more painful than a knife to the chest, but he kept a happy face. He couldn’t let her know that he was breaking apart, not now. He had to stay strong for her; had to be a rock for his princess to depend on.

“At first, I couldn’t stand the fact that you’re in another dimension, but now I’m okay with it.”

His voice was thick with tears, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice. He would never be okay with this; never be okay knowing that he could never hold her in his arms, kiss away her tears, run his fingers along her skin.

Zen closed his eyes, hand clenching into a fist at his side. His nails dug into his palm, and the refreshing pain jerked him back to clarity.

He could not accept this. He would not accept this.

“I know that the feelings we have towards each other can’t be trapped in any dimension. That lets me endure… all the waiting I have to do.”

Waiting.

Yes, there would be waiting; the plan slowly forming in the back of his mind could certainly never come to fruition overnight.

But Zen would wait forever for her. Decades upon decades, centuries upon centuries, millennia upon millennia.

He could wait. Yes, he could handle that. The only thing he could not handle was the mere notion of letting her go. Not now, not after she’d revealed that her feelings were as pure as his own, even if her answers had been predetermined.

He would not give up.

“I love you, MC. Let’s be forever.”

He closed the app on his phone, and finally, Zen broke.

His chest heaved with painful sobs that burned his throat and stung behind his eyes. Tears marred the fair skin of his cheeks, and his hands fisted in his hair, knotting in the pale strands as he slid down the wall of his apartment. Knees to his chest, he pressed his face into his thighs, the fabric of his pants soaking up his sorrow and muffling the pitiful cries that fled his lips.

What would she say to me, right now? He half wondered. Would she hold me? Whisper comforting words? No, I should be the one comforting her… she must be hurting, too…

The very notion had another sob gasping from his throat.

“Jagiya…” he whispered, the words swallowed by his knees. “I’m coming for you. I promise.”

Zen didn’t move from his place on the floor until the clock struck midnight. Slowly, he raised his head, eyes red and puffy, cheeks tight with dried tears.

Dammit, pull yourself together, his mind hissed. Hyun set his jaw, and sat up a little straighter, neck held high as he dared to look at his empty apartment. The empty space on the couch in which he’d longed to cuddle up with her, the empty kitchen he’d use to cook for her...

He swallowed, releasing a shaky sigh, and nodded once to himself as he tugged his phone from his pocket.

There was only one person who might believe him--one person who had dropped hint after hint in the chat room, hints that he had never quite grasped until now. One person who might actually be capable of helping.

He dialled. Held the phone up to his ear, listened as it rang. Once. Twice.

Hyun was bracing himself for the voicemail when finally-

“Zen, what the hell? It’s like, midnight.”

“Seven?”

Zen winced at the croak of his voice and cleared his throat.

“...Zen? Are you… okay?”

Zen closed his eyes, cheeks flushing. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Listen… do you ever feel like… like something’s off? As though… maybe… we’ve done this before?”

Seven took a long moment before responding.

“What do you mean?” His tone was careful, and Zen licked his lips nervously.

“I mean… MC. Do you ever think that maybe… she’s… not exactly… here?”

A beat of silence.

“So you worked it out, huh?”

Zen’s stomach dropped. There was no pretending that this was a dream anymore, no locking away this torment in the back of his mind in the hopes that it was all just a painful misunderstanding, the ghost of a nightmare that haunted his quiet moments and taunted his sanity.

No, this was real.

“Y-yeah,” Zen managed. “How long have you known?”

“A while,” Seven murmured, and Zen’s insides twisted at the pain hidden in the redhead’s voice. Eventually, the agent forced a laugh that didn’t quite hit as genuine.

“So, at least now we can bond over our heartbreak, right?” he chuckled dryly. “And Yoosung thinks he has it bad in the love department… At least he doesn’t remember… none of them do…”

Zen had never heard humour drop from someone’s voice so quickly.

“Seven… I need your help.”

“What~? My help~?!” Seven gasped dramatically, upping his energy in typical 707-fashion; anything to repress the pain, to bury it beneath laughter and pretend that it wasn’t eating him up inside. Zen thought he understood Seven a little better, now.

He took a deep breath.

“I need you to help me… get to her. Get to her world. Or… or if that fails… see if we can bring her here. With her permission, obviously.” Zen held his breath, waiting for his friend to beat down his idea; to tell him that it was impossible, that he shouldn’t even entertain the insane notion.

“Even if it’s not forever,” Zen tacked on. “I just… I need to meet her. To… tell her thank you.”

Seven was still quiet, and Zen’s gut churned anxiously. His jaw began to ache, and he noticed he’d been clenching his teeth. He loosened, closing his eyes and focussing on his breathing--breathing that stopped at Seven’s next words.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s try.”

There it was--that flutter in his chest, the hint of brightness in his eyes, the bounce that slowly sprung back to his step:

Hope.

__________

It wasn’t until eight months later that he got the phone call.

Zen groaned, rolling over in his bed, hand fumbling for his cell as his bleary eyes barely registered the time stamped on his digital clock.

4:06am.

“Dude, what the fuck? Do you know what time it is?” he grumbled, voice thick with sleep as he pried his eyes open, stifling a yawn as he pressed himself upright. Zen stretched his neck, then his arms, holding his bicep over his face to muffle another yawn.

“I-I think I’m close, Zen.”

Seven’s voice was urgent, brimming with excitement, and Zen straightened immediately. Any lingering traces of sleep snapped away as Zen’s heart leapt to his throat.

“I’ll be right there.”

The night air whipped against Zen’s face, his hair flying out behind him as he broke god-knew how many traffic laws until he finally parked his motorcycle before Seven’s bunker. He’d spent night after tireless night here the past few months--at first, things seemed futile. But when they managed to hack into the other dimension’s version of the internet, Zen finally dared to hope that this could actually work.

He could see her--at least once.

Zen bypassed the Arabic security with relative ease; he’d come here often enough in the past few months to memorise the few phrases he’d needed to. He shoved open the door with his shoulder, hollow footsteps echoing on the floor as he barely kept himself from sprinting to the monitor room.

Seven’s amber eyes were bright, though they were weighed down by heavy bags and framed by sallow skin that hadn’t seen the sunlight (or sleep, for that matter) in at least a few days. Zen’s heart hammered frantically against his ribs, and he took a sharp breath.

Ordinarily, he was sure Seven would have given him shit--he was still in his pyjamas, for Christ’s sake--but at the moment, the two of them were too focussed on the monitors flashing with code, anticipation brewing in their shallow breaths and the hasty typing of Seven’s shaking fingers.

The two fell into a determined silence, broken only by the sharp orders the hacker fed to Zen, who followed them to the letter.

And then, Seven stopped typing, eyes wide in disbelief as they found Zen’s.

“It-it’s done. Any minute n-”

He was cut off by a flash of blue-green light bleeding from the monitor between them. Zen squinted, eyes closing against the harsh glare. As the brightness eased, he finally blinked, eyes adjusting to the newfound darkness. All he could hear was his heart thrumming in his ears, all he could feel was the burning of his lungs as he held his breath in anticipation.

His sight finally adjusted, and he felt all tension drain from his body, replaced by sweet, vitalising relief.

Hyun took a deep breath, and although his mouth was drier than cotton, the most beautiful word he knew found itself spilling from his lips;

“...MC?”

__________

hope u enjoyed, please reblog/comment if u did! xx let me know if u want a part 2, i have a few ideas!

#mystic messenger #mysme #mysme zen #hyun ryu #mm #mm zen #zen x reader #zen x mc #mm headcanons #mm hyun ryu #saeyoung choi #mm seven

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ravenwritesstuff · 4 years

Text

Wandering Hearts (29/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (like if you don’t know why at this point go away) A/N: *ducks and runs*

HOW WORDS CAN KILL YOU

[ part one] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ] [ part nineteen ] [ part twenty ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-two ] [ part twenty-three ] [ part twenty-four ] [ part twenty-five ] [ part twenty-six ] [ part twenty-seven ] [ part twenty-eight ] [ part twenty-nine ] [ part thirty ]

In retrospect it is unclear exactly what she had expected to see. Her mind had seemingly abandoned any hope of reason, sanity, in this inexplicable place but still found a way to expect - well - something. So when she sees him from her perch atop the giant troll’s shoulder she feels her mind jump to places hazed with pain and shock in search for what she is sure she is missing from the tableau. The darkest places in her mind throb.

He is not as anticipated though she cannot quite draw the picture of what exactly that is.

Instead he looks much the same as he always has, though worse for wear.

At the apex of the swirling quartz, a wild unfurling of thick winding moss spills in a circular bed. The lush green, so similar to that she grips in her fingers upon a giant’s shoulder, cushions his prone form. The white of his skin and gold of his hair is stark contrast to the colors around him. At this distance he seems so small, so still. She cannot tell if he breathes. She needs to get closer. She will get closer.

The trolls have stopped on the ridge as the woman continues forward, but she will not be made to wait. Not when he is so near. Not when he needs her.

She starts to scramble down the lengths of moss growing like ropes from it's gargantuan host but does not make it far. A jagged crystal hand catches her before she even leaves it's shoulder. Despite her exhaustion and the futility of her efforts, she struggles.

"Wait," the rumbling order is low and firm.

The troll scoops her into its gasp and holds once more with her arms trapped to her sides, feet dangling a great distance above the ground, head and shoulders popped just above the shining surface of its fist. It is clear this is not a negotiation and she is about to scream in frustration and rage against this treatment when something catches her eye.

The group of trolls has encircled the ridge of the crater. They had moved swiftly, silently, and she can see more clearly their number - over twenty. Is this all there are? Did more exist somewhere else? How had these massive creatures existed for so long without being known, without her knowing? And if they are as real as they seem then just what else could be? What other mysteries lies behind the veil of this new reality that continues to unfold around her?

Then more important questions press into her consciousness. Questions she is perhaps afraid to ask, but her mind charges forward anyway.

What exactly is to happen to Bjarg that these creatures see fit to guard this seemingly sacred ground? What event permits that this strange wisp of a woman alone allowed to approach the green epicenter with slow strides? What means it that whatever strange force brought her here did not deposit her in this place alongside Bjarg?

She has so long denied herself inquiry, so trained her tongue against it, that she swallows them down until only one question remains screaming at the front of her mind.

Is he all right?

Nothing else matters.

She squirms in her captors's hand. Rough edges dig through her clothes.

"Let me go to him." She begs on a gasp. "Please let me go."

The same low rumble replies, "Wait."

She hates that word. She has been waiting her entire life. Each blind shuffle the woman takes, that Anna must watch from her captivity, grates at her already shot nerves. If she was free she would have already been at Bjarg’s side. She would be able to touch him, to see his face clearly. She would be able to settle her mind, her imaginings of impossible things. She would be able to still the most important of the urgent questions swirling inside because she would be sure of him and that was all she needed.

She squirms again out of the insatiable need to go to him, but the hand does not budge.

The woman is at the edge of the creeping green now. Her steps measured and deliberate. There is nothing Anna can do to speed her progress and she wonders again at the wisdom of allowing this blind, tongueless, cripple to go forward before the rest of them. At least she does until her foot first touches the moss.

The moment the woman pressures the soft, squishy surface a pulse rocks through the air. It stuns Anna, but the woman moves forward. The next step sends a second wave of energy and the trolls begin to sway, to hum, as if the force awakens this new purpose. Even her host is caught in whatever thrall this phenomenon has created. She feels it swing side to side with her in its grip.

But then the real revelation happens.

This woman, strange and foreign and deformed as she is, finally meets Bjarg where he lays. The space and size of them together is small in her vision and she craves details. She will not have them at this distance, but she squints and tries to understand what she sees.

The woman kneels, back to Anna, thought she does not find this to be deficit. What benefit could come from this woman and her eyeless face being presented to her? There will be no tell there. Still her mangled hands run the length of Bjarg’s body. She touches him with an intimacy unknown to Anna and he makes her blood heat at what this woman knows that she doesn’t.

A low moan comes from the woman’s throat, deep and soulful. The trolls respond. Their cries somehow a harmony to the woman’s.

Even if the sounds make no sense to her, the trolls accept and revel in them.

The woman gives a second cry, deeper and louder than the first, and the trolls respond.

This time Anna feels it.

She has not felt the cry of the trolls yet upon this visit, but the reverberation this time shakes her to the core. It is a strange vibration, a deep one, and the very core of her being screams that she has felt it before.

She knows this feeling.

She knows this place.

She doesn’t understand exactly how or exactly why, but she knows that she does and that she is watching something she does not have the slightest chance of understanding

But here she is.

A third cry comes from the woman and this time only the troll that holds her respond. The isolation of the cry startles her, but the reason comes.

“You must go to him,” the stoney creature commands even as he lowers his hand to the ridge beside them. “You must seek out why she cries.”

And then what she wants is hers.

Her feet are on solid ground. She is allowed to move, unfettered. Yet she hesitates, if even for one moment, before she moves.

She does not understand what she sees. She does not trust it, but she steps into the scared crater without a second thought because he needs her.

She needs him.

And that is all there is.

The world that was warm before turns stifling. The heat of the earth rises to sting her eyes and lungs with each breath. Each step sends new aches through her already pained body, as if the weight from the forest had chased her to this spot. The stagnant, thick air squeezes around her until she can hardly shuffle one foot in front of the other.

Has the woman before her felt this effort?

If she had - she hadn’t shown it.

By the time Anna reaches the edge of the moss her breath is sharp and short.

But she can see his face now.

It is sallow, his skin taking on an almost gray appearance, and she thinks he is dead. He is dead and that is why she was called. This is why they were brought to this place in different ways, ended in different locations. He, her Bjarg, her rock, is gone.

She hits her knees just before she can step upon the moss. All of her strength leaves her. There is so much she wanted to say to him. So much she needed to say, but there was no time for that now.

He never knew her name.

Bile rises in her throat and she thinks she will vomit but the mutilated woman turns her horror of a face in her direction and whimpers.

It is a sound unlike anything she had ever heard uttered by man or beast, something seeking and plain, that it pulls her out of her mourning before she sinks too deep. Her sound is followed by a deep hum of the trolls that surround them and she feels it this time. For all the resonance she had experienced before from them this is the first time that her actual bones rattle within her skin.

The sound alone seems to rise her to her feet and push her forward.

She doesn’t understand it.

Hardly has time to.

Because before she knows it she is standing beside his shoulders, her body alongside where the battered woman kneels at his midsection, and she can barely think beyond the idea that this is all there is.

This is it.

Just a body.

She is close enough now to see he is not breathing, the rise and fall of his chest non-existent.

He defended her to where his body had given out.

She brought him to this point: with her foolishness, her curiosity, her inability to leave well-enough alone.

This is her fault.

Through no outward compulsion she slumps to the mossy floor, body crumbling over his as tears come without bidding. Her entire frame is wracked with sobs, the weight of the air around her making each breath a monumental task, and before even a few moments pass she is lightheaded - dizzy.

Her tears let up, body relenting in its fight to stay conscious, but she hardly notices the horrid woman grabbing her left hand in her own mangled claws and drawing it close. Then there is a blade flashing. Anna doesn’t have time to react, to respond, before her scar is sliced open once more. Her blood wells to the surface of her palm, but she doesn’t feel the pain she felt when she was cut before at the binding.

The blind woman manages the same blade with surprising precision considering her crippled grip as she severs the skin on her own palm before reaching for Bjarg’s.

It is only then she reaches out - tries to stay the hand that would create more damage to Bjarg’s body, but it is too late. The cut is made and blood, slower and darker than it should be, barely reaches the surface. The woman, though blind, grabs Anna’s left wrist and brings it alongside hers atop the cut in Bjarg’s palm.

Anna feels the tears come again.

Why this effort?

Why this pain?

She is close enough now to see his lack of breath, of color. She is close enough now to understand that when he told her monsters were real that he had been sincere. She is close enough now to know she had lost him.

So why this motion? Why this effort? Why this pain?

She attempts to withdraw but the crippled woman’s mangled hand tightens, the strange knobs and knuckles digging into Anna’s skin, and she turns her face with a growl. Anna doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what words to use in this unspeakable grief.

She is free of Bjarg but it is nothing like she wanted it to be, nothing she anticipated. She does not want to run. She wants to stay.

For the first time since she left the palace all she wants is to stay.

But how can she now that he is gone?

How can she when she doesn’t even know where she is, how to escape?

Tears rise again as she realizes she has not wanted to escape, has not wanted to leave his side, for longer than she even entertained before. She had wanted to be with him, had wanted to stay with him, consequences be damned.

But that wouldn’t happen now - couldn’t happen.

They had made their choices and they had led them here.

She opens tear ruined eyes and looks at his face. It is peaceful despite the lack of color, his warm eyes closed like he was sleeping, his lips slightly parted as if he were about to speak, but she will not hear his voice again. He is too far gone.

What would he have said if she had given him her name?

What if she had told him truly who she was?

Would it have mattered? Would he have flinched, blanched, sent her back? It does not matter now.

Nothing really does.

Her vision blurs once more and it is all she can do it keep herself from collapsing again. She does not understand why she needs to be there, why her flesh was laid open against his when he was already gone.

There is a low rumble, so low she almost cannot hear it, but she feels it. Her bones rattle again as they had before and she looks up. On the edges she sees the trolls with their mouths open, feet stomping, and the sound carries - encircles. The air around her seems to swell. The crushing pressure changing to an inexplicable buoyancy that threatens to lift her from the ground and thrust her into an entirely different oblivion.

The feeling is so deeply foreign, so very strange like all she has encountered up to this point, that her first thought is to panic. Then the grip on her wrist tightens - the disfigured hand clamping down as if she senses each thought and feeling Anna has without word or sight. A profound groan issues from the mysterious woman’s throat and she throws back her head.

Anna knows the sound.

It is the wail of grief.

They are grieving.

This is the end.

[ previous ] [ next ]

#wandering hearts #kristanna #raven writes stuff

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tinyphantomsalad · 4 years

Text

I did a drabble

okay it’s pretty damn long so get ready but I wrote this ages ago and c a n n o t just leave it

Word Count: 3,700

Rated: G

Fandom: The Witcher

It’s under the cut so you don’t have to scroll 10 minutes

Riptide

Yes i know just go with it.

The summer breeze was warm and the clouds were only just beginning to form, waking up the earth with a soft touch on the cheek and a warm kiss on the head. Jaskier strummed along to the chirps of the morning songbirds, smugly ignoring Geralt’s glare.

“Keep looking at me like that and your eyes’ll go funny” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes and focusing on the smell of the wildflowers in the meadow and the growing warmth in his chest from being on the road again.

“Hm.” Geralt replied, brow raised, “you’re not a morning person,”

“bullshit!” Jaskier smirked, “I’m always a delight in the morning!”

The Witcher’s eyes widened comically, “you nearly stabbed me last time I woke you up to leave early,”

“That was your own fault-“ he scoffed “I was having a lovely dream at that time and you interrupted it.”

Geralt let a small laugh slip and Jaskier joined in, continuing his little melody as they walked through the field.

Geralt had found him after the mountain and much to Jaskier’s indignation the Witcher had found him and actually apologised. He hadn’t forgiven him easily but when Geralt was leaving the following morning he’d wordlessly packed his things and started travelling with the man once more. Slowly but surely they’d fallen into old patterns, and Jaskier couldn’t find it in himself to be angry anymore.

“Where are we going again?” Jaskier asked,

“There’s a town not far from here.” Geralt replied, rifling through his satchel and producing a flier- Jaskier skimmed it- Witcher needed- Spider-like demon- plenty of coin- the usual.

“You’re staying at the inn this time.” Geralt said, not looking at the bard. Jaskier huffed, picked up his pace and spinned to face Geralt.

The tall grass parted and swayed in the growing wind, making his white hair blow in the way you’d think he’d put a spell on it to always look so fabulous.

“Come on Geralt! I need new material, new inspiration to give to the people of the Continent.” He whirled around, still gripping onto is ever precious lute and letting himself punctuate every sentence with a sudden movement.

“Our adventures are the stuff of legend!” He continued, not caring for the ever-deepening crease in Geralt’s brow. “I once met a fortune teller when i was a kid- told me I’d make a great many impacts on people's lives, and that my magic was tucked away inside my voice… don't know where the magic bit came from but then again she did tell me I’d lose my head one day-”

“I guess she got that part right then.” Geralt quipped, raising an eyebrow,

Jaskier spluttered, face scrunching in indignation, “you wound me! Geralt of Rivia I had never thought you could hurt me in such a way!” Jaskier put the back of his hand to his head, feigning offence.

Geralt would deny it to the day he died that he let a chuckle slip.

“I’ll see you’re punished for that,” Jaskier sniffed with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Geralt groaned.

Jaskier began to strum a tune, one he hadn’t since he first composed it… it was new and he didn’t really think it was worth much. But he was annoying Geralt and that’s all that he needed it for.

“I was scared of dentists and the dark

I was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations

Oh, all my friends are turning green

You're the magician's assistant in their dreams~”

His voice carried out over the meadow that stretched for miles around them, Jaskier kept fast paced with his song, energy building up inside him.

“Oh

Oh and they come unstuck~

Lady, running down to the riptide

Taken away to the dark side

I wanna be your left hand man

I love you when you're singing that song and

I got a lump in my throat 'cause

You're gonna sing the words wrong~”

He threw a wink to Geralt, letting the imaginary beat guide him through the lyrics that don’t really make sense but tell a story he can’t explain. He didn’t know what he was thinking when he wrote it… well, maybe he did, casting a glance to his muse- but those feelings weren’t something he wanted to revisit right now.

He carried on singing the whole way through the field, skipping and throwing his arms where he thought appropriate (which was everywhere). He let out a triumphant squeal when he caught Geralt swaying along to it-

“YOU DID!”

“I did not,” he growled back, sitting stock still on top of Roach, who neighed in agreement.

Jaskier’s smile hurt his cheeks, holding his lute over his head, “I CLAIM THIS INSTRUMENT TO HOLD THE MOST POWERFUL MAGIC IN ALL THE CONTINENT!” He cried, “THIS IS THE ONLY INSTRUMENT TO EVER MAKE THE GREAT WHITE WOLF, GERALT OF RIVIA, WITCHER AND BUTCHER OF BLAVIKEN- TO DO A JIG!”

“It was not a jig- I do not fucking jig, Jaskier!” Geralt shook his head and growled as the hyperactive bard pranced around the field ahead of him, laughing like a drunk in the wee hours of the morning.

Jaskier finally calmed down as it reached midday. The warm air beginning to stick to them. They walked at the side of a small river, a signpost pointing them to the little town with the Kikimora problem.

“I haven’t heard that song before,” Geralt asked suddenly, he looked down at his companion who didn’t return his gaze,

“It’s new, I wrote it a little after we started travelling together again. I mean- I suppose it’s not that new considering that was six months ago but I guess since I’ve never performed it-”

“You should sing it tonight.” Geralt said, “no- don’t look at me like tha- Jaskier!”

It was too late.

Jaskier squealed.

“YOU LIKE IT!”

“Hm.”

“Oh shush,” Jaskier smiled, “You big softie.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier moved closer to Roach and patted her neck as they walked, his lute bouncing on his shoulder; he knew he was being insufferable- but that was Geralt’s fault for waking him up at sparrow fart to get going and he was in too good a mood to be grumpy all day.

The road they were going down was quiet, Jaskier watched as a rabbit flew in front of them and in his enthrallment nearly bumped into Roach who whipped him with her tail,

“Not nice- bad horse, no apples.” Jaskier grumbled. Roach snuffed in reply as they carried on.

“I need a bath,” Jaskier leaned towards Geralt and gave a sniff before gagging, “and so do you, Gods Geralt, you stink of onions,”

Geralt scowled at him, “I thought you said I smelled like death and destiny or whatever the fuck that was,” he grumbled,

Jaskier rubbed his eyes and coughed for dramatic effect, “nope, definitely onions-ow!”

Geralt suppressed a smirk and tucked his leather glove back into his bag.

:::

It was nearing early evening when they reached the town, it was smaller than what Geralt had originally thought- more a hamlet to be completely honest. The river they had been travelling next to turned into a muddy swamp.

The streets were dirty and there were very few people out, the buildings sagged to one side looking as though a good shove would be enough to topple them completely. But still, there was a shoddy inn on the end of a row of lopsided huts with a stable next to it for Roach.

Geralt pretended to listen to whatever Jaskier was saying about the state of his eighth favourite doublet -A stain, Geralt- this is madness, utter madness- while handing his beloved mare to the shit-scared stable boy that looked up at him with wide, dull blue eyes.

They weren’t as blue as Jaskier’s, more faded, like old stained glass- Jaskier’s were brighter… more alive.

Geralt shook the thought from his head and stepped into the dim light of the inn. All conversation ceased as everyone caught sight of the Witcher, their smiles flicking and the stench of fear spiking in the air. No matter how hard anyone tried they would never forget what he was. A mutant and a monster. That didn’t matter, he was used to this and he was there to do a job and get out as quickly and as quietly as possible.

Jaskier had other plans.

The man was like a walking ball of talking and singing and sunshine. Which when paired with alcohol was a very dangerous mix. Geralt tried not to hit his head against the bar as Jaskier walked in, lute in hand, wildflower in his hair and greet everyone in the tavern as if they were old friends.

“Ladies, gentleman, people of…” he trailed off, a pink tinge forming on his cheeks- there was a bit of an awkward silence while the poor man struggled, eventually giving up and diving into Toss a Coin to Your Witcher. Geralt resisted the urge to smile as a few of the patrons tapped along or flicked a few coins in his direction.

Jaskier winked at him from across the room that said Don’t wait up.

Geralt turned to the barkeep, who eyed him warily, “ale. And a room” He dumped the last of their coin on the table for two days.

The man, who was only a few inches shorter than Geralt himself with a bushy brown beard and polished head, pushed him a full mug before clearing his throat.

“If you’re looking for a… job…Kal-” he pointed to a sallow man sitting in the corner, head buried in his flask. “His daughter was taken by something in the swamps…”

The man didn’t give any other information- instead taking the opportunity to offer up as little information as possible and getting away as quickly as he could. Typical. Geralt didn’t really know why humans shied away from him- maybe having something to do with being a mutated monster that could hogtie and castrate them in thirty seconds flat on a bad day. Yeah, maybe that.

Geralt twisted in his seat, trying his best not to laugh as Jaskier jumped up on an unoccupied table and played conductor as a rising corus of slightly drunk patrons. The sun was setting outside the window, casting a gold glow behind the bard’s face, catching him in his element- all rosy cheeks and bright eyes.

It hadn’t escaped Geralt’s notice that Jaskier was attractive, anyone with eyes could see that. But when he was like this, it made Geralt’s stone heart do funny little things in his chest. Fucking Jaskier, making him feel things.

When he’d been with Yennefer it was always too much. Too much fight, too much secrecy. She was a force to be reckoned with on her own and wanted to keep it that way, and then he went and made that fucking wish and all hope for any romance had been thrown out the window. After he’d apologised to Jaskier he’d felt more comfortable than he ever had with Yen in their relationship.

It didn’t help that Jaskier and Yen had somehow bonded over the incident on the mountain- if anything it made him worry more, when they were fighting it was them against each other, but now they teamed up against him.

“I just wanna, I just wanna know

If you're gonna, if you're gonna stay

I just gotta, I just gotta know

I can't have it, I can't have it any other way

I swear she's destined for the screen

Closest thing to Michelle Pfeiffer that you've ever seen, oh~”

Jaskier’s voice flitted over the crowd like a sparrow in the early morning. His new song was nice, it bounced and was usually upbeat. It almost had Geralt tapping his foot. Almost.

A mug of ale flies across the room and the alarmed twang of Jaskier’s lute causes Geralt’s hand to fly to his sword. Jaskier’s face went pale as an enraged cry came from the other end of the tavern and he practically leaps from the table to hide behind Geralt’s back.

“BARD!” A pot-bellied man burst forward from a crowd of patrons, his robes disheveled from pushing past the crow that had formed.

“Geralt- old friend,” Jaskier mumbled in his ear, sending little tingles down his sp- nope. “Do me a favour and fucking help me.”

The old man advanced on them, shaking a pudgy sausage finger and practically convulsing with rage, Geralt’s hand didn’t leave its spot on his sword,

“I’ve told you once before that I do not play bodyguard.”

“Bullshit Geralt- oh dear gods save me.”

“I know you!” The pug-faced man snarled, eyes not having left the trembling bard, “you- you- defiled my wife! And- and my son!”

“Hm.” Was all Geralt replied, feeling the way Jaskier practically molded himself against the witcher’s back in order to peek over his shoulder, gripping onto his lute for dear life. The man bared his yellowing teeth in an attempt to look intimidating. The crows that had been cheering Jaskier on now formed around them, all waiting to see the great White Wolf lash out at this poor unfortunate soul that Jaskier had wronged by being a horny dumbass.

There was a beat of silence before the man reached around and snatched Jaskier’s beloved lute out of his hands. Promptly snapping it in two.

The bard let out a strangled cry. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Geralt slowly stepped to the side, as calmly as he would when stalking a deer.

There were times in their long partnership, where Geralt had learned not to get involved. There were three rules:

One: Never Wake Jaskier Before Dawn.

Two: Never Let Jaskier Have More Than Four Pints of Ale.

Three: Don't mess With Jaskier’s Lute.

Jaskier’s relationship with his lute would rival that of himself and Roach.

They were so getting kicked out of this town.

With a satisfying crunch the man stumbled back with blood gushing from his nose.

“Jaskier-” He started in some attempt to quell his anger, the bard didn’t listen. Jaskier grabbed at his clothes and with one swift sent him doubling over. Geralt could smell the adrenaline rising in the room. Onlookers starved of any entertainment and eager to watch.

Another drink went flying and knocked a young man round the head- how that was relevant Geralt would never know. Ensuing a blind fist fight with Jaskier in the middle. Several tables toppled over and a cacophony of shouts suffocated the bar.

Geralt pressed himself back into the shadows. Looking out for the tornado of periwinkle blue in an attempt to make sure the fucking idiot didn’t get himself killed.

“Suck on that!” Jaskier’s voice cut through the rest, he sent another blow to the scorned man, a few cuts gracing his lip and forehead. “Just like your fucking son did!”

Geralt growled and stepped out of the shadows, drawing his sword and stalking towards the bard. The noise died down almost immediately, everyone stopping in their tracks at the sight of a very angry Witcher.

“Hm.” Geralt glowered at the crowd, “Go home. We are here to complete contracts. Not get into petty fights.” He threw a pointed look at Jaskier.

Geralt turned to the man that had a disgusting crust of drying blood on his mouth and broken nose, “the bard will surely compensate you by never returning to this town once our business here is complete. And Jaskier you horny little bastard-” he scowled at him, “will avoid this place like the plague. I will not be bailing you out anymore.”

Jaskier grumbled and nodded. The man huffed and stalked out of the inn. The patrons slowly went back to their tables and righted themselves. However the stench of fear still hung heavy in the air. The innkeeper threw him a grateful look as Geralt grabbed Jaskier by the neck and dragged him up to their room.

:::

“Now now Geralt I’m sure you- Oh dear Gods man- what are- Geralt!” Jaskier was helpless against the Witcher’s manhandling. Geralt just growled. It’s all he ever did. Jaskier cradled his lute, oh his darling, beautiful lute. He was dragged up the stairs like a scolded child, pouting and all.

“You are an idiot.”

Jaskier let out a choked sob “Oh my darling girl… you were so young.”

“Jaskier.”

“I’ll dedicate a ballad to you my love-“

“Jaskier!”

“One that will sing through the echoes of time and be etched into the walls of hist-”

“JASKIER!”

“Fuck sake Geralt let a man grieve.”

Geralt grumbled and went to the adjoining washroom to get a wet rag. Jaskier trailed his fingers over the snapped neck of his instrument, his head was sore from being hit, and his knuckles were no better.

“You look terrible.” Geralt said gruffly from the washroom doorway

Jaskier scowled and stuck out his bottom lip, albeit he was being a little childish but that was merited considering he was going through a grievous loss.

“And you look like royalty do you?”

“Hm.” Geralt walks over and for a moment Jaskier thinks that Geralt is going to tend to his wounds like in those terribly written stories he used to catch his sister reading.

Instead he gets a face full of dirty wet rag.

Fucking Witchers.

The room was nicer than the rest of the inn, Jaskier guessed the innkeeper had given them his own room- which he was not complaining about in the slightest. Geralt had made a nice little nest for himself by the fire and was cleaning his weapons with the whetstone he kept in his satchel of mysterious Witcher things that he never let Jaskier look inside.

It was too quiet without his lute. She was like his sword, his only weapon in a cruel world full of midnight creatures that crept into the minds of men. The last time he had been without a lute was after he’d left home, and that had been in an attempt to hide himself behind a persona. Said persona turned out to be a lot more likeable than who he used to be, so he kept it, let the little parts of himself bleed into this new man through his music- then he met Geralt and… well he found he didn’t think about his past as much as he used to. Not when he was travelling with him.

So he filled the space with mindless chatter.

“We have to go into the market tomorrow- did you see it, Geralt? I suppose I’ll find a new lute. Maybe even paint it this time… I doubt that it’ll ever be as good to replace my dear sweet love… but she would want me to move on I suppose.” He gave a fake sniff, lying back on the bed and admiring the man by the firelight. It had gotten dark and the fire created a halo around Geralt, making him look angelic.

“Are all Witchers like you?” Jaskier asked absentmindedly,

“Some have quieter companions.” Geralt said, not looking up from his task.

“Yeah well it must suck to be them.” He retorted, catching that little smirk Geralt sent his way. “You’ve told me very little about what your life was like before we met…”

Geralt just grunted in response. Jaskier rolled his eyes,

“Alright then, since you’re clearly not in the mood for sparkling conversation- how about I ask you five questions?”

“What?”

Jaskier bounced off the bed, getting giddy because oh ho ho, this is going to be fun. He settled himself next to Geralt, propping up a pillow on the Witcher’s side and leaning with his back on it. The closeness was intoxicating and it didn’t help the fact that he was practically drooling over the man’s jawline.

“Five questions,” he hummed, “I ask you five questions and you have to answer them honestly.”

Geralt quirked an eyebrow, Jaskier had learnt that this meant I got that, what the fuck in Geralt language.

“You get to ask me five questions too!”

“Hm.”

“oh come on-“ Jaskier looked up at the man, putting on his very best puppy dog face.

“Fine…” Geralt caved in quickly, setting his sword aside to pay attention to the practically-bouncing-off-the-walls bard next to him. “five questions and then I'm going to sleep.”

Jaskier pursed his lips, looking hard at Geralt,

“What’s your favourite colour?” He asked,

“That’s really your first question?” Geralt chuckled, stoking the fire. Jaskier snorted,

“obviously, one can’t operate as your best friend in the whole wide world without knowing your favourite colour.”

“Blue.” He answered simply,

Jaskier moved down a little, getting more comfortable as he nestled against Geralt’s side. “Is your hair naturally white?”

A shadow passed over Geralt’s face at that, Jaskier cringed at the thought of bringing up bad memories at such a pleasant time,

“No…” the Witcher starts slowly, “my hair was shorter... and dark brown before my training at Kaer Morhen- it changed during the trials.”

A warmth spread through Jaskier’s chest as he craned his neck to look into the warm golden eyes of his companion. Geralt was usually a wall of no emotion, forcing Jaskier to chisel away until he got some semblance of feelings out of him. But right now he could see the raw vulnerability racing through his mind.

The moment quickly passed when Geralt coughed and looked away, back into the firelight.

Jaskier composed himself, “I’m not going to ask you your favourite animal-“

“Roach.”

Jaskier chuckled, nudging Geralt with his head, “I think the whole continent knows that.”

The questions continued like that, Jaskier delving deeper into his strange Witcher’s psyche. Geralt refused to answer a few and Jaskier could see the way his jaw twitched and his brow creased in sadness or pain, especially when he asked if he’d had a travelling companion before Jaskier himself. Geralt seemed to relax a little- a luxury that they hadn’t been awarded since they’d left Ciri with Yennefer to hone her magical gifts. Jaskier could easily see that Geralt still had feelings for her, and he couldn’t really blame him; still, it hurt knowing he’d dug himself in a hole twenty years ago and adamantly refused to come back out.

#the witcher #the witcher fic #jaskier #Jaskier is a slutty bard #geralt x jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier is baby #bar fight #because i was bored

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