#man....like......i have seen the fucked up shit on ao3. i truly have witnessed Some Shit. ive opened a fic and immediately backclicked

[izzyliker]

i think like.... some of this ‘fanfic isnt above criticism’ discourse fundamentally is built on some weird ideas and understandings of criticism, creative freedom, and variance in ppl reading the exact same thing. 

like: just because you dont like a specific thing about someones writing doesnt mean its objectively, concretely wrong, bad, or inappropriate. nobodys going to kill you or jail you or whatever for leaving a mean or unnecessarily blunt comment on someones fic, but it is kind of sad/funny to see people talk shit about writers for ‘not taking criticism’ as if their opinion is objective truth and not just.....their opinion.

like: i have had people tell me my writing is too abstract, or it doesnt make any sense, or that i use too many metaphors or whatever. thats their opinion! i have also had people say that me writing the way i do is dreamy/mesmerizing/whatever nice, sweet things they had to say about it. as a hobbyist writer and someone who ENJOYS writing that way i am not going to change it because someone didnt like it, and people being mad about that is... kind of funny to me? just dont read my fic then! i write six line long sentences and use five em dashes in a single paragraph because i like doing it. if you dont like reading that you dont have to read it!

there’s... of course room for gently calling people out for writing in -phobic and -ist stuff while obviously having no idea that it was -ist or -phobic (eg. having characters misgender a trans character and not warning in the tags, or referring to a trans character as their deadname and using the wrong pronouns until they transition [’x was a girl blah blah she liked blah blah then she suddenly realized shes a boy wow anyway now im getting to the actual story after misgendering my character for no reason. them being trans never comes up again’], or writing deeply bigoted stuff or otherwise inserting unfortunate tropes in writing) and im not going to say that it’s ~bullying~ someone to let someone know that it seems like their writing reflects their own, genuine bigoted beliefs or misconceptions, and a lot of time people will be mortified and thankful to hear that (and when they aren’t theyre usually either openly bigoted, or theyve had other people tell them otherwise and chosen to believe those people instead, which you can feel however you want about).

like: ive left a strongly worded comment on a fic before because it turned out to be completely untagged for the rape depicted in it (as in: no archive warnings apply - not even chose not to warn), and featured a twoc ‘’’’’’having sex with’’’’’’’ a trans guy, where the author was a white cis person who did not see anything wrong with the lack of tagging OR the damaging tropes used with zero self awareness. i dont think you can NEVER say ‘im trans/gay/bi/ace/a person of color/a person of this ethnicity and you don’t seem to be - did anyone beta read this, because you have depicted the character with my marginalized trait in a very stereotypical way, and idk if thats on purpose or not’ or anything similar. sometimes people who are racist or homophobic or biphobic or transphobic also write fic. sometimes a fic makes your spider senses tingle because of the way something bad is depicted in it. 

but like and especially re darkfic - 

when people say ‘you need to take criticism when people say your fic glorifies bad relationships’ i think... what people fail to take into account is that although sometimes people do in fact write narratives where they do not even realize theyre writing a shitty relationship (this is often made obvious by a complete lack of tagging or a flippant attitude about the actions of the characters rather than anything that happens in the work itself) sometimes when you read a fic and think ‘this obviously says that this relationship is good! and that you should read this and think the relationship is good!’ it’s not actually an objective, true criticism that the author needs to... idk...rectify? reflection is always good for yknow becoming a better writer and looking at possible issues re: how you see relationships or certain people or whatever (this isnt just writers or artists btw, this is also you as the reader or the consumer or the person, existing in the world), but sometimes it’s just a fic that either was triggering for you, or that didn’t fill the specific narrative need you had.

again: i have written unhealthy relationships. i like writing codependence, and relationships with bad boundaries, and relationships where people are in denial about how their relationship makes them feel. i have, ON THE SAME FICS, had people say they thought it was validating; or cathartic; or respectful; or realistic and kind and compassionate portrayal of those relationship AND other people say they were uncomfortable; that they thought the narrative not using the word abuse meant it wasnt meant to be abuse (despite the ‘unhealthy relationships’ tag); that they thought it was disrespectful to write two characters they liked in an unhealthy relationship. and theyre all allowed to have those opinions! sometimes someone’s writing just doesn’t spark joy. but just because you didn’t like a fic doesn’t mean the writer has failed. when a fic writer has multiple people say ‘i liked this; this felt real; it felt compassionate and respectful and i will come back and read it again’ and one person say ‘i think this is bad’ i don’t think its... evil of the writer to say ‘yknow, im sorry you didn’t like this fic, you might want to read x fic where the story has a happier ending instead,’ and not change or delete or otherwise do anything to that fic.

i dont know guys like... again, just because you didn't like something doesnt mean theres something intrinsically wrong with it. and a loooooot of posts here conflate ‘this person wrote a fic that uncritically used a bunch of tropes the author did not tag for and thus was not even aware of having used and i have left a comment saying that the implications of that are kinda fucked’ with ‘this person wrote a fic about an abusive relationship/sexual assault/whatever and it wasn’t written the way i want those topics to be written about, and i have left them a comment saying that they need to kill themselves for it.’ 

#man....like......i have seen the fucked up shit on ao3. i truly have witnessed Some Shit. ive opened a fic and immediately backclicked #bc the way it depicted sensitive topics was just very callous and had an air of complete lack of research having gone into it #i have also read fic that i recognized was useful for other people probably but that was intensively triggering to me for no specific reason #sometimes things are handled in ways that arent necessarily...objectively bad. they just dont work for everyone #i rarely want to read any kind of 'this person is in a bad relationship and someone talks them out of it and then theyre happy' kinda stuff #my catharsis comes from the uncertainty of the ending and the emotional parts of the active relationship #theres like.....irl reasons for that. but people also dont need to have any specific tragic backstory to enjoy certain narratives more than #others. idk yall. whatever #long post #disk horse #rape ment

[r6shippingdelivery]

A small one-shot I wrote for @ojiisan01! The Spetsnaz are on vacation from Rainbow and go back to their families. Kapkan is helping his cousin with his flower shop and Tachanka keeps coming to spend time with him. 

As always, you can read it on AO3 too!

Free time, Maxim mused, was both a blessing and a curse. After being in the military for so many years, he was more than used to the unpredictable flow of work and down time that lifestyle entailed. What he wasn’t used to was having nothing to do.

When Harry informed the Spetsnaz of their impending month-long vacation, Maxim immediately booked a ticket back to Russia. It had been so long since the last time he went home for a visit, and he missed seeing his family. However, just because he was on vacation didn’t mean the rest of the family was too. His brothers had work, his niece and nephew had to go to school, and Maxim remained alone in the old apartment for most of the day. Boredom was inevitable, and after a few days Maxim was already sick of spending his days doing nothing.

He was antsy and missed his homely little cabin in the woods, or at least the freedom that living in the middle of nowhere afforded. Maxim was already thinking of how to leave a few days early without upsetting the kids too much, when the message arrived: cousin Boris broke his knee.

Apparently a bicycle accident smashed his knee badly enough to need surgery, and he was looking for someone to baby-sit his dog and take care of his business while he was in the hospital. It was all they talked about during dinner: poor cousin Boris, all alone in St. Petersburg. And then Maxim’s sister-in-law suggested that he could go help Boris, and everyone agreed it was a fantastic idea and started acting like it was already decided.

While Maxim was a little irritated they all just assumed he would do it, he knew it was a good idea. After all, hadn’t he been complaining about having nothing to do? And it would be nice to see his cousin again, they used to be really close as kids before Boris’ family moved out. But it still stung that nobody asked his opinion before giving him the task.

_ _

St. Petersburg was exactly like any other big city Maxim had seen: noisy, full of people, and severely lacking fresh air. It was a curious sensation of never being truly alone, yet feeling strangely isolated.

Maxim enjoyed the opportunity to catch up with his cousin, even though it was awkward at first, but soon they found common ground in their love of the outdoors. It certainly explained why his cousin’s apartment was full of plants, to the point it resembled an interior garden, almost. Or his choice of business that Maxim was supposed to oversee for a few days: a flower shop.

Despite his vast experience fending off for himself in the wilderness, Maxim didn’t know the first thing about flowers. Perhaps growing plants wouldn’t have been so daunting, Maxim was used to hard physical work and getting dirty. However, arranging flowers in bouquets, or worse, giving advice on which paired best together? He was utterly lost.

Cousin Boris didn’t seem too concerned, though, assuring Maxim that most customers already knew what they wanted or chose arrangements from a catalogue. In fact, he joked that the hardest part of Maxim’s new duties would be keeping Zoya, his little dog, out of the couch and bed. Still, he took time to show Maxim around the flower shop and how things worked, the basics, so he wouldn’t be completely clueless. And the next day he bid them goodbye, both to Maxim and Zoya, before heading to the hospital and leaving Maxim in charge of the shop.

It was strange, as if he was playing a role in an elaborate play, wholly unlike Maxim’s life. But it was bearable. For the most part, clients were sparse, allowing him time to get familiar with the new environment. And yet through the whole first day he was nervous, needing to remind himself why he was here: because his brother’s wife thought it was a grand idea. And because family helped each other, and Maxim literally had all the time in the world for the next few weeks.

That night, lying on an unfamiliar bed, he realised how accurate Boris was when he said keeping the dog out of the bed would be the hardest job. She was relentless, jumping on his legs despite Maxim’s scoldings, yipping piteously at him. He was almost asleep when he felt the mattress dip again and a small weight settled next to his feet. Sighing, Maxim decided he was tired of kicking her out uselessly, and what Boris didn’t see would hurt no one.

_

The people seeking the services of the flower shop were more varied than Maxim first imagined. Lovers wanting to impress their sweethearts, gifts for mothers, presents for bosses about to retire, funerals, brides-to-be seeking their favorite blossoms… And even his comrade, Sasha. Alexsandr fucking Senaviev.

Maxim knew that Sasha’s family -ex wife and kids, as well as his sister- lived here, and that he used every chance he had to visit his children. With the city being as big as it was, the chance of stumbling into each other like this was astronomically slim, yet here they were.

At first Maxim didn’t realise who the customer was. He heard the door and barely directed a quick glance at it, knowing that people liked to look around the shop before coming to the counter. It was only when he heard a loud “Maxim, is that you?” that he looked at the person in question. Sasha looked different in civilian clothes. Maxim had almost expected him to wear a balaclava here too, and he couldn’t help but stare in disbelief at him.

“What are you doing here?” It sounded vaguely accusing and suspicious, yet Alexsandr laughed at Maxim’s borderline rude attitude and came to lean against the counter, as if he was in the bar rather than a flower shop.

“Is this your retirement plan, a secret life outside of Rainbow?” Alexsandr was grinning at him in that way that made Maxim feel like he was important and noticed. It was an absurd notion, and he hated feeling foolish. “Maxim the flower boy, who would have thought.”

“Are you going to buy something or not?” Maxim crossed his arms, annoyed.

“I saw you have this small potted cactus, and I think my little girl will love it.”

That was… reasonable. It could even be called cute, he supposed. Maxim nodded briskly and went to fetch a handful of the cacti. In the end Sasha picked the one with the shortest and softest spikes. So his ex wouldn’t yell at him for giving something that could hurt their daughter, he said.

“This is not my shop,” Maxim confessed while Sasha paid. “I’m helping my cousin for a few days, that’s it.”

He didn’t want any stupid rumours to spread, or worse, Alexsandr calling him flower boy again.

_

Maxim thought it was a one off thing. A coincidence, an isolated curiosity. He should have known better.

Alexsandr became a regular visitor at the shop, but not a customer. No, he was there to drive Maxim up the walls with his closeness and easy banter and acting like Maxim was an integral part of his life even now. Every day, he would invite Maxim out for lunch, or if he declined, to a few drinks after the flower shop closed. He stayed by Maxim’s side for the greater part of the day, and it was both familiar and comforting as it was exasperating. That mix of emotions was normal when it came to Sasha. He was an expert on eliciting fondness and irritation in Maxim’s heart, as well as something more dangerous that he avoided thinking about.

At his temporary home, when Zoya was the only witness to his wistful thoughts, Maxim allowed himself the truth of why Sasha’s presence during the day made him feel so lonely at night. He hated how he started to anticipate Sasha’s visits to the shop, how his heart would skip a beat when his comrade smiled at him in greeting. Maxim refused to set himself up for heartbreak, it was a stupid thing to do.

Thankfully, his interactions with Sasha didn’t carry any awkwardness despite Maxim’s private moments of weakness. Still, some conversations were harder to go through than others.

“What flowers would you use to tell someone you like them?”

He regarded Sasha as if he’d grown a second head, but the man was busy inspecting the daisies and didn’t notice.

“The flowers alone are usually clue enough,” Maxim deadpanned, because really, people didn’t go around giving flowers to others regularly, did they?

“Yes, but in the movies they use this or that flower because it means ‘I love you’, or some other contrived message. Has nobody asked you about that before?”

“What movies do you watch?” Maxim chuckled, because that sounded like old-fashioned romance movies, and picturing Sasha watching those was hilarious. Alexsandr remained serious, discounting the amused glint in his eyes, so Maxim shrugged. “No fucking idea. Red roses are always popular. But I would get a bouquet of whatever is your girl’s favorite flower.”

“And if I don’t know that?” Sasha appeared pensive, and Maxim swallowed the bitterness he felt when considering who might be the person motivating these questions. Lera deserved the best, and he had no right to feel jealous.

“Then picking flowers in her favorite color might be a good idea? I don’t know! I know shit about romantic advice, maybe the roses are popular for a reason.” Maxim shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken.

To his relief, Sasha nodded as he got closer to the counter. “I like red. Red is a good, strong color.”

“Of course you think that, Mr. Red Army family.” Maxim couldn’t help teasing him, because Sasha did it to him all the time and payback was only fair.

“Red is a color suited for hunters too! Or do you prefer green?” Sasha literally poked him, and Maxim swatted his hand away, fighting to hide a smile.

“I don’t care about colors.” His declaration was met with a scoff of incredulity, and Maxim suddenly felt the urge to defend his position. “Colors are all a distraction, a way to either blend in the surroundings or give yourself away. Especially when it snows. When white covers everything you can see, colors are either meaningless or your death sentence.”

Alexsandr grunted. “I think red would make a nice contrast on white, like blood on the snow.”

He didn’t disagree. It was a vivid image, one that was alluring not despite its sense of danger, but because of it.

_

A couple of days later, cousin Boris was back home, and Maxim knew his time as a florist was ending. It wasn’t the worst experience ever, but it was also something he couldn’t see himself doing regularly.

He notified Sasha of the impending end to their new routine, and how he wasn’t sure what he would do now. They still had another week of free time, and Maxim didn’t think he would go back to Kovrov, but he wasn’t sure if he’d stay in the city either, or if Boris would even welcome him for a longer stay. Maxim wanted to say Sasha looked disappointed at the news, but it was a momentary thing.

Alexsandr promised him that tomorrow, his last day as a flower boy, they’d celebrate by going drinking. Getting properly wasted as a way of celebrating was a time honored tradition between them, something they used to do after every successful mission.

There was a strange energy between them for the entire day, which Maxim blamed on Sasha, who was acting weird. The man was usually calm and at ease, but today he kept glancing at his phone, checking the time, and Maxim didn’t believe for a second he was that eager to go drinking. He even disappeared for a time while Maxim closed the shop, and Maxim started considering that maybe something happened and they should postpone their little outing.

However, before he was even done locking the front door, Sasha was back, acting all suspicious and holding something behind his back. Maxim frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

As all answer, Alexsandr smirked and revealed what he’d been hiding. A bouquet where most of the flowers were white, except for a few striking touches of red. Maxim stared at it, stunned, and not realising it was meant for him until Sasha gestured at him twice to grab it. Up close, he could identify white camellias and red chrysanthemums, along with the sweet fragrance of jasmine. The yellow ones he thought were irises, but he wasn’t sure. It was lovely, and Maxim still couldn’t believe that Sasha actually meant this gesture. Surely not in the same way Maxim wanted to interpret it.

“What’s the meaning of this?” He scowled, eyeing the bouquet with unveiled suspicion.

“I thought the flowers alone would be clue enough,” Sasha said, and he could hit him for using Maxim’s own words against him in such a way.

He wondered if there was any meaning to the flowers, if there was a subtle message he was missing. After the conversation from a few days ago, he wouldn’t put it past Sasha to do something like that just to mess with him. “If this is a joke, it’s not a funny one.”

“A joke? I don’t joke about things that matter.” Sasha seemed a bit offended, and Maxim wanted to believe him. He really did. But he still doubted. Sensing his hesitation, Sasha sighed. “I know I said we’d go drinking, but I thought we could go to my apartment, have dinner and drinks there.”

The way he said it made it sound like a dare, and Maxim couldn’t resist a challenge. “I never say no to food.”

Alexsandr’s answering grin was so radiant that it could have melted Antarctica, and Maxim suddenly realised he’d agreed to what sounded like a home date. The revelation made him nervous in an exciting way, similar to what he felt during hunts. Except he was pretty sure he was the one who had fallen into a trap this time. It was fine. Maxim loved the allure of danger, after all, and this particular danger was one he’d wanted to explore for so long.

This would be one of the worst mistakes of his life, or the best decision Maxim ever made. There was only one way to find out, and judging by Sasha’s pleased expression and the warmth in his chest as they walked side by side, Maxim was content with his decision.

_________________________

About the bouquet Sasha gives Maxim, I like to imagine he went to another florist who wasn't phased by the request, they made Sasha talk about what he wanted to say and then put a bouquet together. According to my quick research, the flowers used there mean:

White camellia: You are adorable Red chrysanthemum: I love you (Spanish) jasmine: Sensualtiy Yellow iris: Passion

So what do you think Sasha was trying to say with that? 😉

#rainbow 6 siege #r6s #rainbow six siege #kapkan #tachanka #fanfiction

[damatris]

There's Harshness In Your Voice And Softness In Your Hands

May I offer you a very soft and hopefully funny concussed!Jaskier geraskier fic in these trying times? Also tagging @jaskierswolf since you’re an awesome writer and I super appreciated your kind words and encouragement! <3 This was the third fic I wrote after a 8 year break in writing prose. :’D

Pre-Geraskier, concussed!Jaskier, protective!Geralt, Fluff, And Humor wc:  2,638 Also on AO3 with The Mud Wolf song!

....

"Are we there yet?" Jaskier asked with a grin, knowing perfectly well the town was only ten minute walk away. Exasperated sigh was his only response, just as he predicted.

"I do hope I have enough time to turn your newest valiant fight into an epic tale. Spinning a song out of a mud covered Witcher and his battle with an overgrown worm might be impossible for a lesser bard but I'm sure I can manage." he continued, taking maybe slightly too much joy out of having stayed spotless while Geralt looked like he had rolled on wet ground for a good while. Which wasn't too far from the truth.

For once the hunt had been more of an annoyance than life threatening. Geralt had been hired to take care of an unidentified monster wreaking havoc on the soft soil of nearby fields, threatening the crops.

Turned out the monster was a sizable worm like creature with thick ridged skin and countless teeth similar to sharp picks in a gaping maw. Which could have been deadly if its anatomy didn't require one to stick an arm inside the mouth to be bitten. But it had been strong, squirmy and eager to burrow away forcing Geralt to drag it out of the ground with both hands more than once. It ended up more of a wrestling match than a fight before he had been able to skewer the monster with his sword.

Jaskier had been happy to offer gleeful advice and encouragement from a safe distance where flying muck couldn't reach his silk doublet.

"Really, it would make for a good ditty, something to hum while working the fields" the bard continued, demonstrating a bright tune.

"Don't." Geralt said blankly, dragging the monster's corpse. Mud was starting to flake off his face and armor leaving dusty residue. He would have to give it a throughout cleaning later. Having caked mud in armor joints could only lead to discomfort and possibility of something jamming.

"We'll see." Jaskier said and kept humming until they reached their destination.

Calling it a town might be slightly generous but it was a lively place. During the day there had been a sizable crowd of customers and sellers in the town square, children playing and general bustle of people hurrying on their errands. Even now in the twilight hours there were people walking around giving them looks ranging from disgust to fear to bafflement. Which Jaskier thought was fair enough considering a bloody carcass was being dragged by an extremely filthy Witcher down their streets.

He too would have stopped to stare at such a spectacle once upon a time. Nowadays he just witnessed the hunting of the dangerous creatures instead.

Few minutes later they separated. Geralt was off to present the proof of the completed mission to the magistrate and collect his fee while Jaskier continued to the inn they were staying at. He had a promise to keep to the owner. Not that it was any sort of a hardship. He would have performed anyway but getting free meals for both of them was a very welcome bonus.

The inn's tavern with its warmth and amiable atmosphere was a welcome change from the cooling evening. Conversations and laughter, clinking of drinks being drank and dinners being eaten filled the space with familiar sounds. It had been far too long since the last time they had stayed somewhere nice Jaskier decided. Adjusting his lute he headed toward the bar to talk with the owner.

"Hello again!" Jaskier greeted placing a coin on the counter. "Could you draw a bath in about thirty minutes or so? Not for me, don't worry. I'm ready to sing until everyone here is full of good cheer and good ale!" he ended with a wink.

"That might take quite the while knowing these folks." Oscar, a tall broad man chuckled. Noticing the lack of a looming presence he asked "Bath's for the Witcher then?"

"Absolutely! You should and will see the state he landed himself. So easy to mistake for something that crawled out of a swamp and rolled in dirt for good measure. If you hadn't already seen him, you'd swear his hair is black and skin grey. Thankfully the same fate didn't befall me." Jaskier gestured to his clothes. "Now that would have been a tragedy."

"Plenty of water needed then." Oscar nodded to himself, moving toward a patron looking for a drink. "I'll have it ready for him."

Jaskier gave a small playful bow and twirled around to spot a good place to stash his lute case.

This evening had blessed him with an appreciative audience, Jaskier mused happily. He had begun with true crowd pleasers, jaunty songs that each and everyone knew, to draw the attention and set a jovial mood before moving to his original pieces bridging the change with Toss A Coin. It truly was a great trademark and transition song with addition of people usually complying with the lyrics and handing out money. Sure, there always were some grumblers who would prefer anything over having to hear about the White Wolf in a positive light but you never could please everyone. No matter how much he would like to.

Jaskier had started on the third song detailing a hunt he had witnessed when the Witcher of the tale entered the tavern drawing all eyes and causing murmur.

"Your bard really wasn't exaggerating much." Oscar noted behind the bar with a wry smile. "There's a warm bath waiting for you upstairs. I'd make haste if I were you."

Geralt nodded his acknowledgment while taking a sweeping look at the tavern. Spotting Jaskier near the stairs leading up to the second floor he locked eyes with him for a moment before starting in that direction. While Jaskier's performance hadn't faltered even for a second it was clear he was laughing internally at Geralt's appearance. His blue eyes were sparkling with mirth as he took stock of the stiff hair and dust falling with every step.

Walking past him to the stairs Geralt grunted something that was both a thank you and a warning. Jaskier felt quite proud of how well he had learned the meanings of the various hmms and wordless grunts Geralt seemed so overly fond of.

"Filthy fucking mutant!"

Jaskier was used to being pelted with various objects by dissatisfied audiences so he didn't think anything about stepping between something flying and the Witcher's retreating back.

Until blinding pain hit him.

On a reflex Jaskier threw his arms in front of himself trying to ensure the safety of his lute as he was knocked down on his back. Trying to draw air back into his deflated lungs and focus on anything outside of the ringing in his ears, he vaguely registered a dark shape jumping over him with a curse.

It might have been a year or it might have been a second before a large hand shook his shoulder.

"Damn it Jaskier, breath!"

Ah, yes. He knew that voice. He should probably answer.

"...G'r'lt..." not the most eloquent but passable. It was kind of hard to force words out when you had to think about breathing. Maybe he should go back to practicing basics if saying one word clearly took that much air. How had he ever sang possessing such a horrendous breathing technique?

"Look at me."

But he already was? Oh, wait. That darkness wasn't Geralt's black armor. He just had his eyes closed. But who was he to deny the chance of looking at Geralt's eyes? They were so beautiful after all. With herculean task he blinked and, behold, those molten yellow eyes were intensely staring at his. Such perfection surrounded by dancing stars.

"Can you sit up?"

Should be simple enough but he would need his hands. And they were...

"M' lute...?"

"Of fucking course you would worry about your lute. You're clutching it."

Ah. Good. Everything was fine in that case. Case. Where was his lute case? No, he had put it down before performing. Should be safe. Even if he couldn't recall where it was. Maybe he could ask Geralt. He could just-

"Sniff 'nd find" it with his strange strange Witcher senses. Seemed like a good plan. Geralt would know the scent.

"What the everlasting fuck Jaskier? How hard did that tankard hit your head?"

But tankards weren't for hitting? Why would he have…? Ah. Yes. He must have stepped in front of it now that he thought about it. Still, who would throw one? If you wanted to throw something at a person then-

"Coins ar' good, bre'd okay."

"That's it. I'm taking him to our room."

Jaskier had never realized he could levitate but suddenly he wasn't on the floor anymore. It felt much more safe and warm than he would have thought. And weirdly dusty. Also, Geralt's face was very close. Very, very close. So very close. It was distracting him from the experience. It was unfair how-

"Handsome." Geralt was. Robbing him the chance of experiencing flight. The bastard.

"If you mumble nonsense then you can just shut up."

Rude.

Shit, Jaskier thought. He wasn't levitating anymore. He had missed his chance of enjoying it. Suddenly also the warmth and Geralt's face were gone. No, there was Geralt again. But why wasn't his hair white? It was even in the name. The White Wolf. Not-

"The Mud Wolf."

"Really Jaskier? Not even coherent and you make insults?"

Geralt was an insult. With his pretty eyes and pretty lips and strong arms. Arms…? Maybe Jaskier didn't know how to levitate after all. Maybe Geralt-

"Carried me?" Huh. That would have been even better to register than levitating. If he asked would Geralt do it again while hiding his stupid good looking face? No, probably not.

"Yes."

He would? Wait, no. It was an affirmation for being carried, Jaskier realized with disappointment. He was prevented from brooding by something wet and stinging touching his forehead. He wanted it to-

"Stop. Hurts."

"Stay still. I need to clean this."

Geralt was the one who had wrestled a worm, not him. Heh, that's why he was The Mud Wolf! Didn't explain why his forehead needed cleaning though. Jaskier took a deep breath and tried to focus. Worm, tavern, performing, Geralt coming in. Then it got fuzzy. But hadn't there been a mention of a-

"Tankard. I got hit by a tankard?"

"Finally. Yes Jaskier, you were an absolute idiot and stepped in its path." a relieved sigh passed Geralt's lips.

"You were already in its path." Jaskier accused him wincing against a new stab of pain. Geralt should be thankful. Who knew that an overglorified cup could hurt this much?

"I was the target. It would have hit my back. While wearing an armor. If I hadn't caught it first."

"..." Jaskier blamed his lack of a comeback on concussion. Having one would explain everything. "Please don't say a child threw it and managed to knock me out."

There was an amused huff. "No, it was an adult. One that has a far worse headache."

"They managed this while concus-? You gave them one!" Jaskier crowed pleased with his returning mental skills. "Ooh, I wish I could have seen it. I hope they lost a lot of teeth! And have a broken nose."

"Probably, didn't check. I had more important things to do." Geralt answered prodding Jaskier's head. It didn't look too bad now that the blood was gone. An ugly bruise was quickly forming on a sizeable bump but the cut wasn't long or deep. Shouldn't even leave a scar. Head wounds just bled like a bitch as Geralt knew from personal experience.

"I'm important?" Jaskier breathed with wide eyes and hanging mouth.

Of course. That would be his take away, Geralt thought. Not that he was wrong but…

"Hmmm."

"Dear Melitele, am I hallucinating?" Jaskier whispered lifting his arm to cup Geralt's cheek. And would have promptly poked him in the eye if Geralt hadn't snatched his hand.

"Geralt of Rivia admitting to care about someone? This must be a first!" a familiar sparkle was returning to Jaskier's pinched eyes. He moved their interlocked hands to take a better look. It wasn't particularly romantic with Geralt holding his wrist but Jaskier would take it.

Just as the thought crossed his mind Geralt let go and his arm flopped bonelessly back on the bed. He didn't remember his hands weighting that much. Weird. Combined with his lute he must have far more strength than he had guessed to be able to play for whole nights with no problem.

"Geralt, where's my lute?" Jaskier suddenly panicked trying to get up to look for it. He was screwed if someone had stolen or, god forbid, broken it. All he got for his attempt was splitting pain.

"Your priorities are fucked up." Geralt stated picking a potion and bandage out of his bag. "It's in the corner. Oscar brought it with the case."

"Excuse me! It's my tool of trade, my life line and…" Jaskier trailed off frowning.

"I'll finish that after I've slept." he sniffed radiating offense.

"You do that. Now, stay still." Geralt drawled. Swiping the cut one last time he covered it with gauze.

It might not be strictly necessary but he was quite sure Jaskier would tear it open at least few times with his animated expressions. And, it made him feel slightly better if he was honest. Realizing the bard had purposefully stepped in front of him and crumpled down like a sack of potatoes had been shocking. Just thinking about it made him want to tear the culprit apart piece by piece.

What in the world had driven Jaskier to do it was a mystery. He should be perfectly aware a flying mug was no danger for a Witcher.

"Drink." Geralt ordered shoving the potion toward Jaskier.

Jaskier did make a valiant effort to take the potion but kept missing the mark until Geralt placed it in his hand with an exasperated sigh. Shakily he drank the concoction without hesitation until the bottle was empty, Geralt helping him lift his head enough not to choke.

"Wait. What was that? You always go on and on how your strange Witcher potions are not for us weak fragile humans. You wouldn't poison me after all this time, right? Geralt?" Jaskier suddenly worried.

"If I wanted you dead I'd have killed you long ago. And not with poison." Geralt answered blankly.

"It's just painkiller. You can sleep now. I'll keep waking you up to make sure last of your brain cells didn't rattle loose." he continued lifting the blanket for Jaskier to wrap it around himself.

"That's offensive. I'll let you know I have plenty of commonsense…" Jaskier protested weakly eyelids fluttering.

"Sure. As much as a toddler." Geralt granted. Softer, he prompted Jaskier to close his eyes. "Sleep. You'll feel better after."

"... Uh-huh…" came the eloquent answer. Just before he succumbed to his exhaustion, Jaskier could have sworn he felt gentle hand carding through his hair.

Also on AO3 with The Mud Wolf song!

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fic #geraskier #witcher #Adventures with writing #long post

[swampofiniquity]

Modern Chemistry (Leon Kennedy x Reader)

Part One of the new Point / Counterpoint series 

Rated: Teen and Up

Word Count: 2,260

Cross-posted from AO3 (Pizza_Of_My_Eye)

Summary: Life sucks so you drag your best friend to a bar and attempt to drink your problems away. Probably not the smartest idea you’ve ever had, but you’ve had worse nights.

Warnings: Self-medication, some language, maybe not the most healthy friendship ever.

You relished the feeling of the alcohol rushing to your head as you stared into your now empty glass. It was smudged with your lipstick and fingerprints and the swirling patterns of each captured your drunken attention, the bar and your best friend’s voice melting into background noise as you zoned out completely.

Three drinks in and you were so close to achieving your goal of blissful inebriation.

“Y/N!”

You jumped, the volume of his voice calling out your name startling you out of your stupor. Judging by the annoyed furrow in his brow and the sharp clench in his jaw, it wasn’t Leon’s first attempt to get your attention. You closed your eyes and rolled your shoulders, trying and failing to nonchalantly force the bubbling pit of anxiety back down your throat.

God, you needed another drink.

You forced a smile and focused your increasingly blurry eyes on the man beside you. Even after five years of friendship, it was still surreal sometimes, seeing him outside of work and very nearly blending in with regular civilian life. To the untrained eye, he pulled it off perfectly, but you could tell by the way he sat - spine just a little too straight, feet planted a little too solidly, stool angled just right to keep the bar’s exits in clear view.

He had seen too much in his relatively short life to ever be truly relaxed in public again.

“You don’t have to shout; I’m right here,” you admonished, plucking the glass from his fingers and knocking back the remainder of his whiskey. You winced as the warm liquid burned on the way down.

“Are you?” he sniffed, clearly unconvinced, and flagged down the bartender for another round.

You shrugged, a little inelegantly from the three vodka cranberries you’d already killed that night, and swayed a little as you reached for the fourth when your fresh drinks were slid across the bar. Leon grabbed them both first and held them to his chest as he frowned at you again, his blue eyes narrowed in the low light.

You laughed, misreading his intentions completely, and the sound was harsh and overly loud as most drunken laughs tended to be. “Didn’t think mixed drinks were your thing, Leon.”

Leon’s lip twitched like he was fighting a smile, or maybe a sneer, but otherwise didn’t respond. After a moment, you whined impatiently, all your dignity pretty much checked out for the night at that point. You were about to make grabby hands for your drink when a sudden wave of dizziness washed over you, causing you to need to grab the bar for support. “Give it, Kennedy.”

“Not sure that’s a good idea.” The words sounded off, almost forced, like he was fighting his own teeth to get them out. “Why don’t switch to water for a while, sweetheart?”

“Jesus, what are you my dad all of a sudden?” You snorted. It was a throw away line, a joke so completely lacking in self awareness that it would have made your skin crawl had you been sober.

Leon licked his lips and leaned forward, crowding you so close you could smell his shampoo. “Dunno, you drinking to mask your fear of me too?”

You shouldn’t have been so shocked that he called you on it, because of course he did. He was one of the few people in the world with the security clearance to even know about your father, but, unsurprisingly, binge drinking to repress your rampant daddy issues also came with the side effect of being slow on the uptake. Was it really too much to ask of your friend to let you drink yourself into oblivion and ignore reality in peace?

The alcohol in your blood was enough to swing the irrational pendulum of your mood from shock to fury in record time.

Thankfully, the music was loud enough in the bar to cover the sharp crack of you slapping him hard across the face, a move you would come to regret by morning, but one that the rage burning hot through your veins had demanded in the moment. Whether or not he deserved to be on the receiving end of that rage wasn’t the point, not that you were in any sort of condition for nuanced introspection. The point was you were angry and scared and had finally been pushed too far.

Leon straightened on his stool, mouth agape and eyebrows up to his hairline. He hadn’t been expecting that. You had never hit him before, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t given you plenty of reasons to over the years. Hell, he had spent nearly the first full year of your acquaintance obnoxiously and endlessly trying to get you to sleep with him. He wanted to deck himself just thinking about it.

He sighed and turned to place the drinks back down on the bar, quickly scanning the room to check that nobody had witnessed your little scene. When he turned back around, he caught your arm raised to strike him again and pulled, knocking you off balance so that you had to hold onto his shoulder to stay on your stool.

“Fuck you,” you seethed too loud, struggling to snatch your arm free. Leon’s free hand shot out to your hip, countering your weight to prevent you from falling since you seemed alarmingly unconcerned with the way your actions were making your stool wobble.

“Oh so that’s not what you’re doing here then? Will ya quit trying to hit me, goddamnit , people are staring.”

“ Fuck. You .”

“Fine, I’ll just leave then. Good luck getting your belligerent ass home yourself.” He stood, but your hand on his shoulder latched onto his jacket lapel and you were pulled forward onto your feet. It could have been the abrupt movement or the new fear of him actually abandoning you in a dive bar or just another stupid drunken mood swing, but you could feel the rage start to drain from your body along with any energy left to keep yourself upright. Instinctively, Leon caught you against his body before you could crumple to the bar’s dirty floor like a stringless marionette.

You both stood there, pressed together and silent for a while. Almost an entire verse of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin” came and went over the speakers, and Leon started to worry that you might have fucking passed out on him until you heaved a deep breath and finally spoke.

“Leon…” you muttered, your face smushed against his chest.

He sighed again, his breath puffing out against your hair and sending a pleasant tingle down your spine. “What?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Don’t - please don’t leave me?” You shifted in his arms, winding your own around his waist and squeezing, either for reassurance or in an attempt to adhere yourself to him like a barnacle thus making leaving you impossible.

“You gonna hit me again?”

You shook your head and sniffed. “‘M sorry. Shouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, alright,” Leon replied and took his seat again, arms spread as if to say the floor was all yours.

You heaved yourself back up on your stool, still a little wobbly, but you waved off Leon’s move to help you. “But you shouldn’t have said that. It was fucking out of line and you know it.”

And there it was, the end of his rope. With how frustratingly evasive and cryptic you had been all night, he was surprised that he’d been able to make it as far as he did. You had called him to talk, not the other way around, and getting anything more than a despondent “I’m fine” out of you so far had been physically painful. Leon fought the urge to throw up his arms and scream at one of his few friends.

“What the hell do you want from me, huh? We’ve been sitting here for hours now on a fucking Tuesday night and you have yet to even allude to what’s bothering you. So, let me help you out and save the two of us some time, hmm? Your old man’s getting paroled and you’re scared.”

Leon’s threshold for being jerked around was normally pretty impressive - one didn’t get as far as he did in the DSO without willingly and exuberantly jumping through some pretty ridiculous hoops. He’d become an expert at playing the long game.

But his patience with you was always shockingly limited, despite his genuine affection towards you. Maybe it was because he knew you so well and expected more. Or maybe you were just the only person he actually let get under his skin and as such had a more direct line to his nerves. Leon really didn’t like to dwell on it.

The blood drained from your face, your mouth suddenly full of spit. You didn’t know if you were about to pass out or vomit or both as reality crashed back onto you with a vengeance. “How-” you croaked. “How do you even know that?”

“I keep an eye on you. Bad habit, I know, but I’ve been doing it for so long now that I can’t seem to help it.” His lips twitched into the barest approximation of a smile and you just blinked at him, stunned.  

“Jesus, Leon, I don’t know whether to be touched or to slap you again. You keep an eye - do I even want to know what that means?”

“I don’t know, when you first told me about your father I pulled his file at the DSO’s office. The shit he did, what he put you through -” he paused, taking a moment to polish off the rest of his whiskey. “I didn’t - I couldn’t let anything like that happen to you ever again. In fact, that reminds me, I called in a favor with the DA’s office and had them draw up some papers for you to sign, restraining order and the like. I’ll have them sent to your office when they’re ready.”

You had forgotten how far up the ladder Leon had climbed. Mr. Right Hand of the President, having favors to cash in from the District Attorney. He’d come a long way from the sarcastic, reckless, young agent you used to bandage up after missions.

“I don’t… Leon -”

“Unless, do you want your own lawyer to handle things? Though with the way that clown bungled the parole hearing, I wouldn’t trust him with my dry clean- hey!”

He was cut off by you all but launching yourself off your stool and into his arms again. He caught you as you whispered, “I can’t believe you did all that…”

Leon let out a surprised, uncomfortable chuckle and pulled you more securely onto his lap. “Yeah, well you know me. Big fan of contingency plans. Hey, c’mon are you crying? Gorgeous, don’t - you don’t have to be scared, okay? I swear to you, if he comes near you, if he even thinks about trying to find you - he’s a dead man.”

It was said with the same sort of nonchalant certainty one usually reserved for low stakes, banal declarations like “it’s going to rain later” or “we should get Thai food for dinner” not promises of violence. A chill went down your spine as you were reminded of the fact that, for Leon Kennedy at least, being a thoughtful, caring person and being a killer weren’t mutually exclusive. It came with the territory of being an agent.

But what did it say about you that the first feeling at the thought of your own father dead at the hands of your closest friend wasn’t horror or revulsion, but gratitude?

“Thank you,” you murmured into his neck, struggling to compose yourself.

Leon shrugged, as best he could with his arms full of a weepy woman, and pressed a kiss to your temple. “I got your back, you know that. Now, can we be done with this crying shit please? You’re making the entire bar uncomfortable here.”

You nodded and took a deep breath, letting his expensive cologne and warm touch sooth you. It was remarkable how safe Leon made you feel after the tormenting trip down memory lane that had been your life since it was announced that the government was willing to support your father’s appeal for parole in exchange for information on his old boss. You had been so sure that you could do it alone and not let him get to you. But seeing that man again at the hearing, having to give another statement outlining the years of abuse and horror you and mother had suffered, only for it all to mean absolutely nothing. To have to see him walk free again...

It turned you right back into that terrified, weak little girl that you had fought so hard to put behind you. But being in Leon’s arms, knowing that you had his support, helped. Made you feel less alone and vulnerable. For the first time in weeks, you felt yourself actually start to relax as you finally let someone else shoulder a little bit of this burden that had been breaking you down.

“That’s my girl. We good now or are you going to continue using my favorite jacket as a snot rag?”

You let out a watery laugh and pinched Leon’s side, making him jump. “Asshole,” you muttered, hiding a genuine smile into his chest.

Leon laughed, smoothing the hair back from your face and titling your chin up until your eyes met his. “Let’s get you home, kid.”

#leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy fanfiction #writing #resident evil fanfic #my first time contributing to this fandom #ahhh

[xlady-saya]

this red is for you [fic]

Relationships: aaron/katelyn, andrew/neil

Summary: Katelyn never considered herself capable of doling out violence.

It has always been a far away thought, dampened by college courses and late night dates with her boyfriend. She lives a stereotypical life, despite everything she's been through with Aaron. Aside from her growing connection with the notoriously troublesome Foxes, nothing much about her life has changed.

Even then, she's learning she's still able to surprise herself. When Katelyn witnesses Neil defending Andrew, her own protective rage rears its head, ready to be explored.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Tags: katelyn pov, discussions of tilda/past abuse, fluff, protective neil, protective katelyn

Read on ao3! 

The sound of a pipe shattering on the ground dislodges something inside Katelyn; it's unexpected, but not entirely unfamiliar. She'd felt the inklings of this...feeling during Aaron's trial, when he cried in her arms, and even back when she first heard the name Tilda.

She'd never been able to coax it fully out into the light, but she supposes it had to happen eventually. Maybe she only sees it now because she's stepped too far into the dark.

And of course, Neil is the spark to ignite the flames of realization.

The look in Neil's eyes is nothing short of menacing, like the feeling that comes from being cornered, or from realizing you're in danger a little too late to do anything about it. It stops Katelyn in an instant, her hair standing on end.

See, Katelyn is not deluded enough to think she exists in a safe world. She's especially not deluded enough to think she surrounds herself with safe people either.

That's just how it worked out, and at this point she's so deep in the fox den she couldn't fathom clawing her way out. It's cozy here anyways...warm...

But from other people's points of view, she should've never been the type to venture here. She knows it's easy to label her as naive, or in over her head. She's, by all definitions, a good girl. Good girl. Whatever that means.

It's funny—after spending such a long time around her boyfriend and his family, she's not sure the concepts of good and bad can ever be so straightforward in her mind again.

But she still gets called that when she visits home. That always made her embarrassed; it's how the people at church referred to her, how her mother's friends gushed over her.

And she took it with a smile, because well, what else was there to do? It became a broken record statement, reiterated so many times she hardly noticed. But it made her parents happy, and it had gotten her far in life.

Perfect grades, a put together family, and a cheeriness that couldn't be beaten out of her. It's a brand of resilience that's often overlooked, but she's never resented the judgement passed on her for it. She's well aware of the checklists people run through when they see her; it's second nature to cross off every box to match her up with the stereotype. Even Aaron did it, when they first met.

And that's fine.

She's never had a problem occupying those boxes in people's minds, because in her own, she always ran through an infinite plane with no walls, no end.

It's a privileged way of thinking, and a little ridiculous, but she's proud that she's never become trapped by those boxes in her own head. She's happy Aaron now sees the real her, a fully fleshed out person who defied everything Aaron expected of her.

She's proud of that, but if she's being honest, she never had any doubts when it came to the two of them.

The truth is she's always done whatever she wanted, and she's never allowed herself to be ruled by expectations. She walks her own path, and she'll continue to do so, it's just...

For a long time, everything she wanted just so happened to fall in line with what everyone else wanted, so no one ever thought to notice how headstrong and stubborn she could truly be. How brave she could be in the face of a world she now knows can be hideous.

Get good grades, make friends, pick a successful field of study. No problem. Katelyn loves being a cheerleader, and she's dreamed of being a physician since middle school. She likes being nice, and positive. She doesn't care that she can't shut up.

It had all fallen into place, it had all equaled good girl.

Until Aaron, until everything that came with him.

And see, for a lot of people that's an issue, it doesn't compute. Someone like Katelyn, who in their eyes has followed all the rules, is not supposed to be with someone like Aaron, with their perception of him.

Because he follows no rules; there's blood on his hands and bruises on his skin which will never fade. There's dulled track marks and a broken family, barely mended. He is not what anyone wanted for her.

But Katelyn...she wouldn't trade this life with him for anything. That feeling, that love, singes so deep Katelyn sometimes thinks her autopsy will show third degree burns on every part of her, charred into the bone and marrow.

And honestly, (and not to be rude), fuck those people. At the end of the day she knows Aaron, not them. It had not been an accident, an unfortunate case of 'can't help who you love,' and she hates when it's seen that way.

She'd embraced everything, because he'd done the same for her. And not just Aaron, but the Foxes accepted her too.

For the entire summer leading up to her freshman year and all the way through her schooling, she's heard the rumors, the whispers. The Foxes are notorious for their roughness, their almost animalistic drive to fight through blood and bone to survive. They have records, and a penchant for violence. They've lived through so much.

Unspeakable, brutal horrors. They still keep Katelyn up at night sometimes, holding Aaron so close to her he wakes up with a start. That's the real naive part of her, the part Andrew might scoff or glare at her for.

She doesn't care; no one deserves the things the Foxes went through. Anyone who tries to disagree with her goes immediately on her shit list.

Because even Andrew, with his initial hatred of her, sees what others do not. The Foxes protect their own, and they accept those who lend a hand to do the same. They'd welcomed her because of her love for Aaron, and eventually because of her love for his family. For all of them.

So again, Katelyn knows she doesn't run with a safe crowd.

But they make her feel safe, and accepted, and that's always what has mattered most to her.

That being said, as much as she's part of them, she's not one of them. She never believed she had that edge, that ruthlessness and impulsivity which could make her snap in the blink of an eye.

She was naive about that too, it seems.

The end of the pipe breaks off the moment Neil strikes it against the nearest railing, and before Katelyn can so much as blink, he has it against the football player's throat.

The rusted piece of metal is sharp and ribbed at the edge now, at the part closest to the vulnerable expanse of the player's neck. Katelyn is good at anatomy, better than Aaron. She knows exactly where the jugular is, and she's sure Neil does too. He can't be that precise on accident.

Katelyn's limbs lock up, not out of fear or concern, but out of pure shock. They're behind the gym, no one else around due to the late hour. The forgotten pieces of the school's construction project are strewn around the back entrance, and well...that explains where Neil got the pipe.

Katelyn hadn't even noticed, hadn't even comprehended Neil's sharp movements until the pipe was already in his hand. Neil's fast, but this isn't the normal agility, the sprints he employs on the Exy court.

This was unadulterated instinct, and the look in his eyes...

Television doesn't do it justice, but it's there. It's murder, packaged prettily in pools of blue. The football player doesn't dare to move his hands even in surrender— they're pinned at his side and locked up so hard, Katelyn's own muscles ache. He's trembling up at Neil, whose cleat is pressed firmly into his sternum. "H-hey man, calm down, I didn't mean--"

He wheezes next, and Katelyn realizes Neil must be pressing harder with each breath.

She doesn't move, doesn't even think to. At some point she dropped her gym bag, and shivers at the mood shift. Just a few minutes ago, Neil was laughing in that reserved way of his, trying to mimic Katelyn's cheer moves while she snapped pictures.

Because Andrew would appreciate them, deep down, she thought.

She wonders if Andrew would appreciate this Neil too, the one who is now devoid of any emotion. His face is a blank slate, ire bleeding through the edges.

Katelyn has no idea what the football player said as he passed them, and she's glad she didn't. All she heard was the clipped mumble, Andrew's name.

And then Neil was no longer next to her.

She can only guess how ugly the statement was, and that's the first thing that scares her about herself. She has no desire to stop Neil, and she knows deep down she won't.

It's the first crack in her delusion.

"You didn't mean it?" Neil states, barely questioning. His voice walks the line of a whisper, and his head tilt reminds Katelyn more of a rabid dog than a fox for a moment. Like Neil is gauging what angle is best to go for the throat. "Are you saying that because I could kill you right now, or do you always have changes of heart at such convenient times?"

The football player pales, but even he doesn't truly know. Despite all of Neil's history coming out to the general public, he can't possibly know how serious Neil is.

But Katelyn does, and she wraps her arms around herself from the chill. Still, she does nothing.

It's more fascinating than anything to her; Neil's impulsive arguments are always loud, full of sass, snarky...

This is not that.

Neil presses the pipe securely into the man's flesh, and doesn't look surprised when that's the moment the pleading starts. "Wait, ple--"

That, Neil flinches at. "Shut up," he says, quietly, but it's loud in the narrow space. Katelyn even steps back from the force of it. And oh, she gets it, and sadness unfurls in her chest. "Just shut up."

Then, it happens.

Now, Katelyn has never actually seen Neil do this. She's only heard stories from Aaron. To her, Neil's smile is a reserved, rare thing, but sweet nonetheless. It's always a win when she can cause one—even if it’s the wry, sardonic kind. They make her feel accomplished, happy.

Neil's smile now is one Katelyn hopes to never see again. It's so slow, it almost reminds her of a mask; the jagged teeth don't quite fit together. She's heard the rumors of the Butcher's Smile, and she's seen Neil cringe every time.

But in her mind, that's all bullshit; this is all Neil's rage, cold and cutting. It could never belong to anyone else.

Neil takes his leg off the player's chest, dropping down so they're eye level. He takes the pipe away, and the football player doesn't move, doesn't do anything. It's arrogant, in a way; Neil is very clearly saying he can hinder this man with this look alone, this single threat.

Neil's smile grows. "Now listen, okay? You can trade insults with me all day, I don't give half a shit. But don't you ever fucking talk to me about Andrew again. Do you understand me?"

Katelyn winces at the same moment the football player jumps away from Neil. Well, if he doesn't understand from that, there's no getting through to him.

He stumbles as he runs away, kicking over some stray pipes in the process as he calls back over his shoulder. "Freak!"

Neil snorts as he stands, throwing the pipe with disinterest to the side. "How original."

And just like that, a switch is flipped. Neil turns back to her, hands in his hoodie, and the traces of the forbidden smile are wiped away as he drags a hand over his face to correct the muscles there. Then it's back to his neutral facade, with a dash of wariness mixed in as he approaches her.

She hasn't moved.

"Katelyn." Neil snaps his fingers in front of her face, and Katelyn glares as she bats his hand away.

Her other hand flies to her chest, trying to tamper down the beating of her heart. She knows Neil is protective, that Andrew is too. It's obvious, given how they are, but that...that was—

"How...you—" she begins, but can't find the words. She huffs, and watches as Neil picks up her duffel and shoves it into her arms without care.

He's never been particularly gentle, and Katelyn's always appreciated it. Neil's not a liar anymore, though he's a damn good one. He'll give her his genuine reactions, no matter how callous they are.

"Yes," he agrees, which makes her glare harder. The only thing that gives her some satisfaction is the light blush on his face. Interesting. "Don't make a big deal out of it."

"But...why?" she tries, dropping her bag again. Neil tracks it, in that infuriating way he always does. In retaliation, Katelyn snaps right in his face until he's staring at her again, just as done as he looks when she talks about The Bachelor. "If you can protect yourself like that, why...?"

Why does everyone talk about Neil like he can barely throw a punch? In fact, Katelyn's pretty sure everyone thinks he's got an addiction to starting fights with no way of winning them.

That’s quite obviously not the case.

But Neil just shrugs, shouldering Katelyn's bag for her. Neil fidgets then, shifting his weight, and his blush grows. "I like when Andrew protects me," he whispers, staring at his shoes. It's such a sweet, innocent confession, Katelyn nearly can't believe it.

But in reality, and just from seeing Neil's soft smile as he thinks of Andrew, she totally can.

This piece of work...

Katelyn huffs, throwing her hands up. "That's a lot of faith to put in someone."

It gets her the rise she wants. Neil glares at her, pouting. "Andrew might not have every fighting skill in the book but he's strong," he says, head held high. They're the same height, so it barely works. "And he's powered by pure force of will. It doesn't matter who he's fighting, or how bad he's hurt, Andrew will do significant damage."

Katelyn waves him off, taking her bag back. She doesn't doubt it; she was almost on the receiving end of such damage, and Neil was a witness.

She thinks that's the end of it when Neil turns around to grab his own bag, but something uneasy and restless still churns inside her. She's not sure why it's such a catalyst, but she feels the seams of something splitting open.

Neil hadn't even hesitated to go on the offensive for Andrew, something he usually avoids. A situation he'd normally attack verbally collided with the urge for bloodshed, the protective instinct spiking in him until it overflowed.

Like there was no choice, no other decision to make.

Can the need to protect really be so strong, the consequences of murder don't even matter?

Oh, no, no. She throws that thought out right away, admonishing herself for her own stupidity. The answer is yes—a deafening, resounding yes. She thinks of a car crash, a bloody exy racquet.

In her mind, in the smallest, darkest corners...she always regarded those moments as essential.

The churning in her stomach gets worse; it feels wrong, and ugly, to say certain people deserve to die. She's always been taught that wishing that level of ill on someone was a sin itself, but here she is, thinking it anyways.

Because they did deserve to die. She shudders, the guilt immense, because she doesn't feel bad but she knows she should.

And then it becomes so clear what her hang up is.

Would she ever do that? Could she spill blood for Aaron, and wipe her hands afterwards? Would she be alright, just knowing she'd kept him safe?

The answer is yelling, clawing to break through, but she stuffs it down. She's a coward sometimes; she doesn't know how to handle the reality of that answer.

Neil's voice snaps her out of it, but in typical Neil fashion, he rips the problem open all the way so she can see it. So she can't escape it.

"Andrew doesn't ever protect himself against words. Boundaries, lines...he knows how to handle those. But he doesn't care what people say, no matter how putrid the shit out of their mouths is," Neil says when he turns back to her, half shrouded. There's a tremble in his voice, one only rage can produce. There's not an ounce of doubt in his face. "So I will."

'I will fight the world for this person.'

Katelyn knows the feeling well. Too well, even. It terrifies her, how much she understands. Her hand clenches around her heart, and she thinks of how that feeling surged whenever Aaron cried in her arms after the trial. Whenever she heard the rumors, the whispers...

She would just see red, splashed on walls in flashes, painted in thick stripes. And she clamped that feeling down, tamed it into something nicer and prettier. She applied it in other ways, in sharp glares and acts of affection. Giving Aaron what he deserves: unconditional love, instead of heavy hands and insults.

She disguised the wild dog inside her, too. Good girl.

But when Neil smirks at her, the lingering ghost of that smile hidden beneath, it lets the beast loose.

"I know what everyone thinks of Andrew, and they're right. He can be dangerous when it's required," Neil hums, fond and icy all at once. "But believe me, when it comes down to it, I'm the scary one."

Even if no one else realizes it, Katelyn will never doubt that again. She feels the ring of thorns around her throat, pressing tighter as she forces out the question. She needs to know, or she needs to hear it.

"You'd kill?" Katelyn asks, small and childish. It's not even a complete question, but Neil's eyes darken enough for her to know he get its. You'd kill for him? For the person you love...

Neil gives her that expression—not judging, but slightly amused. "Wouldn't you?"

It knocks the air out of her, and well...she has no response to that yet. Not one she's willing to speak aloud. But there's no use now; her mind is latched onto it.

Neil doesn't give her a chance to respond before he starts walking away, trusting her to either catch up or be left behind. But then he stops, shoulders tense. It's enough to snap Katelyn out of her crisis momentarily, especially when Neil turns around with an almost sheepish look on his face. The flush is back, painting his scarred cheeks with a different red than the one behind Katelyn's eyes.

"Uh, Katelyn, do you think you could maybe keep this to yourself?" Neil says, looking behind him as if another person will materialize out of nowhere. "Like...don't tell Andrew."

Katelyn's mouth opens and closes too many times for her to count, before she settles on a majestic: "Huh?"

Neil winces, kicking the gravel at his feet. She was always under the impression that Neil and Andrew don't keep anything from each other. Neil seems to know this, and he deflates even more. "It's just...it's not that big of a secret, okay? It's embarrassing is all!"

And Katelyn can't help it: she laughs, long and borderline hysterical. It's probably mixed with relief after seeing Neil nearly kill a man, but whatever, it's a release nonetheless.

She slides up to Neil, pausing to give him time to move away, but he simply nods. She throws her arms around his shoulders, dragging him forward. She has a lot to think about, but for now...their boyfriends are probably waiting. "Don't worry, I got you."

Neil's smile is rueful. "I owe you one."

Katelyn tenses up, and is already shaking her head. No, no. She and Andrew might not be best friends yet, but she knows enough to know Neil shouldn't have to owe her anything if she wants to escape the blond's wrath. "Uh, no, Neil, really it's--"

"Believe me, Katelyn," Neil interrupts, hip checking her gently. "It's not something I give out often. Take it. Trust me."

So Katelyn doesn't question it. She's sure it'll come in handy, one of these days.

She laughs again, her charm bracelet jingling against her wrist. It reminds her of what's important. Her crisis could be worse, and there's at least one thing she knows for sure.

It's founded in love.

She'll figure it out, because the beast running free gives her no choice. Even knowing that, she sleeps peacefully later that night, bundled into Aaron's side, and the red behind her eyes waits for a new day to paint with vengeance.

--

However, she comes to find that such a passionate color doesn't wash out so easily. It's always there, whether as a sheen or in all its vibrance.

She's lying naked in her bed with Aaron staring at the smooth expanse of her abdomen; there's a satisfied ache deep and heavy in her bones, and when she stretches her joints pop loud enough to make Aaron smirk. She can vaguely remember a time where she wasn't able to feel so comfortable being completely bare in front of him. There was a pressure to be desirable, to angle herself a certain way and be covered quickly after. It was shared, mutual, their hyperawareness of one another. That time gets murkier and murkier with each passing day, and she smiles at the ticklish feeling of Aaron's fingers grazing her skin. Her roommates are out for the weekend, and she's doing that thing where she hogs all the blankets but only covers her legs. She runs hot, go figure, but the blanket is too cozy to not use. It's one of those fancy, overhyped crochet quilts—a gift from Nicky for her birthday.

It's a deep burgundy color, and she might scoff if it weren't for the thoughts in her head. This feeling here, she knows, is the purest definition of contentment. Despite her sweaty skin and dry hands, the heaviness to her limbs...

She can't imagine being without it, or having it stripped away. She wouldn't let that happen.

She suppresses the huff that threatens to escape her. Closing her eyes briefly, she turns over; her back protests, and Aaron lazily wipes the frizzy hair from her forehead. He's not even looking at her when she opens her eyes, face tired and staring into the void that is the mole on her hip. He just...he knows where she is, where her face is; Aaron touches her because he loves to, and there's no ulterior motive. Katelyn smiles brighter, because she doubts he's even aware he did it.

But the gentle touch is so familiar, nurturing in ways Aaron never received himself. But he learned them, and he gives his 110% into applying them.

And oh, Katelyn's hands fist into the deep red fabric; sometimes a feeling is so overwhelming she can't help but feel her eyes get watery, and she doesn't even know why. She's not sure it's safe to touch Aaron when she's this full of anger, choked up with wariness for the world around them.

She doesn't want to be like her, but when she finally works up the courage to brush her hand through Aaron's hair, the touch is featherlight. Soft.

Safe here, in her arms.

Her lower lip trembles, and she scolds herself for it. She's not good at holding back tears, at holding back anything. Her fingers graze the scar on Aaron's scalp, almost undetectable with his blond hair. She's memorized the feel of it though, the groove where something hit him too hard.

She pulls her hand away with a shaky breath, and Aaron's eyes finally snap up to meet her. They bore into her, his brow furrowing before widening in panic once he sees the tears in her eyes.

It's the last straw for her, he cares so much it shreds her composure. Aaron, you didn't deserve what happened. I wish I had been there, I wish I could've--

'There's no deserve, there just is.'

Andrew's words had been something she brushed off on a particularly awkward double date, back when their care ride was nothing but an impossible fantasy.

But again, she has to disagree.

What is she supposed to do about this?

For the first time, she falls into a box. She's a good girl, right? She's not supposed to think about blood and flesh, of bashing in the faces of people who hurt Aaron. Past, present, future. Doesn't matter, they'd all deserve it.

"Kate, what is it?" Aaron asks, sitting up to drape himself over her. His eyes flit over her, moving the blanket aside. She's not sure why, but it's always Aaron's first instinct to look for signs of violence. No, scratch that. She knows why. She swallows down the lump in her throat with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, and tilts Aaron's chin until he's staring right at her again. Gold eyes, flecks of green...

"I'm just...happy you're here with me," she whispers, pressing her nose to his cheek. It's stupid, but she tries to press the feeling into him. She means it. She's never meant anything so strongly. He lets her, falling back into bed and opening his arms so she can move closer. The medical ID bracelet she gifted him slides down his wrist; it had been a gag gift at first, a play on their majors and the fact Katelyn wanted them to have matching jewelry. It was a hint, a push so he'd buy something subtle instead, a ring or chain maybe...

Aaron never liked to stand out, to be flashy. But he had rolled with the gift completely, and from the moment he clipped it on, she'd only seen him remove it for Exy.

She sniffles again, grabbing his wrist and keeping her hand there, feeling his pulse. Alive, breathing.

"Aaron..." she says, before she can take the urge and bottle it back up. She looks right at him, trying to communicate as much of the heat as she can. "I wouldn't let anything happen to you, I swear."

It comes out more pathetic than she intended; it's worse than the randomness. What is she supposed to do in the face of a threat? She's never had to deal with one. She's a short college student who has never had to throw a punch, has never thought about it before. But still...but still, she'd do whatever she could; she'd bite and thrash until she couldn't anymore.

Because Aaron would do the same for her, because maybe that feeling is...normal, when it comes to loving someone. And she loves, she loves so much it apparently still has the ability to turn her world upside down.

Aaron's eyes widen, but thankfully he doesn't ask. She likes to think it's because she said it confidently enough he wouldn't dream of questioning it, but she smiles wider from the truth. Sometimes Aaron doesn't get it and doesn't know where to start; she would giggle, if she wasn't so close to sobbing. Aaron can be slow, can take a few days to catch up. But he will, and hopefully by then she can better explain it.

She's past questioning why the feeling exists at all. She's proud of it.

So instead of asking, Aaron nods, slow and sure. He trusts her, he believes her, and Katelyn lets a few tears wet Aaron's shoulder when he pulls her in tight. "Come here," he says when she hesitates, like she wants to make sure it's alright, and he accepts all of her. She melts against him, pouring every unspoken promise into the embrace. Katelyn knows Aaron can't read her mind, but it doesn't stop him from kissing her forehead, from whispering: "I know that, I know."

And Katelyn truly hopes he does.

--

The first time she and Aaron fought, it was something insignificant.

Katelyn can barely remember it now, something trivial like class schedules or a project. It seems so far away, and it’s ridiculous to care about something so silly, but they're only human. Frustrations had been high, and it had felt almost like a rite of passage.

'You aren't in a real relationship if you don't argue,' her father had told her once. She now knows that's mostly bullshit people tell themselves so they can justify their screaming matches.

Disagreements yes, bickering, disgruntlement...

Normal; so, in a way, it was a milestone, but not in the way her parents would’ve thought. The fight revealed more things to learn about each other, to make sure and be considerate of.

I don't like when you do this.

I appreciated this.

Please be more aware of this other thing.

I know this was unavoidable, but it still bothered me.

In hindsight, that's what all those little quarrels got her: experience, patience.

But in the moment, she'd just been annoyed. Aaron mumbled something under his breath when she turned away, and she'd been too petty to let it go.

Their 'fight' had been normal, until it wasn't.

Katelyn heard the clipped tone and turned around sharply, jaw clenched, and took a deliberate step toward him to tell him exactly how rude he was being.

And Aaron flinched.

Full body, he moved back a step, expecting a strike. They'd both frozen once they realized; it had been an instinctual movement, and guilt clouded Aaron's eyes a second later. But Katelyn had seen it; there had been this brief flash of terror there, but not surprise.

Like being slapped across the face would've been completely acceptable. The old normal.

Even if it had just been a second, Aaron had been afraid. Of her. Or some remnant of a ghost always lurking in the corner of Aaron's life.

She's not sure, but it didn't matter.

Katelyn remembers the irritation flooding right out of her, her body deflating as Aaron tried to offer up some kind of apology. By that point in time, Katelyn knew enough about Tilda. They'd been at the stage where confiding in each other was easy, but up until that point her rage over it had been quite shallow. It was in the past, Tilda was gone. Why linger on something painful?

She hadn't seen the effects, but here they were, staring her down.

That day, Katelyn decided she'd never despised someone more in her entire life, and probably never would again. Respect for the dead and all that...something she'd believed in before that no longer applied.

Whatever Aaron was trying to apologize for, she didn't care. She swept him up in her arms until all his weight collapsed onto her, and she let him sob into her shoulder. They were both sorry for different things, maybe things they shouldn't have been. The fight from moments before became inconsequential, and they both owned up to their faults in it.

They'd even laughed through their tears, nonsense about how they'd both just retake the class, or how the professor sucked anyways. Katelyn cried through the night, and probably looked unrecognizable in the morning with her puffy eyes and gnawed lip.

Aaron had helped put spoons in the freezer to help the swelling go down, probably the sloppiest pre-med care he'd ever done, because they had no ice packs.

And naturally, they'd talked about the rest. They exhausted the topic until Katelyn made sure Aaron knew...

"I would never hurt you," she whispered, partly to herself. A promise, an oath.

"I know you wouldn't."

Her eyes were ablaze when she looked at him again. "You never deserved to be hurt."

That one hadn't gotten her a response, but she kept repeating it. She'd keep repeating it.

The night had passed, fading into the background of anniversaries, finals, and sports.

But she never forgot. It had lurked in her, adding to the beast which she'd been confronting the past few days.

It's actually Andrew who calls it back to the forefront of her mind.

They're in the dorm, the four of them, and she's gone through at least two boxes of Raisinets (which Andrew had called a sin) and a liter of soda. The television is blaring with sounds of gunfire and distorted radio effects, which none of the boys seem to mind.

She's watched Aaron play (and fail) at this game so many times over the past few years, that it no longer bothers her. Her eyes drift over the room, fondly lingering over where Aaron is trying to not pull his hair out while he’s teaching Neil how to play.

Neil is holding the controller wrong, but she's pretty sure he's doing it on purpose, and she stifles a giggle into her soda cup.

And then...there's Andrew. He's sitting against the far wall, a watchful eye to the end. He tilts his head every now and again as Neil smirks and scowls, and Katelyn doesn't try to parse those thoughts. She's pretty sure either too much goes on in Andrew's head or nothing at all, but either way Neil ends up being a point of clarity.

He's not doing anything attention-grabbing, but Andrew rarely is. But the memory guided Katelyn's attention to him, to the curl of his hands. It's not that she's afraid to approach him for the old reasons; she does it on occasion, though she's better with the rules now. It's only necessary to talk to Andrew when she has something to say, something that matters.

This...definitely mattered.

And the thing is, she's sure he'll agree. He'll at least lift his head. He had nodded at her when she walked into their dorm, a more common occurrence now that still makes Aaron falter each time. It still feels like a beginning, but it feels nice all the same.

Andrew gets up, footsteps loud as he walks past where Neil is sitting in one of the beanbag chairs. His hand grazes the back of Neil's neck while the other opens the soda next to him, pushing it into Neil's hands in place of the controller. It's such a familiar dance that neither of them linger on it. Neil's glare at Aaron doesn't falter even as Andrew walks out of the room for a smoke break.

Katelyn stares after him, lingering on Andrew's back as he leans against the outside railing. It's been awhile since she's seen Andrew truly tense; he looks how he feels for once. Calm, in the moment. Katelyn wonders if it's a feeling he takes for granted, or one he refuses to acknowledge. Either way, it just makes her more hesitant to approach him.

She doesn't want to break this peace they both have, here with their people on a cool summer night.

But if she doesn't say it...no. She's not sure it's avoidable at this point. It pushes on her vocal chords and claws at her pressed lips, prying them apart. Katelyn thinks of Aaron next to her in bed, or in her arms, safe and sound. She realizes she's wanted to say this for a long time.

Katelyn stands quietly, though she doesn't have to. Aaron and Neil are glued to the game, and any sound she makes is drowned out by explosions and gunfire.

"Josten, you can't be this much of an idiot," Aaron says, more agonized than annoyed at this point. He jabs his fingers over his own controller, like he can take it out on the plastic instead of Neil's brain.

"Oh yeah? Bet," Neil answers, because at least he's self-aware. "And what the hell? I did the combo right that time."

"No you didn't! You just keep smashing the buttons in a random order!" Aaron mimics it, and in true form, is killed on screen. "Shit. You're destroying my rankings."

"Don't blame me because you suck at this."

Neil is correct. Aaron has never successfully beaten either Andrew or Nicky. Once, while drunk, he cried about it.

"I do not," Aaron grumbles, and he starts the next round. "Here. Watch."

Katelyn doesn't wait to hear Neil's snippy response; her smile fades as she steps out onto the balcony, the cool air hitting her flushed cheeks. She laughs at herself, nothing more than a light huff; to think part of her is actually fired up over this, a little proud. Like it's about time.

She's sure she should feel ashamed of that, ugly. But she doesn't.

The sound makes Andrew whip his head around, the softness stripped away to reveal sharp edges, pulling her apart. The hand holding Andrew's cigarette pauses in mid-air, and he waits, because why would Andrew speak first?

Katelyn smiles wryly before she hardens, grip so tight on the door column that the old paint chips. She's learned there's no reason to lead in with anything when it comes to Andrew; he doesn't care about niceties, or fronts.

She only has one thing to say, and she's going to say it regardless of whether or not she gets a response. She turns to check on Aaron one last time, and he's oblivious. As he should be, for this.

That's Katelyn's only source of guilt. But she knows, maybe as well as Andrew, that Aaron is not ready to hear this. He probably never will be.

Katelyn takes one step forward, right where Andrew's boundary ends, and makes sure there's zero room for him to doubt her.

"I'm glad you killed her."

It comes out a lot more serious than she thought; it was what she was going for, but she expected some quiver to her tone, a weakness.

There is none. Her voice is devoid of any regret, any sympathy, and that's everything she ever wanted. That's what Tilda deserved, at the bare minimum.

And if it's all Katelyn can give, she'll do it. She'll thank the person who did whatever he could.

She clasps a hand over her mouth when she realizes she's smiling, an inkling of that coldness bleeding through, but it's too late.

Andrew saw.

She guesses that's fair though; she tries to wipe the smile away but it sticks, it pulls open her lips like rusted gates, releasing those words she craved. Andrew lowers his cigarette as he takes this in, and Katelyn's not sure what he finds.

She hopes it's something good.

Katelyn doesn't wait for Andrew to respond before she walks back into the dorm, nothing more to say. She feels Andrew's gaze on her back, and she trusts it. When had that happened?

When had she stopped expecting a threat? When had she realized there was no need to flinch?

The warmth fills her to the brim. She climbs into Aaron's chair as he mopes over his loss, nuzzling his cheek. His hand finds hers like a moth to the flame before he stands up to switch the game to Mario Party so they can all play. Her smile from before morphs into something full and colorful. Bright.

She claps excitedly, rummaging through the tangled basket below the entertainment system for her controller. She's already challenging and throwing jabs at Neil, who is her biggest rival in this game. The twins always lose.

She's vaguely aware of Neil calling Andrew back into the room, but then there's Andrew's hand in front of her face, untangling the chord for her. She gasps as he frees the pink controller from its confines, dangling it in front of her.

She reaches for it on instinct, but hesitates when she glances up at him. She's...in his bubble. It's only for a moment, but it closes up her throat.

"Well?" He says when she freezes, unmoving for too long. Katelyn notices, with no shortage of joy, that Andrew's shoulders are still relaxed. He's comfortable. Accepting.

She blinks away the shock behind her eyes and grips the controller, smiling up at him. The moment ends in an instant, Andrew's bored expression already focused elsewhere. He turns away from her as he plops down by Neil, and she avoids the smug smile Neil sends her.

Whether it's due to the game or his own weird intuition, Katelyn doesn't know.

All she knows in that moment is that she's going to smoke them all.

Katelyn jumps up, and the lightness in her heart threatens to steer her into the ceiling. She takes her place beside Aaron and lets the shit talking begin.

--

Granted, there parts of Katelyn that are still naive. It comes with the territory, with pretty cookie cutter houses and neighborhood watch meetings.

See, as much as she was ready to acknowledge her protectiveness, she never thought she'd have to resort to actual violence...ever. She assumed those times were behind them, that life would be boring and wonderful from here on out.

Most things should seem boring anyways, after everything they’ve been through.

You've always have to be the optimist.

What she didn't know was just how prepared her mind was for reality, lying in wait behind the scope of her conscious thought. And come to think of it, that was naive of her too, to think feelings take a vacation just because you accept them.

Her pom-poms hit the floor with a clatter as she jumps up, high as she can. She's cheering, trying to be heard over the rest of her squad while her coach tries to calm them down. It never works.

Katelyn is taking off from the cheer section despite the teasing from the other girls, but they should be used to this by now.

She has a flair for the dramatic, and she's on the court soon after the final buzzer rings. The score is in the Foxes' favor tonight, promising an excessive party later on. She wonders if she can convince the girls to give her the room for a few hours...

The crowd roars behind her as she and the rest of the cheerleaders rush onto the court, but her excitement is her own and twice as powerful.

It's tradition now for her to seek Aaron out, to leap into his arms after every game won. Sue her, she's cheesy like that. And after being deprived of it for so long...she's gotten greedy. Andrew barely bats an eye anymore, comically side stepping them.

She's confused though, because normally they meet halfway. She runs to center court and can't see Aaron anywhere, and her confusion only doubles when she sees a mass of people forming up ahead.

There's a sizable crowd around where the Foxes' huddle should be, a mix of referees and substitute players, and she pushes through them to get a better look. She doesn't realize her body is already buzzing, alive with nervous energy and dread. It knows something she hasn't quite figured out yet.

That's why she's not just nudging people out of the way, she's shoving them, elbowing them as the yelling gets louder. It's normally her personality that bulldozes, but today it's every last inch of her.

Her blood feels like it ignites. Her body is thrown into fight or flight mode, and fight is definitely preferred.

It happens fast.

Aaron has never let his height deter him, and as neutral as he can be in most situations, he's got a short fuse at times and a fighting spirit to match. His anger is explosive. It happens in short bursts, but can raze fields in its wake. It gets him into a lot of trouble; he can say things he doesn't mean or things he absolutely means, which are typically worse. Today it's the latter.

Aaron is face to face with a player from the other team, and the words roar in Katelyn's ears. They're murky and muddled, like her brain has deemed the meaning and context irrelevant. All she needs to know is they're unkind, provoking. The backliner towers over Aaron, trading his own insults. 'Murderer' and 'inbred' and a slew of other original things hit Aaron point blank, but he's heard it all before. Whatever Aaron says in return must be cutting, and while Katelyn can't differentiate the words from curses, she knows they land.

Her heart jumps to her throat and the crowd gets louder around her; it's static in nature, too much at once, and everything in her stands on end. Poised to strike.

She doesn't care what they're arguing about, or who she's with, or what she's doing. She just sees the backliner's fist fly back, half the size of Aaron's head, and she simply reacts. She almost wants to blame the beast, that dark corner of her mind, for what happens next.

But it's all her, and it's always been all her.

Andrew moves out of the corner of her eye, sensing the same violent outcome. Their deal might be over, but the promise isn't. Andrew's instinct to protect his own will always be there.

But for once, Katelyn is faster.

Nicky is standing nearby, or maybe she ran to him...she's not sure, and it doesn't matter. Her blood is rushing into her ears and her heartbeat has drowned out the crowd. She wrenches the racquet from Nicky's hands before he even sees her.

There's no chance of her comprehending it, of stopping, so she doesn't. She brings the racquet back in the fiercest swing she can manage given her noodle arms, and punches the air out of the bastard's lungs with it. It hits him right in the stomach, and Katelyn makes sure not to break anything.

Again, she's good at anatomy.

It's a painful, underhanded hit, and she hopes it leaves a bruise. Nicky's racquet creaks a bit from the force of it, but it did its job well. Katelyn watches with a wicked satisfaction as the guy goes down with a groan, clutching his gut.

There's still anger in his eyes, a bitterness, but it pales in comparison to her own.

And it's in that moment she thinks she understands Neil best. 'I'm the scary one.'

Yes, yes, Katelyn thinks that's more than appropriate. She didn't understand then that it was simply an observation based on a feeling. It's the same feeling she's feeling now, and she supposes she has changed quite a lot from even that initial conversation.

Because she doesn't dwell on the feeling, or worry about what ugly things it says about her. It just is, and it's in the name of the emotion she loves so much. The person she loves so much.

So, her arm goes back with less force this time, less power, but it still goes back. Ready to deal another blow, ready to fight as much as she needs to if it means protecting Aaron.

It's not quite bloodlust, but it would get her the same result to call it that, so oh well.

She doesn't get the chance to find out how far she's willing to go; she's barely begun to swing forward when someone grabs the handle of the racquet, stopping her cold. She gasps then, realizing what's she doing, and again there's no regret. There is concern for the witnesses, though.

Heat rushes to her face as her eyes dart around, waiting for the vilification that's sure to come. But no. Everyone's eyes are glued to the groaning mess on the floor. Baby.

Katelyn takes a moment to catch her breath and get her shit together, because she can't believe she was that ready to maim someone in the middle of their stadium, and then turns to see the person who did notice.

Of course it's Neil. Of course.

His face is trying very hard to remain the default, completely blank, but Katelyn catches the edge of amusement playing at his lips. He'd know better than anyone, right? How close she'd come to going full apeshit, and she's sure she'll never hear the end of it. As she realizes that, Neil's smile blooms, and she tenses. Oh, shut up. Neil huffs a laugh, yanking the racquet from her hands. "I'll take that, thanks."

Katelyn tries to glare, but she can't help but smile all the same.

"Katelyn..." a voice says off to her side, and she turns to find Aaron paused midstep, worry battling with something else entirely on his face. She reaches for his hand, curling tight, and the blush on his face intensifies until it's wrapped around his ears and choking him by the neck. "Uh...you...wow."

Katelyn smirks.

Ah. Interesting. She could definitely get used to this.

"Ha," Andrew deadpans from behind Aaron, and wow, Katelyn doesn't think she's ever seen him jump so high.

"Y-you just shut up."

Katelyn's giggle is interrupted by another groan a few feet away, and the backliner glares at her with what's supposed to be pure contempt. Somehow, she's not fazed. Maybe it's the fact he's tried to get up twice now to no avail. Aaron scowls down at him, hand tight in Katelyn's, and she's never felt safer.

"Fucking bit--"

Neil leans down to his eye level in an instant, oddly reminiscent of the first time. The ire in his blue eyes is extinguished though, replaced with lazy satisfaction. Katelyn's pride in herself swells. "Hey, want me to pick up where she left off?" Neil asks, spinning the racquet in his hand. "I hit a lot harder than she does."

Katelyn really laughs then, when the backliner's face pales and Aaron smirks. Wymack starts saying something about 'restraint' and 'discipline' in Neil's face, but it hardly makes a difference.

She would've kept going. That's on her, and she's better for it. She knows she won't hesitate, that what lies dormant in her is the same as what thrashes daily inside most of the Foxes. That's enough for her, and she returns all their smiles as they pat her on the back.

It's a backwards congratulations, but the Foxes have never looked down on a protective impulse, no matter how small or rare. Even Wymack gives her a long look before shaking his head. '"These kids...I swear."

She will never be like the rest of them, not in full, but what drives her is the same. She knows that deep down, and doesn't let it scare her. Instead she leans into Aaron, kissing his cheek to congratulate him on his good game, his skin still hot as the school blacktop.

The coaches and referees clear the field, and Katelyn wishes she could bottle this lightness, this certainty.

Andrew nods at her as she passes, imperceptible, and Neil is beaming next to him. Neil shares a look of understanding with her, smugness palpable. 'Told ya so.'

Katelyn only gets a little satisfaction at the way Neil avoids Andrew's gaze a second later. Their dance is amusing, natural. Neil sidesteps to hide his face, and Andrew blocks his path, corralling him effectively.

Neil huffs in Andrew's face, all too used to it.

The words come back to the front of Katelyn's mind from that day. Her own voice echoes: you'd kill?

"Neil," she calls after him, a touch too cheerful, and he turns lazily. Like he expects it. She'll never say she understands Neil. It's frankly not possible to know how much he's aware of and how much goes completely over his head. In this case, she knows he'll hear and comprehend everything.

"I would," she says, and ignores the confused look the twins exchange. Neil's smile sharpens, a mirror of her own, before he's dragging Andrew to the locker room. Hmm. Katelyn wonders if Neil would have a good cackle. She'll have to ask.

"I'm not ever going to know what that was about, am I?" Aaron asks, but he's less pouty about it than normal. He's accepted their weird friendships, the uniquely cultivated bonds between each of them. Mostly.

He smiles at her as she leans down, stealing a kiss. "Definitely not."

She giggles when he dips her, indulging her dramatic side, and the sound bounces off the stadium walls.

--

++bonus

Neil assumes this is his punishment, though Andrew doesn't explicitly say it is.

The mall is slow on the following Tuesday afternoon, which is specifically why they always schedule their mall excursions (Andrew refuses to call them dates) during the week.

He's glad, because most of the time it means there’s not a lot of people shopping, which means more stolen kisses for him. It's also good for times like this, so people don't have to see his suffering.

Neil watches with dread as Andrew opens the blue and white Cinnabon box, revealing the gooey, overly iced monstrosity inside. Neil feels his taste buds protest already as he watches Andrew cut off a particularly big chunk.

Neil should've known something was off when Andrew didn't even complain once about ordering Neil a large smoothie.

Betrayed.

Gently, too gently for how awful this punishment is, Andrew cups Neil's chin with his hand, pressing down just enough to make his cheeks puff up. His face is a blank void, out of the ordinary these days when it's just the two of them, and Neil sighs internally. There really is no getting out of this. Andrew quirks a brow, holding the nauseating dessert up to Neil's mouth. "Say ‘ah.’"

Neil glares, but does so begrudgingly. If it's something Andrew knows he truly hates, he wouldn't even offer it, but Neil's never actually had one of these things before. The overabundance of cinnamon leaves him grimacing as he chews, and Andrew's expression still gives nothing away. Not even the signature 'you're so dramatic' tilt of his head. Neil knows the taste is enough to stain for at least twenty minutes, and the urge to wash it down with his strawberry smoothie is fierce.

But he waits, because he doubts it's over.

Andrew watches him swallow pitifully before turning back to the rest of the cinnamon roll, cutting himself a piece and then dousing it in the extra icing he paid for.

Neil's feelings are unconditional, truly.

When he's done consuming the sinful piece of overly fluffy sugar, Neil tracks the leftover icing on Andrew's lips. He's weak, he'll admit, but he knows kissing Andrew would be twice as sweet as the dessert itself.

And ah, that's when it all makes sense.

Andrew sets his fork and knife down very deliberately before spinning to face Neil, tilting his head in the closest thing to innocent Andrew can manage. "Kiss me?"

Neil nearly whimpers. It's incredibly unfair. Andrew rarely asks for kisses anymore—neither of them do. So now it's just endearing as hell, and Andrew never phrases it like that.

And well, Neil always wants to kiss Andrew, no matter how sugary the consequences. He nods excitedly, scooting forward on the bench. It gets him a crack in the mask finally, as Andrew's gaze softens, warm and...wow.

"Stop it," Andrew mumbles, and then his lips are on Neil's. Neil sighs into it, latching onto Andrew's sleeves when he feels him start to pull away. He typically understands short kisses when they're in public, but today it feels especially petty, so he swipes his tongue to catch some of the icing at the corner of Andrew's mouth.

But when Andrew is set on something, he's set. He pulls away, and Neil huffs, grabbing his smoothie with impressive petulancy.

"None of that, rabbit," Andrew says, digging back in. Even with his particular methods of cutting up his food, he'll most likely demolish the dessert in the next two minutes. "You know what you did."

And at that, Neil can't help but smirk. He feigns innocence as best he can as he sips on his smoothie, chewing on the straw to suppress the joy. He gets the memory of wind whistling through racquet strings, the image of the backliner on his ass and the feral look in Katelyn's eyes.

He's proud, but really, how is any of that his fault?

"I haven't done anything," he replies as Andrew chucks the box into the nearest trash can. "If my life were a factory, it would say at least fifty days have passed since the last accident."

Andrew pauses midstep, unamused.

Neil holds out his hand expectantly, ready to be led through the mall wherever Andrew sees fit. They have a system, though Andrew refuses to admit it.

They start off with Neil's stores simply because Andrew wants to get them over with, but he doesn't rush Neil as he browses the two athletic stores and rants about the minuscule differences in sneakers. Then they stop for sushi, and Andrew will attempt in vain to teach Neil to use chopsticks.

Neil might mess up more on purpose, just so Andrew has to touch his hands more.

Andrew's stores are more for dressing up Neil than Andrew buying anything for himself, though he'll occasionally indulge in buying a new watch or jacket. Especially if Neil picks them out and tells him how good they'd look.

It's a skill Neil has picked up happily, and participates in often. It's not like they're lies, because Andrew always looks good to him.

Mostly, though, he watches his boyfriend browse racks of clothes, holding up shirts and accessories to Neil's body until he's narrowed it down.

It's not hard for Neil to coax him into the dressing room with him after that.

After both forms of dessert, the last stop is the one that perplexes Neil to this day. Despite the confusion, he follows Andrew hand in hand to the overly glitzed up monstrosity that is Claire's.

It's an experience.

It's usually empty apart from one poor soul getting their ears pierced and a few teenagers picking out matching necklaces, but no one is ever phased when Andrew and Neil walk in. They look the opposite of people who should and would shop here, but Claire's is a lawless place with no rules and no judgement.

Neil once joked about Andrew writing a paper on it, since he's fairly certain time is a construct in this place. According to Andrew, however, they have the widest selection of the kind of earrings Andrew likes on Neil: the dangly ones. Perfect for Eden's. They're so cheap Andrew doesn't let him wear them any other time, or for more than a few weekends, but it just means they have to come back often to get new ones.

They should have a membership, but that's the line Andrew won't cross.

Today, Andrew is eyeing a pair with fake gems, and he holds it up to Neil's ear, squeezing his earlobe as he debates. Meanwhile, Neil's eyes float over the nearby costume merchandise and mood-themed jewelry.

There's a pair of chokers that have 'best friends' charms hanging from them, and Neil squints. It's something so cheery and colorful, he's sure Katelyn would be all over it. Probably Matt too.

But the reminder of Katelyn has Neil wincing before he can stop himself.

Andrew follows his gaze to the necklaces, throwing them in the basket a moment later without saying anything. Neil thinks that's the end of it when Andrew moves them to the next display of earrings, but of course it's not.

Andrew doesn't give up digging for answers when it comes to Neil, not that Neil fights him much anymore. It's just...with this...

Ugh.

Andrew's words tell him they're on the same page.

"You're a terrible influence," Andrew voices, throwing in a few more pairs. There's a sale today.

Neil shrugs. He has to play it cool, but it's almost funny how they've come to this discussion. Andrew isn't aware of Neil's moment behind the gym, pipe pressed to some asshole's throat, but he can still read through Neil enough to know he must've done something.

So, Neil sighs, and doesn't bother denying it.

"I'm not responsible for what other people do," he reiterates, holding up a pair of black rings. It's unusual for anything in this place to match Andrew's aesthetic, so Neil can't pass it up. He tosses it into the basket.

"Oh, captain who goes down with the ship," Andrew chides, tilting Neil's chin just so. There's a warmth in Andrew's eyes regardless of his words, and Neil stuffs his hands in his hoodie to keep from leaning forward. "Your penchant for leadership means people follow you anyways, even if your decisions are stupid."

Andrew lets go of him to assess his haul, but Neil's not done making his case.

"I'm not Katelyn's leader." Far from it. He knows Katelyn and Andrew generally get along better now, but Andrew can still be under the impression that Katelyn isn’t a force in her own way. No...Neil didn't inspire shit. If anything, Katelyn had...an awakening of sorts.

Neil brings a hand up to cover his smug smile. Ah, it's always so satisfying when people get what they deserve. He can only hope Katelyn doesn’t get addicted to the feeling.

He doubts it, though. Her goals are only ever to protect Aaron. Outside of that she's harmless, unless you count the gossip she hoards.

So what? He made Katelyn realize going for the throat is all too necessary when it comes to the people they hold dear. He stopped her before it could go further, and that should've been her lesson to not lose herself in the future.

Past that, Neil isn't responsible.

"Do you have fun, missing the point all the time?" Andrew asks, backing Neil against one of the columns in the store. Neil is quite familiar with this spot, because it means kisses, and he's a simple man nowadays.

He smirks, reaching over to grab one of the headbands hanging from the metal hooks. This one has animal ears on it, and he plops it on, catching the way Andrew's face twitches.

"If it gets you to talk to me like that, a little."

Andrew rips off the ears so fast Neil gasps, and an employee glares at the projectile when it lands in the far corner. Neil snorts, pulling Andrew completely behind the column with him. It's his favorite part of the store, because it faces an empty wall. They're hidden.

"You're insufferable," Andrew chides, but doesn't move away. Neil's content, knowing his warmth and weight has become a comfort.

That's why...that's why he really doesn't feel bad. He'd protect Andrew with everything he had, and Andrew would do the same for him. Through blood and any measure of brutality.

Neil is not naive. His life is a lot different now, and he'll try as hard as he can to make sure things are more peaceful from here on. It's unrealistic in some cases; both of them will always be plagued by nightmares, a mix of paranoia and too many boundaries. But...but the past is so much easier to navigate when the present is peaceful.

Life is not set in stone, and neither is this peace. It's possible there will be more fights, more war. And they'll both be ready, because there's no other choice where one another is concerned.

Even if Andrew won't say it, Neil knows it with bone deep certainty.

And now Katelyn will be prepared too. Neil can't possibly feel an inch of regret for causing that.

Neil sighs when Andrew's hand grips the back of his neck, grazing Neil's ear on the way there, the ghost of a touch.

Come to think of it, that employee sees them here every week...she most certainly knows what they're doing behind this column. Neil sighs a laugh, drowsy all of a sudden. He wants to nap when they get home, Andrew pressed against him. Safe.

"Yes, that's true, I'm pretty bad," Neil whispers, hand resting on Andrew's shoulder. "Don't act like you're not relieved, though."

Andrew tilts his head, pausing just before stealing a kiss.

"Elaborate."

"You've been demoted," Neil says with a smirk, chasing Andrew's lips when he moves back. It's the one direction he runs to consistently now. "Aaron has someone else to protect him."

There's a moment Andrew pauses, letting the words wash over him. It would not have been possible, Neil thinks, even a year ago. But Katelyn isn't just a fixture Andrew ignores now, she's permanent, present.

Andrew's tiny laugh sends a shiver down Neil's spine. "Was that the plan all along, then?"

Neil squints, confused, and Andrew's smile is small but there, something that's becoming increasingly common.

Andrew shrugs, a mocking mirror of Neil's default response. Despite this, he finally crowds Neil in, and he can feel the light press of Andrew's lips sticking to his. Andrew drops the basket when Neil hums in question, the moment private and sealed up just for them. "Now I can put all my efforts towards you," Andrew breathes into Neil's mouth, like a binding spell before the kiss seals them, and it wasn't the plan but...

Neil will gladly take it.

#aftg #all for the game #andreil #kateaaron

[dapandapod]

All kinds of pointy

Soooo I asked for prompts, and kindly enough innocentcinnamonpun stepped up and offered me this:

“ Funny interaction with feral!Jaskier being outraged over peoples treatment of Geralt who’s soft ™ for his protective bard? <3 thank you " 

I just finnished it, it’s three in the morning, and I had so much fun.  You can find it here on Ao3 or down below.

And Im sorry, I might have strayed a little. Soft maybe inched its way towards just a little hard. Just a little.

Enjoy! _____________________________________________________

Things have most definitely changed since the bard entered his life. Calm nights at the taverns is but a memory. Wherever they go Jaskier sings loudly, flirts shamelessly and demands that every eye focus on him when he performs.

Most of all, Jaskier accepts no insults. None at all. And it turns out that this flowerysmelling man with a garment in every possible colour is fierce while defending their honor. Geralt quickly learns it is a safety measure to not give Jaskier a dagger. Less dead bodies that way.

It happens all the time. A snide comment in passing, a raging youngling with too much confidence, an innkeeper denying them a room. Every time it does Jaskiers hackles rise and his eyebrows get all kinds of pointy. An indication of murdertime and for Geralt to step in and save some lives.

His bard is truly not to be trifled with. It warms him in all kinds of ways that probably isn’t normal. He is not used to feeling cared for like this. It’s nice. He keeps those moments in a special place in his mind.

When Geralt is alone he still thinks back to the moment when someone dared tell Jaskier red is not his colour. It still cracks him up, honestly. “You will regret saying that, you impotent, slow witted, assfaced ratsarse!” The face of a snarling bard, eyes shining with rage, is a terrifying thing to behold. If Jaskier had fangs, he would without a doubt have ripped the offenders throat already. And if Geralt weren’t actually holding onto his doublet at those times, he might very well have tried.

Smiles can be a deceiving thing. You are not safe when Jaskier smiles, no matter the fluttery feelings it might have given you. Like that time Geralt insulted his singing. “Like a fillingless pie, you say?” Jaskier swaggers up to him, a smile stretched across his lips, his eyes taking in the witcher, up and down. “Alright. I can take criticism.” Geralt knows for a fact nowadays that he can’t. He didn’t know then. He wasn’t scared of that smile yet. Jaskier puts a hand on his shoulder, takes a breath. “You know, that song I wrote about you? Toss a coin and all that? Let me write you a better one, my dear witcher.” Patting his shoulder and walking past him, Geralt feels a false sense of security.

In the next tavern they set foot in, Jaskier performs a song about the benefits of chamomile for tender witcher behinds. Geralt never, ever remarks on Jaskiers singing again, and the song is blissfully forgotten.

~

They are in a tavern in a nondescript small town somewhere in the south, their patrons a loud and brutish sort. It is almost tradition that at least one patron throws an insult at Geralt in these kinds of places. He would be more worried if they didn’t, it would most likely mean that they were planning something worse. Insults are good. And when the insult came, he was lulled into a false security.

Jaskier gets spitting mad again and stops his performance mid song to actually throw a piece of bread at the brute. Geralt smiles into his drink, expecting this to turn into a shouting match. Jaskier is extremely good at outwitting tavern lowlifes.

Sadly, there is no shouting match. There is nothing actually, and the evening carries on without more disturbances. But when Jaskier goes to take a leak he is gone for a suspiciously long amount of time. He can see all the barmaids and there are no men that seem to be Jaskiers type here tonight (the slightly older, brawny type, preferably with a longer hairdo he noticed) that have gone missing with him. So Geralt deems it safe to go look for him.

And finds him and three of the men from the bar in confrontation with Jaskier.

One of them holds a knife, and Geralt can see Jaskiers eyes gleam even from where he stands at the door.

Shit.

The bard quickly and deftly disarms the man with the knife, just like Geralt showed him years ago when he still thought the bard was in need of assistance.

And this is where Geralt realizes Jaskier means business, because he tosses the knife up in the air and catches it again in a very showy fashion.

Shit shit shit, Geralt has to stop this now. He hasn't seen that move since they met Jaskiers arch nemesis, another bard named Valdo Marx. The other bard had sent brutes to trash Jaskiers beloved lute before a music competition and boy, did Jaskier not take that well.

Jaskiers grin is feral, he is showing all of his teeth and whoever said the pen is sharper than the sword needs to have a talk with this man. “So tell me again lads. Do you still think the lumpbrain with the eyes the colour of piss needs to come save his whore bard? Really, is that the best you can think of?”

There is a fluttery feeling in Geralt's gut. One he normally refuses to acknowledge making a reappearance.

And this time it is impossible to ignore. It tingles, burns, coils, whatever creative metaphor you want to use. Geralt is not the poet here, he is but a victim. There is something wrong with his face, because he can feel his frown go away and be replaced by something soft and not at all fitting for a witcher.

That is also the moment when Jaskier looks up and spots him.

And fucking winks.

One of the brutes takes a step forward and that is Geralt's cue. Geralt moves at the same time as Jaskier.

Time to do hero stuff.

Body language may not be his forte, but he can read fighting. Jaskier will slaughter them.

So he rushes forwards, grabs Jaskier round the middle and hoists him over his shoulder. “Oii, what the fuck Geralt?!” Jaskier protests, but Geralt pays him no heed.

Geralt tips his head in greeting when he passes the three angry men and with big steps walk them to the inn a few streets away. Luckily they seem in no mood to pursue them.

Jaskier splutters, flails his arms, and Geralt takes a firmer grip around his thighs to keep him from falling off.

“I can walk! I have legs! Let me down you absolute lumpbrain!” Jaskier complaints loudly and Geralt snorts. “Don’t forget eyes colour of piss please. Promise not to run back and mutilate them?” Jaskier clicks his tongue and Geralt can practically feel the eyeroll happening. “Tch. No.” “There you have your answer.” Geralt smiles, patting Jaskiers butt.

And then he have to forcibly make himself not freeze up, because that stirred up something in his brain he did not intend.

He just touched Jaskiers butt.

Jaskier seems to have the same struggles, because he lets himself be carried without more complaints.

And now it is kind of awkward. Should Geralt carry him all the way inside the inn? Put him down now, confirming how very awkward he suddenly made it?

Always helpful, Jaskier helps him make the decision. “Alright. I promise.” He sighs, and Geralt lets him down.

And something must have been fundamentally broken after that wink and that pat, Geralt has no filter between mouth and brain anymore.

“Will you walk beside me or do I need to hold your hand?” Geralt says. He must be drunk. That must be it.

“Stop teasing me.” Jaskier mutters, changing the grip on the knife he is still holdning.

“Or what?” Geralt smirks at Jaskier, and hell, did he learn nothing?

Jaskier whirls on him, pushing him up against a wall, knife still in hand. If Geralt really wanted, Jaskier wouldn’t have been able to do that. He can easily break the hold, push him away, but the thing is… he doesn’t want to. It’s thrilling to have him this close, to be at his mercy.

“Or I will tease you.” Jaskier murmurs, his breath hot against Geralt's face. “I see the way you look at me. You like it when I talk back to them.”

Yes. Yes Geralt likes that. And fuck, he likes this too.

Jaskier leans in a little, their noses almost touching. They are almost of the same height, Geralt having only a few more inches on the bard. Jaskiers blue eyes miss nothing, a wide smirk breaking free on his lips.

“Say it, Geralt.” Jaskier whispers, and Jaskiers hands on his shoulders, his all-kind-of-pointy eyebrows, that fierce glint in his eyes, it does things to Geralt.

Geralt surgest forward, grabbing Jaskier and pulling him against himself. He kisses Jaskier desperately, and he can’t tell which of them is growling, but it doesn’t matter. Jaskier lets the knife fall and kiss him back, all teeth and tongue and fierceness. A hand is pulling at Geralt's tunic, seeking skin.

“They were right.” Geralt says between kisses. “Red isn’t your colour. You should take it off.”

Things are definitely still changing.

~~

Bonus:

Geralt is a peaceful man in general. His threshold is so much higher than his bards. But there are exceptions to every rule.

“Man, that is the dumbestlooking fucking horse I have ever seen.” “Hold my beer.” Geralt growls, pushing it over the table towards Jaskier. Nobody talks about Roach like that. “Geralt! NO!”

#geraskier #geraskier fic #my writing #thank you for the prompt! #feral jaskier #geralt liking what he sees #roach is precious and should be treated as such #geralt x jaskier #the witcher netflix #the witcher #jaskier the bard #julian alfred pankratz #geralt of rivia #innocentcinnamonpun #I have no idea what im doing #dapanda writes

[pumpkinpaix]

9, 13, 14, 20? :O

9. Are you more of a drabble or a longfic kind of writer? Pantser or plotter? Do you wish you were the other?

ALAS I AM APPARENTLY A LONGFIC WRITER,,,, or like, a very short tiny vignette, no in-between.  I used to be incapable of writing anything long (all my shit from like 2007-2012 was under like 5k pretty much), but now it’s like. fuck! every story i want to write ends up spiralling out into like 50k+ projects /o\ I’m definitely a plotter. I wish I could be more spontaneous, but I do much, much better when I have some kind of endgame in mind. I can kinda fudge the middle, but the beginning and end have to be set :/

13. Do you share your writing online? (Drop a link!) Do you have projects you’ve kept just for yourself?

yep! here’s my ao3, which is pretty much just mdzs right now, but I’ve got some Saint Seiya stuff planned 👀 truly getting ready to return to my roots. saint seiya was the first fandom i wrote for! :D if you’re looking for my tumblr ficlets, I believe the tag is #myficlet

however, in terms of original prose and poetry, it mostly all just stays in folders on my hard drive. :’D I’ve entered some poetry and prose into local writing contests and won before, so my work exists out in the ether, but one day I’d like to have published books :’) I have so much poetry that kind of just sits around, and i’m like maybe?? it would be cool to share some of it? but all of it needs more editing and refining, I almost never edit my poetry it just kinda comes out in a mess and then I don’t look at it for years, so none of it is like good. a lot of it has potential, I think, but I have like, maaaaybe one poem that I would say is almost good lol.

I have like five nano novels hanging out as well, so just like. hundreds of k of words stacked up over the last decade and a half :’D

14. At what point in writing do you come up with a title?

depends! sometimes I think of a title and a concept at the same time and try to weave them together. sometimes it comes in the middle, and sometimes I’m scrambling right at the end. sometimes I’m struggling for the whole fucking time (me with lxc fic right now good god this title has been eluding me for MONTHS)

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

okay, since you’re the one asking, I’m going to talk about my painting selections in this little tumblr not-fic i wrote about hyoshun even though I know you don’t really do the classic series, but hey.

I’ve seen both Aivazovsky’s Ninth Wave and Repin’s Sadko in person, but I’ve studied all of the paintings that were included. I’ve never been to the Tretyakov, so I haven’t seen any of those in person, but GOD i want to. All of the paintings that I talked about are some of my favorite 19th century russian works except Sadko, which is nice, but not like, one of my favorites. I just like it.

here is why I chose those works in particular:

1. Aivazovsky’s Ninth Wave is a fucking experience to witness. It’s impossible to convey the presence of it, the size of it, on a computer screen. you feel swallowed up by the ocean and the light and the terror and the beauty of it--even as you face death, you also face the sun. you know, just like. peak sublime. I really think Shun would find the concept of the sublime very moving, given what we see of his character in canon: he cares, deeply and viscerally about the inherent value of life, but sees himself as small within it. And I don’t necessarily think that scares him so much as it awes him sometimes. He knows his own value and strength, respects risk, and respects sacrifice. I think would relate a lot to the Romantic artists who looked out at the vastness of the world and reacted with wonder and terror.

I think Shun very much feels a deep sense of wonder at being alive, of existing, and that he takes that very seriously. idk, there’s that moment at the 12 temples, when he stops to smell the roses at Aphrodite’s temple. it’s like, yeah, we’re in the midst of fighting for our lives, but god. there is such beauty here. facing the sun even as you face death. I think he would like that painting a lot.

2. Knowing Repin’s other work, I find the Sadko really beautiful and charming and surprising! It’s such a fun subject for a painting--instead of painting a religious scene, it’s a scene from a bylina, about a man named Sadko. I believe here is the scene where he’s asked to choose a wife from a line of beautiful sea maidens, but all he wants is to return to the surface and live with his human wife that he loves so much. and it’s okay! he does! the painting is lovely and just really visually stunning. and there’s something really moving about the way that sadko has eyes only for his wife on the surface, dressed in plain clothes, out of reach, even as these dazzling women laden with jewels parade before him. aaaaaaaaaa. anyways, I think Shun would like this painting too, for those reasons!!

3. Now the Tretyakov paintings that I’ve never seen, but GOD they just. they get me right in the heart. first, Conscience, Judas, by Nikolai Ge. it’s hard for me to describe exactly what I’m feeling when I look at it, but that really vicious white on Judas’s robe, the coldness of it, the alienation of a traitor. I want to weep for judas. I am not christian, so my interpretations of the bible are largely moot and uninformed, but I’ve always been intrigued by the thought that like--without judas’ betrayal, christ could not have risen. without the fall, there cannot be a triumph. that doesn’t mean that judas was acting for that reason, i certainly don’t know enough about biblical studies to make any kind of interpretation, but in the sense that like--christ had to fall and judas was the instrument of it. imagine the remorse of knowing. there’s something very human and sad about watching everything you loved and betrayed walk away from you into the darkness while you are left behind. without you, it could never have happened. i don’t know. there’s something about the nature of unforgiveable sins in there. i think about Shun’s speech to Balron Lune and I think he would feel some kind of way looking at this painting.

4. Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, by Perov--this painting kills me every time i see it. again, not christian, but like. the agony of christ. god. the nature of sacrifice. knowing that you must suffer and die, but oh! you would rather live, please if only you could live. let this cup pass me by. that on its own is already so much to sit with. and I think Shun, as well as the other saints, for very obvious reasons, probably have a lot of complicated emotions surrounding the concept of sacrifice and doubt. and idk, whenever there’s a moment when you feel like you are reaching through time and space to realize that someone out there has felt the way you are feeling, it’s like. that’s a lot. it hurts.

5. The Demon Seated, Vrubel: aaaaaaaaaaa. one of my favorite paintings!!! the demon is beautiful, and the demon is terribly melancholic, and the demon is alone, and the demon is powerful sitting amidst the blooming flowers and the setting sun. the gentle face in contrast with the muscular body. the inherent negative aspect of a demon in contrast with the subject’s heroism. I think that this would remind shun very much of his own brother, who is so angry and violent and dark, but whom he still sees as gentle and loving still. i think shun would look at this painting and see ikki sitting there, alone, watching the sunset on some distant shore. as for hyoga, I think it would be hard for him to see this without seeing shun after the hades arc: a kind and beautiful man, a demon by nature not by choice. someone soft made unwillingly hard. a murderer who would ferry even centipedes out of the house to safety.

ANYWAYS. I LOVE ART and i project all my feelings onto shun thank you for coming to my ted talk

writing asks

#cyan writes #ask meme #cyan dlc #saint seiya #romanticism #russian painting #thank u for asking!!! :DDD #kingofthewilds #asks and replies

[varricmancer]

Intertwined | 2

*** Cross-posted on AO3 ***

Pairing: Farkas x F!OC

Summary: A child of Mara was a soul blessed and bound to its mate for all eternity. Elizabeth Williams is summoned to Mara as a lost soul, only she’s from modern America and her mate is somewhere in the wilds of Skyrim.

A/N: Quick note - Don't worry! I don't plan on rehashing the script the entire time. This part was just essential so that Elizabeth recognizes where she is and what's going on.

***

She’d gone to college so she’s woken up to some horrible things before - puke in the bed, strange houses, dates that were definitely a product of beer goggles. She couldn’t ever remember feeling this horrible, however, not even during the worst hangover in her memory.

Elizabeth’s entire body ached, from the pounding in her head to the sharp stabs of pain in her ankles. The pain was amplified every time whatever she was in would hit something and bump her. If she was in a car they were the slowest drivers of all time, and they had the top down. The sun was piercing through even her closed eyelids. She tried to bring her hand up to shade her eyes from the painful light, only to realize she couldn’t.

She tried to crack open her eyes instead, but she was still groggy and her vision slightly blurred. She took a sniff instead, immediately recoiling. Overwhelming amounts of body odor, spoiled food, and what certainly smelled like shit of both human and animal variety.

Where the hell was she?

Someone groaned next to her and she finally managed to focus enough to see clearly. She looks up into the grim face of a strange man. His blonde hair was scraggly and clearly hadn’t been washed in ages as it hung around his face. He wasn’t ugly, just kinda dirty. Like, Kurt Cobain after a roll around in some dirt.  

“Hey, you’re both finally awake. You were trying to cross the border right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us and that thief over there.”

She looks around, finally noticing that she’s in the back of an old rickety wooden wagon, the kind that they usually put in old westerns or other period movies. There are several men stuffed in the back with her, all of them with their hands tied in thick rope. The one nearest the back of the wagon is even gagged. She looks down at herself and notices that she is indeed tied up too, but she also has an extra rope tying to her the man next to her. The one blinking up at her groggily with red eyes set in a face of grey.

Okay...so she guesses she’s still dreaming? Her head really fucking hurt and she could barely think straight, but she felt like she knew what was going on. If only her head would stop pounding enough for her to concentrate.

“Damn you Stormcloaks... Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you I’d have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You there, “ he nods towards the grey man next to her, who stops glaring at his ropes long enough to lift a questioning eyebrow at the angry brunette man. “You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now,” says dirty Kurt.

“Shut up back there!”

Elizabeth startles at the sudden shout, turning to look at the drivers themselves. They were wearing what looked like medieval armor. She even spotted a glint of metal on their hips, like they were carrying real swords. She gulped and spared a look at the grey guy still tied to her, noting that he looked just as freaked out as her even if the proud tilt of his head remained.

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” The angry brunette man snorts and nods his head towards the large gagged man in the back.

“Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

Apparently, dirty Kurt had said something truly terrifying, because angry brunette looked ready to piss his pants. “Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion... if they’ve captured you... oh gods, where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.”

“No, This can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!”

Angry brunette looked on the verge of a panic attack and she was afraid his terror was infectious because she was starting to freak out herself. Her mind was finally clearing of the painful fog and she realized she knew this scene. She’d seen it play out a million times. She could quote it word for word if asked.

“Hey, what village are you from horse-thief?”

“Why do you care?”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

“Rorikstead. I’m from Rorikstead.”

“General Tullius sir! The headsman is waiting.”

Everyone in the wagon turns to watch as two official-looking men meet to talk. Elizabeth swallows thickly when she recognizes Hadvar. Fucking Hadvar.

“Good, let's get this over with.”

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh! Divines, please help me!” Angry brunette mutters loudly, rocking back and forth in his seat. What was his name again? Something with an ‘L’ she thinks.

Dirty Kurt - who she now realizes is Ralof - scoffs at the men. “Look at him! General Tullius, the Military. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this.” He pauses and looks around the filthy little village. “This is Helgen... I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Velod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in... Funny, when I was a boy Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

Elizabeth feels her breath hitch as they turn the corner, the little scene where the father is ushering his child into the house so he wouldn’t witness the deaths scarily familiar.

The wagon is slowing even more, and she looks around, amazed that she could recognize everything. There’s Hadvar, waiting with his list. There’s his bitch of a Captain. There’s the chopping block. There’s the tower where Alduin...oh fuck.

“Get these prisoners out of the cart!”

The wagon stops with a jolt and she struggles to keep her balance. The grey guy (Dunmer, she recalls. Dark Elves) is someone that she doesn’t recognize but seems nice enough since he pushes his shoulder against her to keep her from falling over. She smiles timidly in thanks, and he nods briskly. She realizes he’s been silent the entire time. Could he be the Dragonborn? It would be a giant fucking joke on the entire world if she was.

“Why are we stopping?”

Ralof looks at the angry brunette with pity shining in his eyes.“ Why do you think? End of the line. Let’s go, we shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”

Ralof stands bravely and leads the way out of the wagon, despite angry brunette’s panicked whining.

“No! Wait! We’re not rebels!”

“Face your death with some courage, thief.”

To be fair to the guy, Elizabeth was starting to feel like breathing was becoming difficult. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she could feel her entire body shaking. To be honest, she was probably in the middle of both a panic attack and whatever shock did to the body. She felt almost detached and yet this still all felt almost too real.

“You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you! This is a mistake!” angry brunette continues ranting.

“Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!” the female Captain shouted. Elizabeth glanced around nervously. Any moment now she was going to wake up. Hopefully, before she had to put her neck anywhere near the wooden block still stained with past kills.

Hadvar clears his throat and adjusts his papers before turning towards the gagged prisoner.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

They all turn to watch as the large man walks defiantly towards his place in line.

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” Ralof nods his head towards the man.

“Ralof of Riverwood,” he moves to his spot in line proudly.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

“No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!”

Elizabeth flinches as angry brunette tries to make a run for it. She’d always thought this part was fucked up.

“Halt!” the Captain yells at him.

“You’re not going to kill me!”

Horrible choice for your last words, she thinks.

“Archers!”

Elizabeth observes in horror as the arrow flies through the air. Surprisingly enough it landed in his knee instead of his head or gut. He rolled around on the ground, groaning. Elizabeth thought she might be going a little crazy if all she wanted to do was giggle and make jokes about guards and arrows to the knee. Maybe the guard in Whiterun was angry brunette the whole time.

The Captain glares at the rest of the prisoners. “Anyone else feel like running?”

Hadvar crinkles his nose and looks at the Dark Elf man next to her.

“Wait... You there. Step forward.”

The man did his best to walk up to Hadvar without pulling her too much. He subtly eases her behind him and quirks an eyebrow at the soldier.

“Who are you?” Hadvar questions, glancing between him and the list in his hand.

“Sundrose Droleno,” the Dark Elf answers, his voice refined and currently sounding very bored and unimpressed with the entire affair. If Elizabeth hadn’t noticed the fear flashing briefly in his eyes while they were on the wagon, she would think him unaffected entirely.

“Another refugee?” Hadvar sighs. “The Gods really have abandoned your people, dark elf. Captain, what should we do? He’s not on the list.”

The woman sneers at him and shrugs. “Forget the list. He goes straight to the block.”

Hadvar frowns, obviously trying to hold back saying something. Finally, his shoulders droop and he looks at the dark elf, apology shining in his eyes but meaningless as everyone now knew how unfair this entire thing was.

“By your orders, Captain. I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains get returned to Morrowind. Follow the captain, prisoner.”

Hadvar finally notices Elizabeth behind the Dark Elf, frown deepening as he notes the combined rope.

“What’s going on here?”

“He tried to stop us from taking her,” one of the soldiers that drove the wagon answered. “Figured he’d come along easier if he had his...lady friend,” the soldier snorted, showing exactly what sort of friend he thought she was.

“Enough!” the Captain shouts. “Take care of her next. Whether she’s accomplice or camp whore makes no difference. She was with the rebels. Collect her name and stand her in line.”

“Captain, I don’t think…”

“Exactly. You’re not to think. You’re to follow orders. Or do you want to join them? Don’t think I’m not aware of where you’re from. A childhood friend of yours, perhaps?”

“No, Captain,” he swallows, shutting his eyes briefly before calling her forward.

“I’m sorry. What is your name?”

She swallows to wet her dry throat, answering softly, “Elizabeth Williams.”

Hadvar raises his eyebrow but scratches down the name. “And where do you hail from? High Rock?”

Elizabeth merely nodded her head, knowing that any other answer like, “Planet Earth,” or “Arizona,” would probably get her a trip to an interrogation chamber rather than waiting out here for the inevitable outcome.

He then waves for her to join the dark elf, no one thinking to bother untying them from each other before sending them to the block, apparently. As she steps up to her place, she searches the skies frantically for signs of Alduin. Unless her being here has changed things he should start heading over here soon. Hopefully, before they made her walk up for her turn.

She hadn’t realized how much she was shaking until the dark elf - Sundrose? - placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. He leaned over slightly and whispered in her ear, “Don’t let them see your fear. Head up, little one.”

She exhaled harshly and nodded, squaring her shoulders as she resumed her search. That’s right, she’d be okay. This man next to her was the Dragonborn. She was going to live.

General Tullius walked towards Ulfric, his eyes burning with hatred and fanaticism.

“Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp the throne.”

Ulfric growls warningly from beneath his gag, but the General ignores him.

“You started this war, flung Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.”

Finally, the sound that Elizabeth had been waiting for rang through the skies. The far-off roar of a dragon.

Hadvar looked around nervously. “What was that?”

“It’s nothing. Carry on.” General Tullius snapped, eyes never moving from Ulfric.

Captain Bitch salutes him. “Yes, General Tullius!” She turns to the priestess they’ve so thoughtfully provided. “Give them their last rites.”

The drably clothed woman nods and turns towards the line of prisoners.

“As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the 8 divines upon you-”

“For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with,” one of the Stormcloak soldiers snaps and marches towards the chopping block. Elizabeth swallows nervously, because holy shit, was she really about to see someone decapitated?

The priestess stops and stammers, looking at the soldier with a mixture of confusion and pity. “As you wish.”

“Come on! I haven’t got all morning!” The soldier bellows. Some of his fellow soldiers snicker, not seeming surprised by this turn of events at all. He takes one last look at Ulfric and they share a nod before he drops to his knees and presses his face to that horribly stained wood.

“My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

Elizabeth holds her breath as they step on the man to hold him down, and she watches in horror as the axe falls and -

A hand quickly grabs her head and turns it towards the side, and she finds shelter in the dark elf’s shoulder. Unfortunately, she could still hear the moment metal met flesh and the horrifying thud as they simply kicked the body to the side like trash.

“You Imperial bastards!” One of the Stormcloak’s yelled at the executioners, spitting into the dirt.

The gathered crowd of villagers were screaming a different tune - “Justice!” and “Death to the Stormcloaks!” were the most common. The first taste the game gave you of differing views and sides.

Ralof sighed and she peeked out of Sundrose’s arm to watch him stare proudly at the corpse. “As fearless in death as he was in life.”

Captain Bitch stood at attention, smirking gleefully at Sundrose. “Next, the dark elf!

The distant roar of a dragon grew closer.

You’re an asshole, Alduin, but right now I’d really like you to hurry and get here, she thought.

Hadvar dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword, searching the skies himself.

“There it is again... did you hear that?”

Captain Bitch ignored him, too power-mad to pay attention to anything else.

“I said... Next. Prisoner.”

One of the Imperial soldiers grabs Sundrose’s arm, yanking him forward.

“To the block prisoner. Nice and easy.”

To her horror, they still hadn’t untied her, so she was pulled right along with him and expected to stand at his side as they executed him. She definitely wasn’t picking Imperials this playthrough.

Sundrose knelt gracefully, turning his head to face her.

“Close your eyes, little one,” he said softly, watching her as the headsman raised his axe.

“No need. He’s here,” she grinned, even as terror filled her at the very real Alduin flying close and landing on the stone building behind them. He roared, sending everyone around them into a panic.

“What in Oblivion is that?!” Hadvar yelled.

Elizabeth waited for Captain Bitch and the General to be caught up in the panic before reaching down to help Sundrose to his feet. They both stood there watching as Alduin set the little town ablaze, killing most of their would-be executioners instantly.

Suddenly Ralof appears and grabs Sundrose’s arm, tugging him towards one of the buildings.

“Come on! The guards won’t give us another chance! This way!”

They both run along after Ralof, with the still gagged Ulfric not far behind them. They rush into one of the still mostly intact buildings, slamming the door behind them. Ralof pulls a dagger off of one of the bodies inside, using it to slash all of their ropes. Elizabeth sighs and rubs her burning wrists in relief.

Ralof turns to Ulfric, his eyes wide in wonder - and though he would probably never admit it - a touch of fear.

“Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

Ulfric finishes untying his binds and spits out his gag. “Legends don’t burn down villages.”

Alduin’s roars outside rattle the building as he nears their location, all of them looking worriedly at the walls.

“We need to move, now!” Ralof bellows, gesturing for them to follow him upstairs.

They all run until they can’t anymore, finally facing a dead end. The rest of the stairs had been smashed off by Alduin, leaving nothing but a giant hole in the stone wall.

“See the inn on the other side?” Ralof asked, turning to the two behind him. “Jump through the roof and keep going! We’ll follow when we can!”

And here she was, the end of Skyrim chapter one. She startles as Sundrose suddenly jumps without a word. She rushes towards the hole, watching in awe as he neatly lands with a slight roll, before standing up and dusting himself off.

He looks up with a charming grin and reaches both of his arms out.

“Jump, little one. I’ll catch you.”

Elizabeth gulps and walks trepidly towards the edge. She steels herself by taking a few deep breaths, staring at Sundrose as she launches herself from the edge.

Time suddenly stood still as she registered the roar of the dragon was far too close for comfort. She could feel the sweltering breath as he opened his mouth, the stench of sulfur bringing tears to her eyes. Then came the scent of searing flesh as her pained screams filled the air. The last thing she heard was the cry of horror from the man below her.

She supposed as far as ways to die went, this was probably up there. Death by video game. That wasn’t a video game. And it wasn't a dream. Because she was in Skyrim and she was very, very, awake.

***

#skyrim #farkas #farkas x reader #farkas x oc #skyrim fanfic #farkas fanfic #farkas skyrim #skyrim farkas #elder scrolls #farkas companions #varricmancer #soulmate au

[thecursedhellblazer]

At the Edge of Nowhere

(( So, guess who went ahead and scratched that crazy itch I got yesterday? Yep, Scotty did. It turned in a small fic instead of a drabble, since apparently I had more to play out than I initially thought, but...here it is. I took the chance to experiment a bit with the writing style too, while I was at it, ‘cause...why not? ))

(( I’m not really sure of where the idea came from, I just really wanted them to have interact, somehow, without inventing something too complicated. And this was the result. Also, it doesn’t mean that I won’t try to shove Five into John’s universe or vice versa at some point, but for now I’m good with this xD ))

(( Sharing just in case anyone is in the mood for some random oddity! ))

(( I even posted in on Ao3 if anyone wants to have a look at it there! ^^” ))

They sit side by side, watching the eternal sunset of Eternity stretching before them, swinging their feet past the edge of the Abyss, unfazed by the danger of its depths. The darkness seems to be threatening to suck them down, condemning them to an endless fall, and yet they pay it no mind, each of them far too interested in sipping and enjoying his drink.

The silence floods past them, over them, through them, carrying the whispers of their lives. However, for this ephemeral moment, they are given the almost unique chance to ignore them. It’s a rare gift, one that deserved to be savoured, like a fine well-aged vintage. Like the ambrosia that the ancient gods, legit and false, so much have lauded.

And so they sit, the Boy and the Fool, side by side, on the edge of the Abyss.

The atmosphere is almost companionable, as much as it can be when shared by two strangers who carry with them too much baggage. A past and a present that are too dark, too painful. There’s as much kinship and understanding between them as there’s mistrust.

They let the quietness linger for a while, listening only to the taste of the alcohol that coats their tongues, knowing that the stasis won’t last. Neither of them is good at keeping his mouth shut when something is making their skin itch.

“Th’ ‘ell ‘s a lad like yeh doin’ in such a place?” The Fool finally asks, turning his eyes away from the magnetic horizon and landing them on his unlikely companion.

The Boy scoffs. Why is it always the same old story with everyone he meets? “I’d watch my fucking tongue if I were you, young man,” he shoots back, with a withering look. “I’m far older than I look. And I’m older than you for sure.”

A half laugh rises with a small cloud of smoke, but it dies in the matter of seconds as the seriousness of those declarations settles in.

“Blimey. Yeh ain’t pullin’ me leg, are yeh? ‘Ow old are yeh s’posed to be den, mate?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding? Trust me, mate, I’m not. I’m fifty-eight. And I’m stuck in the body of a thirteen-years-old. There’s nothing funny about it.”

“Bloody ‘Ell. Fifty-eight n’ still a lad? Tha’s...insane. I dun envy yeh. Nay.”

The Fool shakes his head, but, despite the lingering astonishment, there is a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Tell us, tho. Woh’s yeh secret? I gots me diabolical trick to slow down agin’ n’ all, but it obviously ain’t workin’ as well as yehs.”

“I got stuck in the future for forty-five years and, when I finally figured out the equation to go back to my time, I missed a typo and...this is the result.”

“Soddin’ math. ‘S one o’ th’ bloody reasons why I ne’er managed to get alchemy rite. T’in’s keep blowin’ up in me face.”

“Sodding math indeed. Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

They clink their glasses together and go back staring at the frozen skyline. Two sets of blue eyes. Different shades of the iris, similar heaviness burdening them.

The Boy steers his drink with his straw, lips pursing pensively. “Speaking of things that suck, what is this place exactly? Am I dreaming? Or did I accidentally take some of my brother’s drugs and this is like the most boring trip in history?”

The Fool scoffs. “Gonna pretend tha’ yeh didn’t jus’ insult me too, together wit’ dis soddin’ place.”

His gaze wanders for a split moment, touching their motionless surroundings. “Ah, I dunno, mate. Could be yeh dream, aye. Could be mine. Or maybe we bot’ stepped inside another real wit’out noticin’ n’ ‘ere we are. Wouldn’t be th’ first time for me. Won’t be th’ last either.”

“I’ve never been in another world. I’ve travelled through time, maybe a bit too much, and I’ve rushed through the fabric of space but this…” The Boy waves his free hand. “This is new. It’s easier to think of it as a dream, so I’d go with that, if you don’t mind. The last thing I need is another headache.”

“Wohe’er works wit’ yeh, mate. I get it. At times, ‘s be’er pretendin’ life ain’t real. ‘S good for yeh mental sanity. Even if yeh got none left.”

The Fool takes yet another drag from his cigarette. Curiously enough, it doesn’t seem to be shortening, even if the ash falls down on his trench coat.

“One t’in’ I can tell yeh ‘bout dis place, tho. It ain’t somewhere e’eryone can visit. Yeh gotta carry some serious shite wit’ yeh to ‘ave stumbled in ‘ere. Do yeh?”

The Boy shrugs. “Maybe? I kept pushing and pushing, even after my father had told me not to and I ended up after the End of the world. I heard the bastard’s voice echoing in my head for the past forty-five years.” He makes his voice thicker for a moment. “I told you so, boy. I told you so. Asshole.”

A long sip from his drink, as if he is trying to wash away that intrusive voice from his ears, before he continues.

“I worked for this organisation that monitors the timeline for a while as a trained assassin. They made me into the perfect killer, a tool for their plans. I had my goals, though, since the start. I took their deal just so that I could go back to try to stop the Apocalypse and save my family. We ended up breakin the world anyway, so I dragged them all back in time to try again. Of course, all that shit followed us. Because it’s never that easy, is it?”

The Fool nods and the Boy can tell that his companion knows that sort of feeling far too well. It’s nice to be fully understood, for once. Even if the understanding comes from a nameless stranger he’ll probably never see again. Assuming that their meeting is truly happening in the first place.

“So...We saved the world this time but broke the timeline. And now my childhood home is gone and me and my siblings are stuck in a timeline that holds no place for us anymore. I’m still trying to figure out how that’s supposed to work. Oh, and that bastard of my adoptive father is hunting us down using the kids he adopted in our place. It’s a real mess.”

There’s bitterness colouring his voice, the embers of a fight that’s too stubborn to die just yet, but the exhaustion is stronger.

“Though, between you and me...All I really want is a decent nap and a dozen more drinks. Maybe get a dog too. Not necessarily in that order.”

The straw produces a light slurping sound as he takes the next sip. “What’s your story? You must have one too, since you’re here...wherever here is.”

The Fool tips his head, in a sign of acknowledgement. No comments follow the tale, and there’s no real need for them there, out of time and space.

“Grew up in me own particular version o’ ‘Ell. Me oul man was th’ fuckin’ opposite o’ ‘father o’ th’ year’...So, I ran in my teen years, still thinkin’ I coulda owned th’ world. Stuck me nose in e’ery bloody t’in’ tha’ was magic n’ occult. One nite I got too cocky and damned an innocent girl to Hell. Earned a bloody place wit’ me name down there too in the process.”

The voice that spells out the words is casual, but there’s something haunted in his expression, darkening his eyes.

“Spent all me life tryin' to make up for tha’ bloody mistake. Ended up messin up meself and most o’ me mates n’ th’ people who ‘ad th’ ‘orrible o’ puttin’ their faith in me as a result. Girl’s still in ‘Ell, th’ bloody Devil ‘imself gots an eternal grudge against me, I gots demon blood in me veins n’ me soz arse ‘s still damned. I might not be a professional like yeh, but I bet I gots jus’ as much blood on me ‘ands. N’ even more souls on me conscience.”

The ice clinks against the transparent walls as the glass is lifted. More sourness to wipe away the one that the words have left on his tongue.

“Nowadays, ‘s mostly me, meself n’ I. Me best mate, too, from time to time. No clue o’ ‘ow he survived bein’ by me side for so long. ‘M still tryin’ to make t’in’s rite, but...for th’ most I jus’ try to be there to do th’ bloody dirty job no self-appointed ‘ero gots th’ time to do. I might be lost, past th’ point o’ no return, but there are lots o’ people out there who aren’t yet. Th’ fuckin’ least I can do ‘s tryin’ to ‘elp ‘em, aye? Make dis soz existence o’ mine wort’ more than misery n’ destruction.”

A drag from his cigarette and there’s a small hand landing on his shoulder, in a brief pat, before he has finished sucking the smoke in. The light pressure says more than a thousand words could.

“Between you and me, tho...I could use a dozen drinks too. Maybe more. N’ a bloody vacation. To sod off somewhere, even for jus’ a day. Maybe take me best mate n’ dis other lad I know. Oh, he could use a break too, th’ poor sod.”

The Boy makes a sound of agreement and he is back stirring his drink. “What a pair we make, you and I. And I don’t even know you.”

“I ‘ear tha’ loud n’ clear, mate. Bloody loud n’ bloody clear. Woh’s tha’ yeh drinkin’ anyway?”

“What? You ne’er seen a margarita? Where the hell are you from? England or Mars? Come on, try it.”

“Oi, I know woh a fuckin’ margarita is, oul man. Yehs jus’ a bit...flashier than woh ‘m used to.”

“Special recipe. I perfected it myself.”

“Now, tha’s more like it. I like a bloke who can make ‘is own drinks. There. Yeh like g n’ t?”

The glasses pass from one hand to another and then they both turn to look back at the unchanged horizon, holding each other’s drink.

A moment to sniff the liquors, in unison, and then the Boy dips his lips in the clear spirit while the Fool wraps his mouth around the straw. The tastes mix in the silence and it’s a symphony of citrus and sourness, with just the right amount of sweetness coming at the end.

“So, what happens now?” The Boy asks, after a moment.

The Fool shrugs. “Ah, I guess we wait till all dis fades. Or till we do. ‘S always ‘ard to tell when it comes to dis sort o’ shite.”

A huffs, with the faintest hint of irritation. “For someone who’s supposed to know a lot about this stuff, you give the worst cryptic answers. I can’t tell if you’re that ignorant or if you’re just fucking with me.”

A nudge in a smaller, slender side and a sharp smirk. “Who knows, mate. Yeh guess ‘s as good as mine. Keep th’ drink. I gots more back where I come from. Consider it a safe trip back home present. I’ll keep yehs as a reminder.”

“A present from a guy I never truly met? And a reminder of something we didn’t even speak about?”

“Nay. Jus’ th’ memory o’ some peace n’ quiet in decent company.”

“Fair enough. I can drink to that.”

#hellblazer #the umbrella academy #john constantine #five hargreeves #number five #tua #crossover #(( scotty writes ))

[lonestorm]

The Inugami - Chapter 15

Summary: When Kagome Higurashi moved to the bad side of Chicago to help with her grandfather’s restaurant, she expected chaos. Being thrown into a fake gang, caught in the middle of a drug war and grudge that stretches centuries back in time, befriending a grumpy half demon along with a ragtag bunch of three other misfits… wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. High school AU. Inukag.

Rating: T (some language)

Pairings: Inukag, Mirsan

Chapters: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 |  Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 | Ch. 15

Shorts: 1. Sesshomaru | 2. Miroku | 3. Shippo | 4. Sango | 5. Sesshomaru | 6. Inuyasha | 7. Shippo

**Also on ff.net here and ao3 here.

The Final Chapter! Thank you to my faithful beta, @akela-nakamura!

Kagome’s boots barely echoed softly through the kitchen of the empty restaurant. It had been kept sparkly clean, smelling strongly of bleach, each surface shining and lonely at the same time without food on the countertops. She knew that hours had been reduced until the Higurashis were to return. 

She lowered her hood, brushing snow from her arms. She was moving mechanically, as if displaying overly human actions would verify her racing heart and anticipation. For the first time in six months, Kagome was about to see the friends that had brightened her world, and the man she was impossibly in love with.

After countless late nights spent speaking quietly over the phone to him, just about how their days had gone, something funny they’d seen, anything that anyone could talk about, she was finally going to see Inuyasha again, face to face. 

He didn’t know that, though. Of all Shippo’s schemes, this surprise was her favorite. Apparently, she was to be Inuyasha’s Christmas present, a role she was all too happy to fill. 

The Higurashis had finished moving back to Chicago just yesterday, into a nicer house this time. The rent was surprisingly cheap for such a decent neighborhood (compared to the last, at least.), and Kagome didn’t bother voicing that she was sure the landlord name “Nonemu” was code for “Sesshomaru trying to not look nice.” 

She startled at the sound of the bell jingling from the front, her frenzied heartbeat coming to an abrupt halt. And then she heard it in person, his gruff and so, so loveable voice only meters away. 

“This had better be good,” grumbled Inuyasha’s voice. Her breath caught. The sound of clomping snowy shoes on the welcome mat. “Comin’ in on one of my only days off…”

“I promise, your Christmas present will be worth it,” Shippo said firmly.

“Why aren’t Sango and Miroku here? Didn’t you get something for them?”

“Of course I did! But this is just for you. They’ll come a bit later, give you some time alone with your present.”

“What? Why would I need- Ugh, Shippo, did you dump five gallons of bleach in the place? I can’t smell a thing!”

Kagome smirked; Shippo had really thought this out.

“Stop whining! You’re about to get the best Christmas present ever.”

“Sounds cocky. I once got a whole sock from my brother.”

“I’ll just assume that’s a ‘Wow, that sounds so thoughtful, Shippo! I don’t even need a present because your friendship is enough of a gift.’ I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.”

“Wh-wha-you’re just leaving me here? You’re just planning on locking me in here, aren’t you?”

“For fuck’s sake. Just… stay here. As one Inugami to another, just trust me.”

“...fine.”

A second jangling of the bell--Shippo had left. Kagome breathed in slowly, steeling herself, shaking out her hands as trying to rid them of water. She paced to the door that led to the dining area. Each step seemed to take too long and not long enough. 

Finally, Kagome pushed the door and immediately saw him, standing with lowered ears, hands in his pockets, characteristically annoyed. Affection swelled in her chest, seeing Inuyasha in that red jacket, beat up boots tapping on the cracked tile. It was as if she’d been blocking out how much she cared for him, and the waves how much she’d missed him crashed over her in an instant. But she was frozen, hardly able to breathe until he finally caught sight of her.

His jaw dropped, and a startled sound seemed to stick in his throat. But he wasn’t still like her--he immediately came forward and leapt over the counter. In an instant, he was embracing her, and she had forgotten how warm, safe, smelling like leather and wind and-

“Home,” she murmured into his chest. “I’m home.”

“I love you,” was all he said back. “I love you.”

SIX YEARS LATER

There was a jangle from the front door, and Kagome looked over to see one of their regulars, Joseph, walk in, smiling and pulling a brown-haired boy behind him. The second boy looked skeptical and closed off, scrutinizing every wall and inch of the ceiling. Kagome watched her husband turn and regard the boys, resting his arms on the bokken that laid across his shoulders.

“Oh, a newb!” Shippo whispered to her in excitement. “Oh boy, Inuyasha is gonna do the thing! I love this part.”

Kagome allowed herself a small smile of agreement. She’d seen such a scene many a time before, but it was always inspiring to witness it again. This was the purpose of the Inugami now, after all. 

“Hey, Joe,” Inuyasha greeted, giving a nod. “Who’s the kid?”

With mildly hidden enthusiasm, Joseph tugged his friend up behind him. “This is my buddy, Derek. He’s the one I talked to you about last week. I talked about Inugami a bit with him and he was thinkin’ about joining. Ain’t that right, Derek?”

Derek huffed, “Tch,” as he was pushed forward to stand about four feet away from Inuyasha. The boy shoved his hands in his jean pockets, clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes up at the older man.

Inuyasha, in turn, stared down at Derek, golden eyes sharpening and chin raising. Finally, Inuyasha growled, “Don’t gimme that entitled teenage bad boy shit face, kid. If you wanna be Inugami, we’ve got a code to follow. So are you gonna listen up or get out like a loser?”

A pause. The boy seemed startled by Inuyasha’s attitude, but soon realized that Inuyasha was truly waiting for an answer. “Uh… Okay, I’ll… listen,” Derek mumbled back.

“What was that?”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re listening…?” Inuyasha drawled, gaze biting.

“S-sir. I’m listening, sir.”

“Alright.” Inuyasha took the bokken off his shoulders, slamming it to the ground at his side. Derek startled backwards into Joseph, who hid a snicker.  “The Inugami have self control. The Inugami do not involve themselves with gangs or gang activity. The Inugami don’t smoke or do that drug shit or even vape. I hate the damn smell and they make you weak. The Inugami don’t drink underage and if they are of age, they don’t drink irresponsibly like a deadbeat. The Inugami go to school and do their damn best in it. The Inugami do not fight unless in defense of self, defense of another, or a controlled spar supervised by an Inugami leader. The Inugami do not steal. The Inugami do not threaten, intimidate, or hurt others. The Inugami respect all humans, demons, and otherwise equally. The Inugami do all they can to help their neighbor. The Inugami keep a cool head and don’t respond to fucking morons that are trying to provoke them-”

Beside her, Shippo coughed in a way that sounded a lot like the name, “Koga?”

“-Inugami don’t whine about shit or think they’re entitled to shit. The Inugami work hard, challenge themselves, and don’t blame other people for their problems. The Inugami accept their cross to bear, their responsibilities, what can and cannot be changed, and their duty to become the best they can be.”

Inuyasha walked up close to the boy, staring down at him with an intense light in his eyes that Kagome had fallen in love with. Derek backed up even further, stumbling, but Joe steadied him. Inuyasha’s bokken was back in its sheath, and his powerful arms were crossed as he went on, “Now, if you think you’re incapable of those simple, moral and reasonable rules, if you just wanna be born as a street rat and die a thug that didn’t leave the world any better than it was when he was popped out of his poor mother’s womb, then you can turn your ass around and get straight back out that door. I ain’t here to give you free shit or coddle you or let you do whatever the fuck you want, whatever feels good.”

Tilting his head, Inuyasha said more quietly, “But if you stay… The Inugami is here to support you in doing shit that does good. The Inugami will have your back, teach you defense, give you a place to go, and make you something to be proud of.” 

Inuyasha pulled the bandana off of the handle of his bokken; Kagome knew it was situations like these for which he always kept an extra red bandana around. The red cloth was held out to Derek, who was eyeing it wide-eyed and white-faced.

“So?” Inuyasha said, hand open. “You gonna stay or go?”

Kagome clenched her fists, an excited smile bursting on her face.

Derek stared down at the bandana, back to his friend, and then up to Inuyasha. “I… I’m gonna stay.”

Finally, Inuyasha gave the kid a quick, rare grin. “Good choice. Here.” Derek took the red bandana, gripping it tightly. His friend gave a whoop and clapped him on the shoulder while Inuyasha dug around in his bag for the registration.

“Just a little stupid paperwork, brat,” Inuyasha explained, holding the paper and a pen out to Derek. “Liability shit, and we wanna be able to contact you if you need help. I’ll give you my number, and the other four Inugami heads will probably give you theirs eventually. What are you doin, signin’ that already?! Always read a contract before you sign it, idiot. There ya go…”

By the time Derek was finished registering, the other Inugami had begun to file in, ready in their training clothes and chatting with one another comfortably, about twenty-five of them today. Kagome couldn’t help but smile at all of them, greet a few; these teenagers, all coming in here trying to make their inner-city life better, to improve themselves. These kids were the dreams of all the original Inugami, and it’s why she came every day without regret.

Inuyasha was talking to some of the kids. When he looked over at her, beginning to start her stretches on the bench next to Shippo, his entire body seemed to relax, and he returned a smile. But when he started to make his way over…

“Whoa,” she heard Derek say quietly, not too far away, to Joseph. He was pointing at her. “Who’s the chick? I’d tap that so hard.”

Joe looked panicked and was about to answer, but that’s when Inuyasha hit Derek in the back of the head, causing a resounding SMACK followed by a high, “Ow!”

“She,” Inuyasha snarled, “would me my wife.”

“Shit,” muttered Derek.

“I guess since you haven’t seemed to catch on to the specifics of ‘respect all humans, demons, and otherwise’ and you have a problem with thinking with your dick, I’ll have to add that the Inugami men are not fucking perverts or fuckboys. The Inugami other than me do not even think about daring to touch her in a way any more than a consented hug. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, sir! Sorry, sir!”

“Don’t apologize to me, boy; apologize to her!”

“R-right.” The boy turned quickly and practically bowed to her. “I-I’m sorry, um…?”

Kagome smiled in amusement. “Mrs. Tashio will do.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tashio.”

“I forgive you, Derek. Welcome to the Inugami!” She stood and held out her hand, which he shook tentatively. “I’m so happy you’ve joined us. Oh that’s right, I made cookies today! Do you like chocolate chip? You can have some-”

“Kagome,” Inuyasha sighed, looking only minisculely more grumpy than usual. “It’s like you’re rewarding him!”

“I am!” she said with a huff, putting her hands on her hips. “He joined us! He apologized for what he said, so I think he should get a cookie. Besides, I tried this new recipe and I want the kids to say if they like it…”

“You made it. Of course they’ll like it.”

Her heart swelled. “Oh Inuyasha, really? You think so?”

His cheeks were turning about the color of his bandana that was tied around his head. “Keh, you know I think so.”

Kagome gave him a long kiss for that, and then went back to find the cookies in her bag. As soon as she found them, she began passing them around (with intermittent munching on her own part).

She pretended not to hear Derek whisper to Joseph, aghast, “How did such a cranky, terrifying dude end up with an angel?”

“No one knows exactly how it happened, but Papayasha and Magome are super into each other,” Joseph answered with a shrug. “Also, don’t count on the angel thing. I chose to challenge her to a fight one day and it was the worst decision I ever made.”

“...what did she do to you?”

“I don’t remember much, but I remember that I sure as fuck didn’t like it and felt it for the next week.” 

“Inugami!” Inuyasha boomed. “Assume the position!”

The students scampered into a circle around Inuyasha, Shippo trailing behind, who began to explain what techniques they would be learning that day. As this process commenced, the charming tone over the door chimed, indicating the entrance of Miroku, Sango, and the twins. Both were dressed in gym clothes and each carried an eager toddler, looking windswept and tired, but both smiled at the sight of Kagome waving to them. 

Sango hadn’t changed much in six years; despite having two children already, she kept up with her training well, especially now that they had two extra giggling girls that liked to ride on their parents’ backs during push ups. Miroku had cut his hair to keep the babies from tugging on it incessantly (he’d insisted for months that he’d felt some spiritual energy leave him as it was cut and therefore he was the reincarnation of Samson), so that he looked far more mature than he actually was. 

Kagome greeted them both with a hug and lifted the most wiggly kid from Sango. “Hi guys! So glad you could make it on such short notice!” 

“Ah, we wrapped up the latest case this morning anyway,” said Miroku, setting down his daughter so that she could join in on tackling Shippo. “First case in nearly a year where Sesshomaru hasn’t poked his nose into our P.I. business--not our fault people around here don’t trust the cops and we make major bank.” Miroku rolled his shoulders, stretching out the gun holsters that decorated his sides on straps. He shot a winning smile. “Just surprised we have a short notice call that wasn’t: Help, Inuyasha got poisoned, or help, Kagome was kidnapped, or help, Inuyasha got tackled by a furry convention and is now setting them on fire-”

Sango jumped in before Kagome could stop them, “Help, Kagome put a force field around the pie until I apologize, or help, Inuyasha is out of the dorm room because we were canoodling too long in the library make out corner, or help, Kagome heard me sleep arguing with the drapes and now thinks I have a secret Japanese lover-”

“Yes, okay, noted that we need to call you guys under better circumstances,” Kagome covered hastily. “But this is a great circumstance, I promise!” She stuffed another cookie in her mouth, eyes gleaming. “Cookieh?”

They took a cookie. 

Another chime of the door, and Emma came skipping in, her stoic father gliding behind her. Sesshomaru looked emotionless and statuesque as ever in his full Commander’s uniform, an image of intimidation marred only by the flower crown perched atop his silvery hair. Judging from Emma’s matching set, it was of her creation and insistence. All the teenagers glanced at him or even flinched as he came in, indicating that the cuteness did not, in fact, ruin his effect. Kagome was impressed. 

Sesshomaru beelined for Kagome as soon as his icy gaze found her, and he stopped abruptly several feet away. “What is the urgent matter of which I must attend? Emma and I were on our way to the park. I would prefer if this afternoon activity were not interrupted by my brother’s next grievance.”

Kagome laughed him off. “Oh no, no grievance. Just something we wanted you to be here for and then you can be on your way!”

A half millimeter quirk of the eyebrow. “Why.”

With a nervous laugh, Kagome scurried closer to the circle of students and waved a hand over their heads for Inuyasha’s attention. Best not to trust dog demons to be patient, she’d found. 

His white ears perked up, and he stopped in the middle of demonstrating a new headlock on Derek. “Everyone here?”

“Yep!”

He released the teenager to his half laughing, half pitying peers, and pushed through to her. “Before I get on with the lesson, Kagome and I have an announcement that we wanted you all to be here for.” He put an arm around her, “It regards why she won’t be helping with any sparring from now on.”

The collective “aww” that arose from the kids actually touched Kagome, though she ignored Joseph’s not-so-subtle, “Thank God.”

Inuyasha looked to her with those shining, golden eyes, prompting her to say, “‘Papayasha’ is gonna be an actual Papa.”

The gasps and happy shrieks almost covered Inuaysha’s groan of, “Why are you encouraging them to call me-?”

Sango grabbed her shoulders. “You’re pregnant?!”

“Yup.” Kagome patted her tummy. “Can’t fight any of you--Magome’s got one in the ol’ incubator.”

Sesshomaru was grimacing. “I feared this day. The day in which an army of small Inuyashas are born. I surrender. You can keep the sword. I recognize when I am outnumbered.”

Shippo was in full on tears, clutching his face. “Tiny Inubabies with puppy ears and without Inuyasha’s horrible personality… adorable!”

Miroku only shrugged. “I’m honestly just surprised it took this long. You guys are like Catholic rabbits.”

Sango smacked him, but Kagome was too busy laughing. Surrounded by love and her growing family, she felt so far from that scared, weak girl she had been all those years ago, who felt so far from home. Home was something she created, right here, with her Inuyasha, and with the Inugami. 

#yaaaaaay i finished! #waaaaaay late #here's for your quarantine yall #my writing #the inugami #inuyasha #inuyasha fanfiction #kagome #inukag #inukag fanfiction #miroku #sango #mirsan #mirsan fanfiction #shippo #sesshomaru

[ohheyalex]

the phone calls that never came//a dickkory fic

A/N: Hey so I was supposed to post this fic a couple weeks ago but tumblr was being annoying so i just uploaded it onto my AO3 account. And I kinda forgot to post it here too lmao but here it is. Also this was supposed to go on my titans blog but the gif wasn’t showing up and uh I wasn't willing to give that up lmao This does have some angst to it and I may be writing another part. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it.

Summary: Kory and Dick are both on the same path to self discovery even though their journeys are separate for now, they can't seem to let go of each other completely.

She hadn’t heard from Dick in months and she doesn’t know how to feel about it to be honest. Her memories had begun to come in quicker since the fight with Trigon. Sometimes, she was fortunate enough to see the whole memory and other times Kory would just see flashes of her home planet. With each new thing she remembers, Kory seems to become more sure of herself. One thing she isn't set on is when or if she’ll go back to Dick and the kids. Kory hasn’t reached out either. Guilt slowly eats at her with each day that goes by that she hasn’t talked to Rachel, Gar and even Dick.

The mere thought of hearing his voice again makes her feel two things; fear and want. Fear of what the conversation could lead to or reveal and she isn’t ready for that just yet and want because she can’t help but be needy for him. Kory will probably never forget their first time, how gentle he was with her even though she’d seen him go postal on a guy a day prior. It shouldn't have been a shock to her with how mysterious he’s been since she’s met him but Dick was always finding ways to surprise her.

Kory isn’t sure of what she wants right now and that’s why she didn't go with him and the kids. She needed time to figure out who she is and what she had been through that past month since waking up in a totaled car left her at a complete loss of self. But she can’t say that she isn’t getting there.

“What are you thinking about?” Donna’s voice pierces through Kory’s thoughts.

Oh right they were looking over footage from surveillance cameras around the city. Kory brushed a hand through her hair but stops in fear of messing up the curls. That worry leaves as quick as it comes when she remembers that she no longer has her curly hair. It's now straight with a slight wave at the end for some oomph.

“Earth to Kory.” Donna waves a piece of beef and broccoli in her face.

Kory recovers fast, “Yea. So I was thinking we should look over the footage from 25th street until Sycamore Drive.”

The former Titan snorts, “Not what I asked but noted. Now tell me what’s going on in that alien head of yours.” Donna smirks. And Kory rolls her eyes at that quip but she knows it’s out of love. This friendship they’ve been able to forge has become the one thing Kory is certain about right now.

Kory pulls her hands from her lap and places them on the wood table in front of her. She starts to fiddle with the gold ring on her middle finger, she can’t help it.

Donna steals a piece of Kory’s orange chicken and plops it into her mouth while she waits for her to talk. She's learned that with Kory she’ll speak when she’s ready, there’s no need to push it out of her plus Donna wanted her to trust her. They ended up bonding over making fun of Dick when Donna pulled out some pictures from when he was a teenager.

“I don’t know I guess I just miss the kids.” Kory doesn’t have to see Donna’s face to know that she’s waiting for her to finish that sentence because even she knows that Kory has been thinking about him too. So Kory decides to vocalize it for the first time in three months, “And I miss Dick too.” That’s all she says and it doesn’t even touch the surface of what she’s feeling right now.

Donna nods while taking a sip of her beer, “Have you tried calling them?” And Kory just gives her a deadpan look. “Look there’s no shame in being the first one to call.” She offers thinking maybe that’s why Kory hasn’t gotten in contact.

She shakes her head, “No it’s not that. I’m just scared I guess of what the conversation will lead to. I don't know if I’m ready to talk to him. He hasn’t called either so maybe he doesn’t want to talk.” Kory shrugs, she’s trying to mask how she truly feels now but it doesn’t work. Donna sees right through it, “I doubt that. Don’t forget when I told you how whipped he sounded when we were following you to your ship a few months ago.” Kory can't help but laugh fondly at that, it made her happy to know that he had her back.

“Yea well I don't know if I’m ready to talk to him yet.” She stares at Donna and her eyes say everything for Kory. Donna takes another sip of her beer before giving Kory the best advice she could think of, “The only way you're going to get the answers to your questions is if you go to the source.”

Kory knows she’s right but it doesn't mean she’s going to do it.

San Francisco. 1 AM. Titans Tower

Dick can’t sleep.

He keeps tossing and turning every hour since he laid down at ten, he’s been trying to get into a routine again but it’s harder this time around. He thought about going into the training room and working out until he felt tired enough to sleep but then he runs the risk of waking up one of the kids. And he doesn’t want them worrying about him when they need to be focused on the lessons and what could come next.

After the tenth time he’s rolled over to a different corner of the king sized bed, he moves up to the headboard and plops down on his side. Dick’s thoughts are a jumbled mess of worries, fears and he’s started to think about her. He doesn’t want to, Dick doesn’t even want to delve into that part of his mind. He’s not ready to. Instead he focuses on how he walked into the kitchen a couple days ago and it was a complete disaster. The three teenagers had been laughing seconds prior to noticing that Dick had come back home early from the store.

Gar was the first to notice as he turned around to look into the reflective surface of the microwave, he caught sight of Dick. “Uh hey Dick!” He whipped around causing Rachel and Jason both to turn as well finally noticing him as he places a couple of bags onto the counter. He stacked three brooms and mops so that they’re leaning against one of the bar stools.

All he can do is laugh lightly at them, “Is my cooking that bad?”

“No it’s not that bad.” Raven says while flicking a piece of an egg shell off of her shoulder. He can tell she’s just being nice but of course leave it to Jason to be the honest one.

“Not bad? Rachel that cauliflower pizza wasn’t fucking edible! Look Dick I can’t do this, we gotta hire a chef. I can’t do anymore of your healthy cooking shit man.” Jason huffs and it makes Dick laugh.

“Here.” He gives Gar some cash, “Go get some lunch but not before you guys clean this place up.”

The three of them rush to the bags he brought as he goes to his room.

His phone buzzing on his side table brings him back to reality. It’s a text from Bruce, it’s about Jason of course. Just the usual question of how he’s doing and Dick let’s him know the young Robin’s progress. He’s still to quick to react with his fists but he’s trying is all Dick can really say. He knows that Jason just wants to go back to Gotham, he understands that he probably feels Bruce just dumped him off with Dick and maybe it seems that way. It doesn’t matter anyway Dick has learned that when Jason sets his mind on something, it’s hard for him to change it. He’ll still try though.

Dick sends out one more text before looking at the time. It’s been an hour and a half since he gave up on trying to sleep. He needs to fix this, he can’t be off his game right now because of the kids. They’re relying on him and Dick doesn’t want to let them down, he already did with Rachel and Gar. He shakes his head and forces his mind to not think about his previous failures, he has to move on and make amends.

His mind drifts again and this time he allows himself think of her. He rarely does, Dick knows it’s complicated for them both. He’s still trying to figuring out who he’s going to be now that he’s not Robin anymore. And she’s still remembering who she is and who she wants to be.

He wanted to give her space, if she wanted to come back then she would. It didn't mean that he didn't miss her. He does, he thinks about Kory every day. Dick just doesn’t say it out loud and who would he even talk to about Kory and his feelings for her? He’s not talking to the kids, that's out of the question. Dick hasn't spoken to Donna either, he knows what the Titans tower means to her and he doesn't want to burden her. Again, if she wanted to come back then that would have to be her decision. And Dick finds that his thoughts are just cycling each other because even though he misses the hell out of his best friend and this fascinating woman who he has developed these feelings for, he doesn’t want to pressure them.

So Dick decides to give them space because they need it and so does he. His emotions are sometimes hard to talk about but he’s getting better at it.

But then again maybe one phone call couldn’t hurt. His thumb clicks on the contacts icon on his phone and he scrolls until he gets to her name. Dick taps the contact and his thumb hovers over the call button. He can’t fucking do this, what is he even supposed to say?

'uh hey kory it’s dick, sorry for not calling you for three months, dick move huh.’

Dick rolls his eyes at his own awkwardness and his attempt at a joke. He’s glad that happened in his thoughts and no one was there to witness it, especially Kory.

He keeps his thumb over the call button for what seems like hours but is only fifteen minutes. Dick tosses his phone to the side and throws himself on the bed deciding on letting his fear of what could happen win for now. And funny for some reason now he feels like he can sleep, so he finally does and he hopes his dreams are only of a curly red haired beauty because that's the only way he's going to see her.

Chicago. 1 PM. Donna’s House.

Kory couldn’t sleep last night. A couple new memories had come back to her earlier that night and ever since then she’s been wide awake. Kory had the TV on with no sound on, she was content on listening to the rain just outside the window.

She had been going back and forth in her head on what she wanted to do. She missed the kids and Dick but she didn't know if she was done with exploring just yet. Plus if she went back, what would that mean for her and Dick? Kory takes two seconds before snatching her phone from the end of the bed and she scrolls through her contacts effortlessly landing on Dick’s.

Her thumb is inches from the screen, she’s almost there and all she has to do is push down. But she doesn’t, whatever courage she’s worked up vanishes as soon as it appeared and she throws her phone to the side. Kory crosses her arms and she can’t help but be upset with herself why can’t she just call him? A knock interrupts her next thought and before she can say come in, Donna walks in with a coffee cup in hand. “I found Shimmer. Well I got intel on where she’ll be. Come on, let’s go.” Donna starts tossing random pieces of Kory’s clothes that she just bought the other day at her.

Kory doesn’t move from her on spot on the bed, “Where are we going?”

Donna walks back to the entrance of the room and before she turns to leave she says, “A stake out.” She winks before leaving Kory to get dressed.

Yea maybe she’d call Dick after her and Donna caught Shimmer.

//

#titans #dickkory #donna troy #my writing

[eddie-boii]

Never Let You Go (part 10/14)

Fic info: Both Eddie and Stan live because I do what I want. Multichapter.

Rating: Teen and up (may change). Language.

Pairings: Reddie, Benverly.

Ao3 link: here

Summary: The Losers prepare for a wedding. It’s time!! The wedding is happening!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

*

The fresh snow glittered on the ground in the morning light, millions of tiny diamonds twinkling up at the Losers as they walked across the frozen garden. The trees towered over them as they passed through the bordering woodland, their branches weighed down with piles of white, frost curling across the trunks in patterns so intricate and complex that only nature could have created them. They came to a clearing where an arch stood up ahead, woven from willow branches and interlaced with white flowers. It stood before four white chairs, placed neatly in two lines either side of a long silver carpet, and bordering the whole arrangement stood rows of flaming torches glowing a bright vermillion, stark against the white scenery as they burned their winter fire. Embers rose from the flickering flames, rising up in the January sky like thousands of fireflies performing a mesmerizing dance.

Eddie stood gaping at the whole thing until Ben nudged him.

“Think we overdid it?” he asked a little sheepishly.

“No,” said Eddie. “It’s perfect.”

Ben smiled, the light from the fires reflecting in his eyes. “Thanks, man.”

Ben went to stand by the arch while Eddie, Bill and Mike went a little distance away behind the cover of some trees to wait for the others. Mike had Ember on a leash; Bev’s aunt had brought her that morning and she’d be bearing the rings in a little bag attached to her collar. It was kind of adorable.

The soft sound of snow crunching beneath feet alerted them to the arrival of the other Losers. The trio emerged from the trees, huddled closely together in thick coats for warmth. Eddie was momentarily caught off guard by Richie; he had a few little braids woven into his hair and… Was he wearing eyeliner? Eddie hated how good it looked on him.

“Can we getting a fucking move on before I freeze to death?” said Richie as soon as he saw them, snapping Eddie out of his little trance.

“The mm-m-minister isn’t here yet,” said Bill.

“Change of plan,” said Stan. “I’m performing the wedding. See you guys in a bit.” And with that, he rushed off to join Ben by the arch.

“Well shit,” said Mike. “Who am I walking with?”

“Why does everyone forget that I have two hands?” said Richie. “Unless Eddie doesn’t want to share?” he added with a wink.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” said Eddie, ignoring the part of him that really was protesting about sharing. “And take off your coat so we can start.”

“Ooh la la, you want me to strip?”

“Just the coat, dickwad.”

Richie finally pulled off his coat to reveal the outfit beneath, and Eddie stared at him.

“I know, I know, I’m hot as fuck,” said Richie.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathed, then coughed loudly when everyone’s attention snapped to him. “Um… I mean- You look okay I guess,” he stuttered, feeling his face burn. Thank god Stan wasn’t there to give him one of those looks, though Bev was doing a good job of doing it for him. “Come on, are we ready to go or not?”

“Just a second,” said Bev, and she slipped off her coat.

Beneath she was a ballgown of deep, midnight blue, the colour fanning down from the waist in intricately crafted vines before fading into a pearlescent white that blended with the snow at her feet, and flecks of the same white fanned across the sweetheart bodice like snowflakes on a winters night.

“How do I look?” she said.

“Beautiful.”

“Stunning.”

“Breathtaking.”

“Oh, my boys,” said Bev, smiling at each of them with so much love in her eyes. “I don’t deserve any of you.”

“I thh-think it’s the other way round,” said Bill. He stepped up beside her and held out his arm. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” said Bev, threading her arm through his.

Walking the bride down the aisle was a tradition usually left to the father, but Alvin Marsh deserved no such honour, even if he was still alive. Instead, that right went to Bill Denbrough, the unspoken leader of the Losers Club, who united them all those years ago, without whom the group never would have been such close friends. Without him, who was to say whether Bev and Ben would have grown so close? Without him, who was to say there would even be a wedding now?

“Come on, guys, let me steal your body heat,” said Richie, wedging himself between Eddie and Mike and threading their arms together. “Let’s roll, people!”

Richie, Eddie and Mike led the way back through the trees to the setup, situating themselves so they’d obscure Bev from Ben’s view until the last minute. At the arch, Stanley slipped a flute from his pocket and pressed it to his lips, and the sweet melody of the wedding march rang out across the clearing. Mike crouched down and released Ember from her leash and she pounced down the aisle, the bag of rings jangling at her collar, and she sat obediently at Ben’s feet, her tail wagging wildly and wafting snow all over his shoes. He leant down briefly to pet her head, smiling affectionately.

Then it was the turn of the best men and man of honour. Eddie tried not to focus on the fact that he was walking down a wedding aisle with Richie fucking Tozier. And Mike, sure, but it was Richie’s arm he held, Richie who’s side was pressed up against him, who’s leg kept brushing his as they walked. Eddie chanced a glance up and found Richie already looking down at him. He grinned, and Eddie returned his smile, and then they were at the end of the aisle and Eddie had to reluctantly release his arm so they could take their seats.

And then, at last, it was time for the bride to walk down the aisle. Beverly looked radiant, of course, positively glowing with excitement, and Bill looked so proud beside her. But instead of watching them, Eddie turned to watch Ben lay eyes on his bride for the first time. And, god, the love was shining from him, overflowing and flooding out across the whole clearing, bathing them all in its warmth. Beverly Marsh, his first love, the first person in that new town who’d shown him kindness, the first person who made him feel like he was deserving of friendship, the one person he’d never truly forgotten in those long twenty-seven years. And here she was, walking down the aisle towards him, ready to announce that they’d spend the rest of their lives together. 

Bill guided Bev up to the arch before taking a seat behind Richie as Stan slipped the flute back into his pocket, and Ben and Bev stood before each other at last, gazing at one another like if either of them looked away it might turn out to have all been a dream.

“Sorry I’m not all dressed in white,” Bev whispered.

“You’re beautiful,” said Ben breathlessly, voice cracking over the words. He laughed it off, swallowing and blinking back tears. “Crap, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry until the end.”

Beverly laughed, tears in her eyes too, and reached over to hold his hand, her thumb brushing over his fingers. “Take it away, Stanley,” she said. “Before we all freeze to death.”

“Dearly beloved,” Stan began, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Beverly Marsh and Benjamin Hanscom. I’m hoping you prepared your own vows because I do not have all the words memorised.”

Mike stood briefly to pass Ben a slip of paper and he unfolded it with shaking hands.

During the second ceremony, the one where they’d be surrounded by family and colleagues, they’d be reciting the traditional vows. But this was a moment for just their friends to hear, where they could speak their hearts openly and without fear, where they had nothing to hide. This was a moment for just the Losers.

“Beverly Marsh,” he began, voice shaking just as much as his hands, “there are no words to describe how much I love you, but I am so, so glad I’m going to have the rest of my life with you to show you. We’ve lost so much time, and I know we can’t get those twenty-seven years back, but I promise you’ll I’m going to make it all up to you and show you every day just how much you mean to me. You were my first crush, my first friend, and I still can’t believe I’m standing here today. We’ve been through so much, but I wouldn’t change any of it if it meant I wouldn’t be by your side. I love you, Beverly. I always have, and I always will.”

Beverly smiled like she couldn’t contain it, her whole face glowing with love. She subtly brushed tears away with her thumb as Ben passed his vows back to Mike, then she beckoned Richie over to retrieve her own vows from him.

She waited patiently while Ben gathered himself together, blinking away tears and swallowing thickly against the lump in his throat. He smiled at her when he was ready, though it was a little wobbly, and she smoothed out her piece of paper.

“Benjamin Hanscom,” she said, “you have single-handedly restored my faith in men. I won’t go into the details because everyone here already knows and I’d rather not bring all that up when this is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, but you showed me that even though the world can be an awful place, kindness still exists. I never thought I could ever deserve someone as wonderful as you, but you’ve made me believe in myself again, you made me see myself as someone who deserves happiness and no one has ever done that for me before. You make me happier than I ever thought possible, and I only wish I’d seen all the good in you sooner. I wish we hadn’t lost so many years, but I’m so glad we have so many more to make up for it. I love you so much, Ben.” 

She paused, smiling up at him, her eyes bright pools of green speckled with the red reflections of the firelight.

“I guess,” she said, “there’s just one last thing to say.” She folded the paper, passed it to Stan, and stepped closer to Ben, taking both his hands in hers. She tilted her head back to look up at him, green eyes meeting brown. He smiled at her with trembling lips and she squeezed his hands.

“Your eyes,” she began, “are summer light,

“July promises,

“My heart belongs to you.”

Ben laughed once, half surprise and half a sob, tears flowing freely down his face now.

“You one-upped me,” he said, voice hoarse even as he grinned. “My vows seem shit now.”

“My poetry skills are shit,” Bev laughed. “You did way better than me.”

“No way, that was amazing. I want it inscribed on my gravestone.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“We’re not done yet guys,” Stan interrupted, rolling his eyes. “We need the rings.”

“Come here, girl,” said Ben, crouching down to retrieve the rings from Ember’s pouch. She licked the tears of his face as he did so and he laughed, wiping the slobber from his face with the back of his hand. He stood and passed Bev one of the rings, and they took it in turns to slip them onto the other’s fingers.

“Alright,” said Stan. “Ben, do you take Bev to be your lawfully wedding wife in sickness and in health, et cetera?”

“I do,” said Ben, eyes already full of tears again.

“And Bev, do you take Ben as your husband?”

“I do.”

“Then, by the powers vested in me,” said Stan, “I now pronounced you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

Ben pulled Bev in, though they were both grinning so much they could barely kiss properly, and the Losers all stood and cheered loud enough to be heard from the hotel. They only gave the couple a second before rushing to them. Richie got there first, tackling them in a hug, and the others joined in until Ben and Bev were squeezed together in the middle of the Losers, all of them laughing and crying. Eddie caught Richie’s eyes and grinned at him, neither mentioning how red the other’s eyes were. 

Bev and Ben were right; the Losers had lost twenty-seven years of each other, had spent twenty-seven years with a gap in their lives, but each one of them had made it out the other side, whole and alive, and they had to rest of their lives to make up for that lost time.

*

Previous Next

#it chapter 2 #it chapter two #benverly #reddie #ben hanscom #beverly marsh #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #the losers club #fic #writing #fluff #fanfic #fix it #wedding #slow burn #EB writes

[harrypeglar]

black sails gift exchange 2019

my recipient is @illgiveyouallofme! hope you enjoy this fic since it uh.... got out of hand very quickly. 

posted on ao3 here

Flint has no fucking idea what Silver is doing. What he even thinks he’s doing. His second “daily address” went about as well as the first one. Now he thumbs at a few parchment notes with reluctance, and yes, he’s going to try it again. Twice he has not learned his lesson.

“If you’re trying to impress me, it isn’t working,” Flint tells him, although it isn’t wholly true. He is impressed at how little an apparent sailor can know about sailing, and that Silver is in fact capable of using a compass.

The man sighs as if the beatings he receives from the crew are minor inconveniences, and stands to take center-stage in the mess. Flint raises his brow at the sauntering steps he takes to reach his non-existent pulpit.

It begins like it usually does, with a weather report and a few resigned groans from Silver’s audience before he gets into more pressing matters. Flint, despite his better judgment, had thought that grown men wouldn’t entertain his gossip, but it seems Silver’s estimation of their maturity was accurate. Dooley is quick to blows, dropping the smaller man without pause. Flint winces.

But when he staggers back to his feet, they’re listening.

This one is undeniably worse, and Silver’s beating corresponds with the seriousness of his accusation. The crew member kicks him while he’s laid out on the floorboards, hard enough to bruise, at least knock the breath out of him in the best-case scenario. Flint nearly stands to exchange blows with the goat-fucker, since it appears that Silver can’t do that for himself. (And it’s no wonder; he wasn’t able to fight the Spaniards effectively, not to mention that his frame must be one of the smallest among the men.) But he realizes that he’s still disgraced, and that to get into a brawl would only hurt his chances for captaincy. As the man hauls Silver up by his hair, Flint’s stomach twists, despite reminding himself that Silver too will be better off in the long run if he doesn’t cause a scene.

He briefly wonders when he began taking Silver’s interests into account.  

Then the crew is raucous with insults and laughter, and Silver is left alone as the other man is harassed by his mates to what seems like no end. Flint has no interest in it. Instead, he watches the corners of Silver’s lips pull back, revealing blood-stained teeth, into a satisfied smile. His gaze darts over to Flint for- what, approval? Even more surprising is that it’s given to him freely. Flint snorts incredulously and offers a curt nod, meeting his wild eyes in a rare gesture of respect. He’s proven his plan to be effective, something that Flint wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t witnessed it.

Later, after a whirlwind day, he sees the beginning of a solemn evening. The ship’s company associates Dufresne’s name with a bad taste in their mouths, and then he’s captain again before the night is through.

He’s thoroughly studying his new cabin and its contents when there’s a knock at the door. “Come in.” Silver peeks in first, almost as if afraid to enter, but quickly recovers with a sly smile, closing the heavy cabin door behind him.

“Congratulations, Captain. I’m glad I can call you that again; Mr. Dufresne was a stickler about my habit, but I don’t think I could accept him as a-“

“Take your shirt off.”

A pause and a soft frown. “Beg pardon?”

“You have a bootprint on your chest, for fuck’s sake.” Flint huffs and approaches Silver, who has gained a sort of blank, dumb look on his face. His sleeve is speckled with blood, and there’s a dried line of it still under his chin. “You can’t wear this.”

Silver gives a little shrug, but his breath is shallow from pain. Flint’s heart twinges with sympathy, despite having a damn good case as to why he shouldn’t feel anything for the thief. “I don’t have much else to wear. That striped shirt took quite a beating too…”

“Be mindful not to strain yourself so much, and you can take one from here for the time being.” He turns away, both to find a shirt in the cabinets he’d snooped in earlier and to indicate that he’ll hear no argument. A sigh emanates from behind him, but a rustle of fabric tells him Silver is complying. When he goes to hand off the garment, he’s frozen at the sight of Silver’s mottled torso.

Silver delicately snags it from his hands, glaring. “You know, Captain, I have been beaten before.”

“I’m not surprised,” Flint retorts, and Silver goes curiously silent at that. He doesn’t let the moment linger. Having found a tin of comfrey salve in the desk drawer, he passes it over as well once Silver has the shirt over his head, wincing a little at the stretch. “Take this and use it.” He wants to do the job himself, but that would have dangerous implications, and he doesn’t feel up to analyzing his actions after such a day. Even so, his inspection pauses at Silver’s collar bone when he’s too busy tucking the oversized shirt in to notice where Flint’s eyes are. So maybe he still has some soul-searching to do.

A more cheerful smile plays at his lips now, and he pockets the salve without protest. “Yes, Captain.” At this point, the shit is clearly mocking him, but it feels warm, affectionate. “Anything else?”

Flint’s eyes flick up to meet his. “No. If you would excuse me, Mr. Silver, I do have a course to plot.”

“Of course, Captain. Thank you for the provisions.” He doesn’t stay long enough to see Flint pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

When Silver returns the next afternoon to loiter while he meets with De Groot and Dufresne, he smells faintly like dirt and lavender- an oil probably used to combat the comfrey’s strong scent. Flint doesn’t smile, or make a comment, or inspect Silver head-to-toe the way he wants to, but it’s a near thing.

-

The next time Silver is injured, it is something that not even he can fix. Much like the other things taken at Charlestown, he has no remedy for it.

He thinks that Miranda wouldn’t want him to cry, not for her, but out of regret and shame for everything he hadn’t done. But he never listened to her concerns before, and it’s all pointless without her anyway. Silver is unconscious for the next week, and the crew steers clear of his cabin. Flint has the freedom to weep for as long as he wishes. 

The week is not a long enough mourning period, but he has a ship to run, and John Silver is back in the world of the living. He greets the other man with good news, bad news, anything but discussion of what he’s done, what they’ve unleashed. Flint hates to admit it, but he’s happy to see him, to speak to him again.

And the first piece of information Silver offers him is that the location of the gold has been betrayed to another crew. Flint detects something dishonest in the explanation almost immediately- which part of it, he doesn’t know- but Silver hasn’t even the courtesy to look sorry about it.

He storms out with this revelation, anger fresh and renewed as he reports the account to the crew on behalf of their bedridden “quartermaster”. He reminds himself that they don’t know what a lying shit they’ve voted in and works himself up all over again. Miranda gone, Charlestown gone, Gates gone, the gold gone, and a fucking urchin left in their stead to convalesce in Flint’s cabin.

After days of taut silence between them, Silver spending the whole of it staring into space or looking at Flint when he thinks the other man won’t notice, there is a gentle interruption while Flint is writing in the ship’s log.

Silver clears his throat. “Uh.” His voice is rough with disuse. Flint pauses in dipping his quill. “Captain, would you mind getting a book from the shelf for me? Any one is fine.”

There’s something in his words that just makes Flint more enraged, perhaps the propriety of his request, or the title.

He makes his way to the shelf and picks at random, a heavy leather-bound book that could be handwritten for all he knows. He carelessly tosses it toward Silver, with more aggression than is truly deserved, before pulling his chair out to continue working. Then he hears a gasp. 

Unwittingly, he twists to look, concerned even now, and he sees that the book is sliding off of Silver’s lap and down between his thighs, positioned just so that Flint can imagine one of the book’s corners had clipped his bandaged leg. He opens his mouth to apologize, to hastily explain that he wasn’t trying to hurt him, but all that comes out is a thin, panicked noise. And it’s only fitting that he can’t say it, as he knows that he wasn’t trying not to hurt Silver either.

The man clutches at what remains of his left leg, eyes welling up at the pain, shoulders heaving as he waits for it to pass. The tears finally begin to fall when he screws his eyes shut, and Flint wants to shoot himself.

“I’m sorry, I-“ He takes a step closer, and is interrupted by Silver sobbing. It’s when his grip on the stump loosens that Flint realizes that it isn’t about the book or the pain anymore. He sits down facing the window, silent, repentant, as Silver beats his fists against the window frame and cries in a way he’s never seen a man cry before. Like it’s being ripped from him, like the wailing itself hurts. 

Flint is quiet, listening for men above and below to make certain that Silver can have this private moment. Not for pride, but for him to be able to perform for no one. That this should not become another stage for others to look upon when he’s in such agony and turmoil.

He rubs his eyes raw while the tears seem to almost choke him. He must have no qualms with such a display of emotion- or more likely, Flint thinks unbidden, he can’t stop himself. It takes forever for it to subside to a more controlled weeping and finally to silent tears, when he begins to regain his breath. Silver’s chest still rises rapidly where he leans against the window frame, but as it appears to calm, he slides down so his head can rest on the cushion below. 

It’s only now that Flint reflects on what Silver wanted from their relationship: freedom. Guilt rises in his throat at the thought. Between losing Miranda and remembering how he goaded Silver into loyalty to the crew, tears prick at his own eyes. He has much to regret, it seems.

Silver’s slack hand, the one closest to Flint, trembles after he’s tired himself out. He thinks the man might have just brought his own fever back, and he reaches out to the clammy palm unthinkingly. Silver almost recoils, but he quickly replaces his hand on the seat after flinching away. Flint takes it between his own fingers and presses his lips not to Silver’s skin, but close enough to warm him somewhat.

“Christ, I’m so sorry.” For the book landing on him at the wrong time, for reminding him of this helplessness and the feeling of imprisonment, for asking him to secure votes, for going to Carolina in the first place.

Silver sniffs and swallows thickly, almost nodding off after his episode, but awake enough to know whose hands are on him. “We make quite a pair, don’t we?” He keeps his eyes closed, and his voice is nearly inaudible. He can’t manage a smile, but he hums when Flint encircles his wrist, at least tolerating the contact.

He doesn’t answer, unable to see how they could ever come as a pair after what Flint has done to him. And more than that, with the weight of the gold on their minds. He’s unable to see anything in their future but war and destitution.

Silver falls asleep then. Flint releases his hand and positions it at his side before moving the book to lean against the glass. He feels as though he’s preparing a corpse, pulling the blanket up around Silver’s limp form and gently dabbing at his wet face. Then he sits back and watches the man breathe until the sun has vanished beyond the horizon.

What have they done?

-

It takes everything in him not to wrap his arms around Silver, and squeeze. Only the presence of the bearded guard dog of a man stops him from following through. It’s a curse that their chances of being alone will only dwindle further after the battle to follow.

Somehow, they’ve both managed to rise from the dead.

Flint can’t take his eyes off him as they walk, Silver hobbling on a crudely-made crutch in the sand beside him. He squints so that it should look like he’s simply avoiding the sunlight. If Silver notices, he doesn’t say anything. And Flint is certain he hasn’t noticed. He would have commented on it by now, probably to tell him to keep an eye out for rocks that the crutch might snag on. It’s unjust that he can read Flint so well and yet cannot see Flint’s nearly senseless love for him. 

Silver’s eyes find Madi, and he stays back to allow them a private reunion, but he averts his gaze as their lips meet. He knows well enough it’s not for him to see. 

During the fight, Flint is still watching him, ensuring Silver’s safety above his own. He tells himself that it’s only because of his awareness that Silver is the future of these pirates now (whether he wanted to become that or not), but it’s never so simple. He watches Hands slaughter Rogers’ captain, and horribly, he realizes that he envies the man for receiving a go-ahead from Silver. God help him. All the same, the governor’s mansion is theirs, and Nassau is teetering on the brink of safety.

The sky darkens until all they can do is prepare for tomorrow. When they’ve all but rehearsed the expected attack on the governor when he arrives, when they’ve taken stock of their losses and acquisitions, most everyone returns to their places as if nothing has happened at all. The only indications of turmoil are bullet holes strewn about, tattered banners on the streets, and a few men sent to camp out on the beach and keep watch. It still amazes him, how quickly a tide can turn.

Silver is restless as they finish up what they can; he taps his fingers on the governor’s desk as if they itch for something more to do. Flint stands from his perch at the dilapidated window sill to console him.

“We would do well to get some sleep before dawn,” he says gently, cupping the other man’s shoulder. “Where will you and Madi be staying? Where has she gone anyhow?”

He’s almost startled out of a reverie. “Yes, well. She’s catching up with Eme. I doubt they’ll join us until late tonight, if at all. I… don’t know where I’ll sleep.”

“Why don’t you come up to the guest room and lie down?” You’ve been on that crutch all day, he doesn’t say, but the implication is there, as well as the threat that Flint might drag him up if he refuses. Silver wisely nods, and the stairs creak with their combined weight as they ascend to a far-off corner of the mansion. It’s a small room that looks incomplete, with lavish bedding but old walls and furniture. Flint had been looking forward to sleeping in a stationary bed again, but he gestures for Silver to take it instead. He sits down in an armchair in the corner, close to the bed’s headboard.

Silver blinks but takes the offer. They’ve grown close enough, Flint realizes, that this situation does not strike him as strange. His crutch falls gently to the floor once he sits (with a hushed sigh of relief, as usual), and Flint stares at him.

“What?” Silver’s eyes are full of mirth as he looks up from unlacing his boot. Like he knows what, or like he doesn’t want to know. “Something wrong?”

Playing stupid again. But no, he isn’t. He genuinely doesn’t know what’s wrong- Flint can hear it in his tone. There’s nothing smug there, just innocently amused by what he must think to be Flint staring into space.

“No. Nothing wrong.”

His smile softens around the edges. “Are you sure, Captain?”

Flint is not a praying man, but if he was, he’d be praying for God not to let him give himself away. But he isn’t, and God doesn’t do shit for him. “Yes, I’m sure. We’re both alive, aren’t we?” Silver nods in understanding before his mouth betrays him. “You’re alive,” he says in the silence.

“I am.” Silver’s lip quirks up, almost in confusion.

Flint removes himself from the musty armchair and slides down to his knees. They’re only a few feet apart anyway, so he shuffles closer to push Silver’s hair out of his face, tuck it behind his ear. He doesn’t smile or laugh or duck away like Flint expects him to. Instead his hands go to splay over either side of his captain’s face, and he studies Flint’s expression. For what, he doesn’t know. “You’re alive and sitting here with me.”

“I know.” Not that he’s alive, but he knows what it means for Flint to say such a thing. “I know.” Then he leans in until their breaths mingle and shudders, eyes closing involuntarily. “It’s alright,” he whispers, near inaudible, and Flint can’t help himself as his palm trails to cup the small of Silver’s back. 

Their lips meet chastely with rigid apprehension at first, before Silver urges him forward, palms pressing flat below his cheekbones as they come back together with more conviction. Flint sucks the other man’s bottom lip between his teeth, grabbing at his hips uselessly until he has the leverage to pull Silver flush against him. 

“You fucking scared me,” he says when they pull apart for air. His voice breaks traitorously. “When I thought I’d never get this, that you’d never know… Fuck.”

The corner of Silver’s lip tugs up as if to form a smirk, but his eyes are so earnest as he presses tight to Flint’s chest. Being able to not just see him again but also to hold him like this is a privilege. “Captain,” Silver starts, but Flint captures his lips again before he can say anything else, and the way they both clutch at each other suggests he doesn’t mind the interruption. His hands go to Silver’s curls, gently tugging and settling to cradle the back of his skull.

Silver breaks the kiss and tilts his head back into the touch. His eyelashes flutter briefly, and Flint is enthralled. 

“Madi knows, doesn’t she?” Silver nods as well as he can while still reclined, and Flint mouths at the hollow of his throat. “And she doesn’t mind sharing?” 

“What do you think?”

He pauses, considering. She had given him a look on the beach when they were waiting for John to turn up as the injured man found in the water. Almost like she wanted to say something to him and hadn’t. Flint isn’t sure he would have been able to hear her out then anyway. He withdraws from Silver just slightly, ignoring his reedy whine at the loss of contact. “I think I should find her in the morning and have a chat.”

Silver nods with a barely-suppressed smile. “And I’m sure she’ll be amenable to it. I have a feeling it will be shorter than you’re expecting.” Flint swats at his knee and stands as Silver huffs a laugh.

“Move,” he instructs, sitting at the edge of the bed. His coat came off a while ago with the warm night breeze picking up, but now he removes his boots as well, Silver’s hands splayed over his shoulders while he waits for the other man to join him.

When Flint turns about to face him, he’s absolutely besotted. Silver, reclining luxuriously in the governor’s guest bed, hair hanging loose and wild, his chest smooth and tan and freely on display under the low-cut neckline of his shirt. His heart aches, and at the same time, he wants to fucking jump Silver more than anything. 

“What?” Silver asks, trying to meet his eye with a small, nervous smile. Flint stares at him openly and tilts Silver’s head up to give him a kiss, which quickly becomes filthy. He lets out a soft moan as he opens up for Flint’s exploring tongue, and then an exhale when they separate.

“Nothing. I like to look at you.”

Silver says nothing to that, but his cheeks darken as he lowers his head onto the feather pillow. While he tries to find the edge of the blanket for a hiding spot, Flint stands to lock the door. This one, luckily, was not busted during the initial raid of the governor’s mansion, as the door was already wide open. While he doesn’t think anybody knows which room he’s sleeping in (and nobody would have reason to barge in), he’s not going to take the comfort of privacy for granted.

Once he’s back in bed and under the thin white sheets- probably marring them with whatever grime is left on him from the day- he thumbs at Silver’s cheek with no small amount of adoration.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to think about what I’d become.”

“Then don’t,” Silver replies quickly, touching his forehead to Flint’s. “Think about what we’ll do together now. What we’ll do after all of this is over.”

After. He nods. He hadn’t thought about after, hadn’t thought about surviving this war. But now he finds that the idea of having a life with Silver, finding the peace he’d sought for so long- it is tempting. The desire to follow Silver wherever he goes, mixed with the hatred of this new legend, is strong enough to make him tremble.

Silver places a hand over Flint’s where it cups his face. “It will be finished someday. We’ll not find our end when that day comes.”

Flint nods and holds him tight, as though he might float away, until Silver goes lax in his arms with sleep. His own rest eludes him, but he finds he doesn’t mind. After all of this is over. The same images play in his mind over and over, of a cottage in the countryside with four mugs on the table; Silver being scolded out of the kitchen, and a warm breeze filtering through unbroken windows.

#blacksailsgiftexchange #my stuff #silverflint #black sails #hope u like it

[omgviolette12]

After Hours- Chapter 10

Previous Chapter

Summary: Evelyn Monroe has been a TA for professor Laufeyson’s Calculus course for four months now. He was known to be quite strict, but that never deterred her from applying for the position in order to be close to the man she had been secretly pining for. One evening, she returns to his office after opening hours… and with her bountiful luck, she walks in on something not meant to be seen.

Chapters: 10?

Words: 2800+

Warnings: None

Tags:  @milkymaidme @dangertoozmanykids101@alexakeyloveloki @little-moonbeam-666  @marvel-ous-fics@clovermariear@lynnesm@bitchyikes@moon-child-of-a-poet, @allthecraftandthings@bubblegumspitt @shockwavee @blondekel77 @nerd–nirvana @valdemarismynonbinarylove@nightrose64 @pastelhexmaniac @iistormii

If you’d like to be added, let me know. I’ve also posted this on AO3

____________

It took a moment for Evelyn to realize what was happening.

He had a detrimental effect on her, this man - the warmth of his tongue that explored her mouth, the harsh grip on her jaw, and the growing heat in her body left her dim-witted to her surroundings.

She had no choice but to reciprocate the kiss, until he willingly broke apart from her. As soon as he did, her hand automatically flew to cover his mouth in bewilderment and panic, adrenaline pumping her veins.

“What… what are you doing?! We’re in the blasted hallway!” She panted breathlessly, her wide hazel irises meeting the dark, lust blown ones of her lover. What was with him, popping in out of nowhere, and then kissing her randomly without so much as a hello?

Loki merely quirked a brow in reply, as her hand still obstructed him from speaking coherently.

Evelyn yelped when she felt his tongue lick the inside of her palm, the action catching her completely off-guard. She withdrew her hand from his mouth in a hurry, a dark blush making its way from her neck, and unto her cheeks.

He gave her a wicked, dark smile,“ I haven’t seen you in a while, so I thought a proper greeting was sufficient.”

Evelyn was flabbergasted. “A..greeting? That’s what that was?!” He had the gall to look at her as if she was the strange one, “Is a kiss no longer considered a greeting…?”

“No..I mean - yeah it is, but the way you just -” she paused, the amusement on his face apparent. It took a second for her to realize that he was just messing with her.

Evelyn sighed, her tone filled with indignance as she spoke once more, “What are you doing all the way here? I’m just so confused…”

Loki didn’t answer her immediately. Instead, he tilted his head to peer from their secluded corner, and into the hallway.

Seeing that it was still empty, he took hold of her hand and strolled into the hallway without warning.

He headed rapidly into the direction of the studios, and she struggled to keep up with his brisk pace.

When they finally reached the entrance, it was then that he decided to answer her question in a quiet voice, “I’ve only ever seen you within my classroom, or the confines of my office,” he looked at her, raising a hand to brush an errant curl away from her eye, “So naturally, I wanted to see you in your element. And what kept you away from my office for such a prolonged period of time.”

Evelyn felt herself heating up inexplicably. He came all the way from the science department, a good 10 minute walk, to visit her despite his hectic schedule. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to that sort of attention.

“Sorry for not letting you know what’s up with me, this whole thing is a lot to take in…”

Loki only shook his head, dismissing her apology, “ No need to worry yourself about it, darling. I simply missed your presence."

He stepped further inside the studios, his eyes wandering in search of her work area, "In any case, I'm genuinely curious about your craft. Care to show me?"

Evelyn froze. She thought he just wanted to see her, and not her actual work.

She wasn't usually shy when others saw her drawings or paintings, but Loki was a different story…

She worried he might be overly critical, or not care for her drawings at all. Evelyn valued opinions greatly, so showing him her work that was so personal left a vulnerable, uncomfortable feeling within herself.

Perhaps because of his ‘professor aura,’ he still intimidated her to a large degree.

“Uh...I wasn’t really expecting anyone, so it’s...really messy. Like, very messy. I don’t really paint much interesting things either, so...“

Evelyn tried to muster up some lame excuse, but she knew she had better stop when she was met with a firm, silent look.

She cleared her throat awkwardly, then traipsed nervously in the direction of her little studio as his tall figure loomed behind her.

Thankfully, it was a Thursday, which meant mostly everyone had no classes in her department - so the studios were empty with the exception of the few absorbed in catching up with work. In addition, each student studio consisted of cubicles with tall walls built to hang artwork, so they were mostly obstructed from view.

When they finally reached her studio, Evelyn stepped inside with slow steps, her nervousness extremely palpable by this point.

If Loki sensed it, he chose to ignore it as his attentions were immediately transfixed to the unstretched canvas strung up on the wall.

It was an exceptional rendering of a fantastical, imaginative landscape, with an endless sky and billowing clouds. Vibrant hues of pink, blue, purple and orange swirled across the sky, with the trees and shrubbery reflecting similar shades in their leaves.

Loki could still see it was unfinished, as most of the brown underpainting still shone through, but it captured him nonetheless.

He gathered from her other paintings and drawings that she liked landscapes and nature in general, since that subject matter was the most prevalent in her work. He could also see that most of them had a whimsical, fairy tale like twist to them.

Loki smiled to himself as he perused. He loved learning more things about his little Evelyn, it made her that much more precious.

While Loki silently observed and analyzed, Evelyn was brewing with negative energy behind him. His prolonged silence was slowly killing her inside - the anticipation of his distaste for her paintings now the only thing that occupied her brain.

She got tired of waiting eventually, and blurted out her thoughts, “ I... know I have a lot to improve on...the colors are too weird, right? It looks pretty bad right now, but I’m gonna -“

“Forgive me my dear, but sometimes you ramble on a bit too much,” he cut her off quickly, putting down a loose sketch he picked up from her work table with utmost care, “ You lack much needed confidence. Especially when you’re this talented.”

Loki turned to give her a look, a look that betrayed his most darkest thoughts.

“It would seem that we have to work on that together, don’t you agree?”

Evelyn had to hand it to him. His ability to change the energy in the room from normal to horny was unprecedented.

She coughed lightly, hoping to bring it back to normal, " I'm, I'm sorry - I guess that means you like it, then…?"

"If I didn't, I would have been blunt about it." He stated simply. Her lack of confidence was slowly starting to annoy him, and he couldn't wait to rectify it in private.

Speaking of that...Loki itched to get her well and truly alone. He told her that he would give her time, to let her decide when to take things further...but surely it wouldn't hurt to subtly push things in that direction.

" You may not know this, but I'm actually quite taken with the arts myself," he began casually, “You could say I’m a collector, of sorts. And I happen to be rather fond of your type of work.”

That garnered her attention immediately, “ Wait, really? What other artists do you like, whose art do you have?” Evelyn blurted excitedly, a wide smile on her face. She didn’t know he was an art nerd like herself, and was happy to know they had one more thing in common.

“Among the favorites I’ve collected, it would have to be Georgia O’Keeffe and Thomas Cole,” Evelyn’s mouth widened in disbelief as he continued on, “ I do have some Bob Ross pieces as well, but I wouldn’t say he was a favorite...a bit too kitsch for my taste.”

Evelyn couldn’t comprehend the gravity of what he just said. “You’re...you’re actually being serious? You have an original Thomas cole painting? He’s one of my biggest inspirations! And...and Bob Ross?! Georgia O’Keeffe? Are you sure you aren’t messing with me…?”

“I’m being entirely serious, darling.” Loki did have a rather extensive art collection, but he didn’t know this useless hobby of his would actually work in his favor.

“But...but they’re so expensive! Even reproductions cost a shit ton… and originals are like thousands of dollars!” Evelyn still expressed some doubt. It was too much of a coincidence for it to be actually true. Not to mention, that was an absurd amount of money to be splurging about.

But his car’s fancy as fuck… maybe he’s just rich?

While Evelyn’s face was scrunched up in thought, Loki’s smile took a diabolical turn when he started to speak once more, “ If you’re that doubtful, I’m not opposed to showing you my collection.” His next sentence came off as strangely dark, “And as for their price... when I want something, no amount of anything will stop me from getting it.”

Evelyn’s head immediately shot up, "Wait, you'd really show me…?" Her focus was zoned in on the first sentence, completely ignoring the lustful inclinations of the second, " I wouldn't want to trouble you…it's okay if it's too much of a hassle," Although she said that, her eyes were extremely hopeful.

"Nonsense, it's no trouble at all. Even if it somehow was, I care about your happiness much more."

Evelyn blushed at his words, "...If that's the case, then I'd really appreciate it! Ooh... I'm so excited! Is it okay if I take pictures?"

She was bouncing with radiant energy, her happiness infectious. If Loki had known seeing art would please her this much, he would've suggested it much sooner. He found her reactions to be unbearably cute, especially when her eyes grew wide in disbelief, or excitement.

"Of course, take however many you want. In fact...would you like to see it this Sunday, if your schedule allows? We will have dinner beforehand as well..."

"Yeah yeah yeah! This Sunday's perfect actually! Thank you!"

Without thinking much of it, Evelyn went straight to give him a tight hug in her excitement.

Loki did not expect that from her at all.

He was nearly knocked off balance as Evelyn’s warm body pressed against his. Loki could feel her ample breasts against his chest, the sensation of which aroused him greatly.

He’d never thought his body would react this way from such an innocent gesture on her part - but alas, he desired her to a frightening degree.

Loki cleared his throat and shifted in order to help alleviate the sudden discomfort in that area, but Evelyn took that as a sign that he wanted her to back away.

“Oh - I’m so sorry, I forgot where we were for a sec…” She thought he didn’t agree with the sudden display of affection - despite the fact that he kissed her himself moments before.

However, much to her surprise, Loki pulled her right back into his embrace, “ As long as we’re plainly out of sight, it wouldn’t hurt to sneak in a kiss or hug. I made sure of that earlier as well,”

His tone was very playful and reassuring, and she couldn't help but relax into the hug. She felt extremely paranoid earlier on due to the group chat, but that melted to the back of her mind. As long as they refrained from frisky activities in public, no more problems should arise.

Much to her chagrin, he decided to pull back after a while, placing a kiss on her temple, " Now that my curiosity's been sated, I fear that I have to return."

Evelyn's disappointment showed clearly on her face, but she understood that he had work to return to.

And with a few more parting words, he left her to return in time for his lecture.

Loki was immensely happy he took the risk to visit the art department today - if he didn't, he wouldn't have been able to make such progress in so little time.

Unbeknownst to Evelyn, Loki fully intended to make her truly his this coming Sunday.

His mind went completely rampant with sordid thoughts of what was to come - Her naked, ebony skin dripping with sweat, and the way she would writhe and moan beneath him. He'd be sure to cover her body with bruises as she's restrained by various -

Loki had to stop from going down that train of thought, reminding himself that she may not be reticent to his...darker desires. He'd have to be patient and slow since it would be her first time, but he looked forward to it nonetheless. Sunday couldn't come any sooner.

It was Sunday when it truly began to sink in for Evelyn that she agreed to go on an actual date with her professor-turned-lover.

She honestly only thought about just seeing the collection at first, but then she remembered the second part of his sentence about them having dinner beforehand…

Evelyn didn’t mind spending more time with him at all, it was just that she was extremely unprepared for it.

She barely went out of the house even on holiday break, with either her friends or Candice dragging her out from time to time since she was practically a hermit. In addition, it would actually be the first time she ever went on a date, so she was nervous about that as well.

Evelyn decided to go to Candice for advice once more. She was nervous about her reaction to her newfound relationship with Loki, given that they talked about his sexual escapades prior - but as an adult, she was sure Candice would...get over it.

“You waited THIS... goddamn LONG… to tell me you’ve been shackin' up with professor fine ass?!”

Candice smacked her arm,” Are you outta yo stupid ass mind?”

Evelyn rubbed her arm, eyes narrowing in agitation, “ I didn’t tell you because this is exactly how you’d react. Hittin me n’ shit! Ow…”

Candice tried to calm herself down, “ Look, I got a lot of shit to say about whatever y’all got going on, but it’s honestly not the time, and you’ll do whatever you want anyway,” she sighed, pacing up and down the living room floor, “ Do you even have shit to wear? Were your nails done? Is your hair done? Did you even wax ya coochie?”

Evelyn’s eyes widened, “ I...I gotta do all that? Even the waxing part?”

Candice closed her eyes, “Lord have mercy on me today - YES you fool! You’d really have that man navigate the Amazon jungle? Because I know for a fact you got a whole forest down there.”

Evelyn subconsciously covered her privates, “What! We’re not even doing anything like that...he’s just gonna take me to dinner and show me the art collection…” Evelyn’s voice grew quiet, because she wasn’t even sure herself.

“Well, better be safe than sorry. I’ll even wax it for you and help you get ready. When is he picking you up?”

Evelyn picked up her phone that was beside her on the couch. He texted her earlier that morning about the time, and the form of attire that was expected, “ Uhm, around 7 pm…”

Candice glanced at the time on the tv, “ So we got about 6 hours or so. Come come, get up. We’ll get the wax over with first.”

It was 6 hours later, and Evelyn felt thoroughly violated.

She honestly should’ve skipped the waxing, hairy pussy or not - it hurt like a bitch, and she solemnly vowed never to put herself through that again. Not only that, but she spent nearly 3 hours in Candice’s room to look for an appropriate outfit, one that was apparently nonexistent within her own wardrobe.

In the text, Loki said to just dress casually, so she was going to throw on any dress in her closet. Which worked to set Candice off on another tirade.

So now Evelyn sat on the couch, waiting for his arrival. She did have to hand it to Candice though - she actually liked the outfit she picked out.

It was a black floral bell-sleeved dress, with slits at the sides that exposed the skin of her waist. It had a modest V neckline, and she was grateful that Candice didn't choose a more daring outfit.

She also wore a jean jacket to ward off the spring chill, so she was extremely satisfied. The only discomfort was the dull throb from her nether regions…

Before long, a loud ping came from Evelyn's phone, causing both her and Candice to jump at the sudden sound, "Is it him? What does it say?"

Evelyn was annoyed when others looked over at her phone, so she hid her screen from view, "Can you please back up?!" Kissing her teeth, she looked back at the screen to see the message.

I've just arrived. I can't wait to see you, love.

She stared at the message for a long moment, before standing up on shaky legs.

Well...here goes nothing.

________________

A/N:

*crosses fingers for smut next chapter*

Thank you all once again for the comments, they seriously make my day. Blown away by the support!

Bonus picture : Evelyn's date fit, minus the jacket - https://imgur.com/a/xYHdHx5 Photo cred: kishmycurls

#loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fic #Loki Laufeyson #loki odinson #loki fic #Tom Hiddleston fandom

[goodluckdetective]

Fic: Burned

Length: 4.7k

Rating: T (non-descriptive wounds)

Fandom: Good Omens

Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale

Warnings: Near-death experience, angst with a happy ending

AO3: Link

Summary:

Honestly, this whole mess wouldn’t have happened if Hell had properly informed all their staff that Anthony J. Crowley was off-limits.

Some demons try to attack Crowley, Aziraphale gets himself burned playing knight in shining armor and Hell really needs to switch to high-speed internet.

Authors Note:  Take this silly thing I have an upper respiratory infection, let me REST

Under the cut:

 Honestly, this whole mess wouldn’t have happened if Hell had properly informed all their staff that Anthony J Crowley was off-limits. Heaven had done their homework. They informed all their angels that Principality Aziraphale should, in the exact words of Archangel Gabriel “not be fucked with.” If Hell had done the same, then perhaps both angel and demon could have been spared a bit of a mess. But Hell unfortunately still used dial-up for all of their emails which half of the staff did not check (1). So a handful of demons thought that attacking known traitor and fun-ruiner Anthony J Crowley was both perfectly acceptable and entirely wise.

    That’s how Aziraphale ends up knocked to the ground in an alley, separated from Crowley by a wall of hellfire. How exactly it all happened isn’t quite clear, he was sure it involved being hit rather hard in the back of the head, but it took only seconds to understand the dire straits they were both in. Through the flames, Aziraphale sees three demons walking towards Crowley, who is knocked out onto the pavement. One of them holds a sword that appears to glow gold and Aziraphale stiffens at the sight. He knows that type of blade. 

    It’s hard to forget the few swords on Earth that could kill a demon (2).

    Aziraphale thinks of calling out for Crowley but thinks better of it as he sees the main demons’ pace. He’s likely the leader, given how the other two hang behind at least a solid meter. Aziraphale doesn’t recognize him, not that he could recognize most demons other than Crowley, but his mortal form is that of a short young man in a roadwork vest two sizes too big for him. He walks towards Crowley with long unsteady steps, like he’s taking care to make sure Crowley is actually knocked out.

He would not be walking that slow if he knew Aziraphale was awake so Aziraphale takes care to not make any sudden movements to alert him otherwise. Aziraphale instead tilts his head just a centimeter to look at Crowley. His sunglasses are cracked, Aziraphale can see that much, and his hair looks ruffled. Probably hit in the back of the head, given there’s no sign of blood or cuts on his clothing. Not hard enough to kill him, but enough to knock him out long enough to do it properly. And to set a wall of hellfire to keep Aziraphale from interfering. 

If Aziraphale knew all of this fuss could come of taking the scenic walk through the park, he would have just called a cab.

Aziraphale considers his options. He has nothing to pull Crowley out of the hellfire with. Crowley may wake within a second, but it seems unlikely. Aziraphale could try to fight the demons off himself, but that would be difficult with the wall of fire separating him from the fight proper. His fisticuffs, while excellent given his angelic training, aren’t very useful if he cannot actually grab his targets.  Given the current situation, the future lying in front of Aziraphale is quite grim. The demon will stab Crowley with his stolen holy sword, forged itself with holy water. Crowley will die. And Aziraphale would be forced to watch it all happen, helpless behind a wall of holy fire that some poor mortal has likely called the fire department about by now.

This isn’t an acceptable outcome. Anything that involves Aziraphale standing in a bookshelf alone for the first time in 6000 years will never be an acceptable outcome. So he reevaluates. He thinks of another handful of half-thought through solutions. He could throw something at the demons approaching, but that will only slow them down. He could try to bless some holy water himself to use as a weapon, but the possibility of hurting Crowley is too high. What he needs is an escape route. A way to grab Crowley and run. He could use one of the many power lines to transport them both to his flat where there enough sigils to keep unauthorized demons from following. But unless he can grab Crowley, he can’t take him with. And then he would be back at the first outcome, the unacceptable one.

The demon is getting closer. Aziraphale from his spot on the ground looks at Crowley. Within the hellfire, the demon does not stir. He is so close, just a few feet away. Even if Aziraphale could rouse him with his voice, Crowley would not wake in time to properly save himself from a swift end. If Aziraphale could just grab his shoulder-

It hits him much like being hit by a truck. No, a truck is too small, perhaps a cruise ship is a better metaphor. The solution, once out of grasp and hard to perceive becomes clear in an instant. It’s not a great plan, sure, far from it, but it’s not the worst he’s ever had (3). Plus it has the potential of letting them both walk away from this situation. And that is enough for Aziraphale to try it, caution be damned. 

The demon is in front of Crowley now, raising up his sword. He’s clearly never used it before with his grip and Aziraphale wonders if they’re teaching demons anything these days when it comes to handling weapons (4). He could cut himself with that posture. With speed Aziraphale rarely uses, he crawls over to the flames, far away enough to not be lit by accident but close enough that he could reach in and grab Crowley if he wanted to. He grits his teeth, knowing transporting them out of here will be hard after the stunt he is about to try and whispers a prayer.

“Please let this work,” he says under his breath. Then he turns to Crowley, Crowley who is still out cold, his sunglasses cracked, about to be stabbed by one of his own. What Aziraphale says to him Crowley doesn’t hear. He is too lost to the fog of unconsciousness. But the demon above him hears it and is startled enough to pause his planned execution.

“If this doesn’t work, forgive me.”

It is then, to the demon’s other astonishment, that the angel reaches his right arm into the hellfire itself. Like it is nothing like it won’t kill him. He watches the angel reach into his own death, grab Crowley’s shoulder and vanish.

When the demon drops his sword, he does, as Aziraphale predicted, cut himself given his poor grip. His friends are smart enough not to try to pick up the sword themselves after he melts into a pile of goo. Instead, they decide to swear off the assassination nonsense and steal some traffic signs instead. Which frankly, they should have done in the first place.

_______________________________________________________________________

Aziraphale does not so much land in his flat as he crashed into it. Both him and Crowley crumple onto the floor of his living room in a sprawl. For a brief moment, Aziraphale is so thrilled that his plan actually worked that he does not notice the smell of brimstone or the pain. But once he kneels, or at least attempts to, and feels the horrific pain in his right hand, that he remembers exactly how he pulled off this particular gamble.

He takes a deep breath before looking at his hand. On the positive side of things, it is still there, which honestly is much better than he’d been expecting. But it is burned alright, flesh bright red and covered in soot (5). And Aziraphale would be a fool indeed to not notice how the veins past the injury can be seen through his pale skin glowing red. It looks almost like embers are under his skin, burning away there, the remnants of a bigger flame. Or perhaps the start of a new wildfire given how that glow is spreading with a speed up his arm.

Aziraphale knows what comes next. They teach you about the dangers of partial hellfire burns in heaven. He knew exactly what he was risking when he reached into those flames and he’d do it again. But he can’t say it doesn’t turn his stomach as he looks down at his right arm and ponders the fate in store for him over the next three days.

    That is, if he lasts that long.

    “My head is killing me,” Crowley says from behind him. Aziraphale has to give him credit; his timing is impeccable. “That intern has one hell of a swing (6). Right Aziraphale-”

Aziraphale wants to respond, truly, but it’s hard to remain awake. The pain is settling in now, no longer localized. He can feel it creep up his arm, spread through his veins. Like pinpricks of endless cigarette burns going up his side, working their way down his spine.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley grabs his shoulder, gentle, and Aziraphale knows he’ll notice any moment.  “Those interns didn’t scare you too bad-no.”

Crowley reaches for his ruined right hand then stops as Aziraphale falls sideways, losing the strength to even kneel. Aziraphale stares up as Crowley shakes his shoulders. His sunglasses are off and Aziraphale can see yellow eyes peering down at him. They look terrified.

There are few things in the world as horrifying to witness as a demon’s pure unfiltered terror.

    “Shit shit shit, bloody hell, fuck-” Another hard shake. It isn’t helping, but Aziraphale can’t exactly blame him, all things considered. It’s not like normal human first aid will do him much good in this case. “What in the devil’s name did you do?”

“Isn’t it obvious,” Aziraphale wants to say, but the burning pain is beginning to become too much now. In what may be his last moment of lucidity, Aziraphale forces a smile. Tries to sound calm. Like he can be what Crowley needs right now.

“Spot of bad luck, I’m afraid.”

It is with those words that the pain gets far too much to bear, and he loses track of anything that isn’t the sensation of being burned from the inside out.

_______________________________________________________________________

Hellfire and holy water are surprisingly different at the end of the day. At least, when it comes to how they kill.

It only takes a little amount, really. Sure, if you want it to be quick and a sure thing, more is always better. But just a drop (or in hellfire’s case, a burn) can do all the hard work of consuming a supernatural being. Holy water just works faster. 

You see for holy water, it is far more rapid. If you’re, let’s say, a demon and you get sprinkled with holy water, the first sensation you will get is the burning pain of it, an open sore wherever it made contact. It can be as small as a pin prick. And then, well. It’s not pretty. If you don’t end up a puddle on the floor, you will be licking your grotesque wounds until at least the next century. 

Hellfire is different. For one, small burns don’t always kill; it’s just when they do, they work in a manner so hellish, that it is likely where hellfire got its name.  The smallest burn can do a lot of damage if you are a particularly unlucky angel. But unlike holy water, it is slow. That tiny burn, just the smallest scorch, can linger and spread.  Like an infection almost, to use human terms. Over the course of hours, a hacking cough starts, a fever that causes angels to feel as if they are perhaps falling themselves. Shivers followed shortly after and rapidly, much like the plagues that humanity once feared, a once perfectly healthy supernatural being becomes steps away from death’s door (7).

It poetic almost. Demons, you see, drown in their own filth upon contact with holy water. Angels, on the other hand, burn.

Aziraphale knew this. But it was different to experience the sensation than to hear about it. One could attempt to fathom boiling hot temperatures, but to experience them? It was impossible to describe. 

He’s in it now, the worst pain he has ever felt. It’s all-consuming, overwhelming, and the very nature of it makes it impossible to perceive the world around him. The best way to describe it, he thinks, is as if he has been placed in lava itself, left to drown in the pits of hell as they bury him in hot sand. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, he cannot tell if he is still on the floor of his flat or if he has been transported somewhere else. All he knows is that it hurts. That and there is a voice in his ear, low and desperate.

“Aziraphale.” Aziraphale knows this voice, but he cannot place a name to it at the moment, too consumed by the sensation of fire. Is this what the martyr’s felt, when heaven watched them burn? How did they have any faith at all, with this kind of agony? “Aziraphale, can you hear me?”

He trusts this voice, Aziraphale thinks, from within the flames. How he has no idea, but it reminds him of the comfort of his bookshop, even as he burns alive. It is something to hold onto. Maybe that is what the martyrs kept to carry them through their ordeal; the relief of faith.

“I need to get help.” The voice continues. “I have an idea. Called the witch about it; she thinks it might work. But I have to leave-”

Aziraphale makes a noise at that, one he can barely hear over the ringing in his ears. He does not want to voice to leave. He is a man dying in the desert; leave him alone and he will perish among the grains of sand. 

“I have to,” the voice pleads. “I have to make sure she gets it right. I’ll be gone for less than an hour.” He feels someone put a wet washcloth on his forehead. It doesn’t help; the water evaporates upon contact. The voice swears. “You cannot die on me while I’m gone, understand? You need to hold on.”

Things come into focus for a brief moment. Despite the flames, despite the pain, Aziraphale’s mind is able to conjure up a name, how he got here, the world outside of the fever.  Crowley. This is Crowley. Crowley is the one next to him, the one who tried in vain to place a washcloth on his head, who is now clasping Aziraphale’s good hand in both of his, begging him not to disappear. 

He tries to open his eyes but it hurts too much, so instead, he coughs, making sure his voice is clear enough to reply. 

“I’ve waited 6000 years,” Aziraphale says, voice raspy but strong enough to make out. “I can wait an hour.”

That is the last thing he remembers for a long time.

  _______________________________________________________________________

 After what feels like another eternity, he hears voices again. And another one, one he has not heard in perhaps two full years. One that reminds him of makeup and a poor excuse for a motorcycle. 

“He looks a sight, dear. You think this will work?”

“I don’t know. But it has to,” Aziraphale recognizes Crowley this time. He sounds so very tired. “The witch says he has to drink it. I’d give it to him myself but if he coughs it up-“

“Oh I know, you’ll become a right puddle. Don’t worry, I can do it. Just stand right there.” Aziraphale feels someone sit down next to him and a hand touch his forehead. They pull their palm away as soon as they make contact. “Well, that is some fever. Hello dearie. It has been awhile. I’m afraid I need you to drink something for me. I think it will help. Got it myself from the Vicar down the street. Perfectly nice bloke-”

 “Please cease with the chatter if you please.”

 “Sorry, sorry.” Aziraphale feels what seems to be a flask pressed to his lips and recoils away from it. The idea of drinking anything now is too much. He has burned for so long he must be no more than ash at this point. If he dares drink anything, he will wash away.”

 “Now, now, don’t be too stubborn with me,’ the voice that is not Crowley says. “Your friend went to quite a bit of effort to get this for you and he’ll be rather upset if you don’t actually have it. And I have things to do other than waiting on fussy angels. So drink up.”

It takes a few more tries but eventually Aziraphale relents. The water does not wash him away but instead provides the first bit of relief he has felt in hours. The fire dies down, replaced by an ache that makes Aziraphale feel all 6000 of his years on Earth.  

“He’s looking a little better,” The voice that is not Crowley says. Aziraphale is sure he could place it if he wasn’t so tired. He feels them press their hand to his forehead and this time the hand does not flinch away like it has been burnt. “And his fever is gone now.”

 “You think it will last?” Crowley sounds...worried? It is hard to place his tone without seeing him.

 “How am I supposed to know? I don’t know a lick about any of this stuff. But I would like to think so, at the very least. Now if you excuse me, I must get back to my work. I’m making hand-carved soaps now. They have fortunes in the center when you’re done using them.”

 “Do you write them yourself or do you pull them from the internet?” Now, this sounds more like the Crowley Aziraphale adores. Fond, a little mischievous, and not afraid to encourage a little harmless trouble. It’s a tone he fell in love with so many decades ago, a tone of voice that informed him that one of them had not forgotten Aziraphale’s books.

Aziraphale falls in and out of consciousness after that. At one point he awakens and heis sure he has fallen. The context of the situation slips his mind and he is positive that when he wakes proper, it will be as a demon. That the feeling of the host he can still sense is merely phantom pain. 

“I’ve fallen,” he says to no one in particular. It is a lament not intended conversation. But someone answers him anyway, holding his hands tight in their own.

 “No, you haven’t. You never could. You are better than the lot of them.” One of the hands wipes the sweat from his brow.

 “I’m alone,” Aziraphale says, still convinced of his fate. There is a hissing noise and when Crowley responds, his voice is fierce.

“You are not. Our side remember? I’m here. Now rest.”

Aziraphale does.

  _______________________________________________________________________

 After what feels like an eternity later, Aziraphale awakens with a lucidity he has not possessed in a long time.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley sounds hesitant like he’s had this conversation before. Aziraphale supposes he has; he just can’t remember it (8).  He shuffles just enough so his head is propped up on the pillows. They smell like wine and a hint of brimstone.

“Has it been that long since I’ve been with it?”Aziraphale’s voice comes out raspy. Like he’s been screaming. Which is a thought he doesn’t particularly want to linger on, given he feels comfortable for the first time in what might be days.

“It’s been three,” Crowley doesn’t sound much better. His voice is hushed, cautious like he’s afraid of being too loud. Like any noise above a whisper will shatter something precious.  

“Sorry for making you wait.” Aziraphale opens his eyes despite the effort and looks up. Crowley is next to him on the bed, his hand still in Aziraphale’s sweat-damp hair. He looks tired, worn, skinner than usual. It would worry Aziraphale dreadfully if it wasn’t for the fact Crowley was also wearing one of the red sweaters Aziraphale bought him for Christmas (9). 

“How do you feel?” Crowley says. Aziraphale considers this, taking stock of his body for a moment. He’s tired, yes, and his right-hand hurts something terrible, but there is no longer an all-consuming fire licking at his heels. 

“Much better,” he says. He smiles at Crowley, the soft fond ones that he only has when he’s particularly pleased with coming up with a good term of phrase. “For a demon, you are rather adept at pulling off miracles.”

Crowley doesn’t smile. That alone tells Aziraphale how bad this must have gotten and his heart sinks, for the pain, he has likely put the demon through but can’t remember. Sure, Aziraphale may have been the one physically hurt, but Crowley was the one who had to sit by and watch. Both of them know that the pain of waiting, not knowing when the end can come, can be the most vicious of wounds. 

“I had to call in some help for this one.” Crowley gestures to the bedside table where Aziraphale can see two items. The first is a flask with a cross on it, something that would make Aziraphale’s blood run cold if it wasn’t for the stack of mints next to it, a brand favored by Madam Tracy. 

“I owe that woman some expensive tea,” Aziraphale says, fond. Sharing a body often makes one fond of another person, no matter how different their interests may be. 

Crowley nods. “I gave her a bottle of my vintage.”

“That works too.” Aziraphale turns his head to look at his right hand. It is covered in bandages, but it is still there which is far more than he was expecting.  He can remember someone pouring water on it, water that soothed an endless burn, and decided vintage wine or not, he’s still buying Madam Tracy at least a fruit basket. “I see I kept my hand.”

Crowley takes in a shuddering breath. It sounds like a snake’s hiss. He tends to sound more like a snake when he’s upset, Aziraphale has found. “You’re an idiot. You could have lossssst your life.”

“You were about to lose yours.” Aziraphale wiggles the fingers on his right hand and while it hurts something terrible, he’s glad to see they respond to his commands. He turns his head back to Crowley and is unsurprised to find tears in those yellow eyes. He reaches up to brush one away with his good hand. “I had a choice, my dear. I could watch you die or I could try something foolish and potentially die in the process. I decided I favored the result where we possibly both survived.”

Crowley’s hand, which has been running through his hair this entire time stills. His other hand, which has remained firmly on Aziraphale’s shoulder, grasps it tight. Not enough to hurt, but with a strength that implies he’s holding on for dear life. “You couldn’t have known it would work. That you’d be able to get away. That if it lingered, I would find a way to stop the flames from consuming you entirely.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says, nonchalant. For being so very smart, Crowley can sometimes be so very dense. His hand brushes away another tear then cups Crowley’s cheek.  “But I know you well enough to be sure that if there was a way, neither heaven nor hell would stop you.” 

Crowley is still for a moment. When he speaks next, he sounds like he’s out of breath. Aziraphale has a way of doing that to him. “I’m pretty sure that’s sacrilege, angel.” 

“If having faith in you was sacrilege, God herself would have flung me down centuries ago.” 

“Don’t joke about that.” But there’s a smile on Crowley’s face now, a small one, but it’s there. Just peeking through the three days of worry and fear. 

“I almost died. I think I can joke about whatever I please.”

“You’re hand is going to scar you know.”

“I thought scars were sexy. Your side made that a thing back when the Vikings were about. (10)”

“No, we didn’t. ”

“Perhaps, but I’m sure you took credit for it all the same.”

Crowley leans down to give him a kiss on the head. It feels nice, though Aziraphale knows he likely smells from all that feverish sweating from earlier. When he feels better, he decides, the first thing he is going to do is take a nice long shower. Few things sound so refreshing after the sensation of being aflame.

 _______________________________________________________________________

 Crowley is right; Aziraphale’s brush with death does leave him with a scar. His entire right hand is entirely discolored from the incident, a shade of pinkish red that is fairly noticeable. He covers it for a bit while it’s still healing, but eventually, he stops entirely. Technically he’s a warrior angel; there’s no sense in being ashamed of them. Especially in the ones he gained doing something worthwhile. 

Crowley, Aziraphale thinks as the demon grabs his hand as they sit on a park bench, feeding the ducks, was the most worthwhile cause he could think of.

  FOOTNOTES

1. To be fair to Hell’s minions, all official notices were written in comic sans and written in red text on a deep violet background. And honestly, who could reach such an eyesore.

2. There was five total, and two were at the bottom of the ocean, long lost after Noah’s flood. This blade, in particular, was one usually kept in Hell as a victory of triumph but in actuality had just been stolen from a merchant who had no idea of iTs true rarity.

 3.  The worst plan Aziraphale has ever had is difficult to define as he has had a multitude of terrible plans, but it is likely a tie between getting crepes during the French revolution or running into the burning library of Alexandria for a scroll for his collection.

4. Hell decided to cut weapons training due to “budget cuts” in the 18th century. There were no actual budget cuts of course, despite creating capitalism Hell didn’t follow its rules. The actual reason they cut weapons training was due to the sheer amount of demons killing each other with their training in petty squabbles. They instead limited weapons training to demons who had proven themselves moderately competent and left it at that.

5. There are plenty of other descriptions of this wound that would be suitable to display the horrors of the damage done, but for the purposes of solely telling this story, we do not need to get into all the descriptive words that are best found in medical journals.

6. Crowley generally did not know random demons he ran into, but it was hard to forget Hell’s interns as the dark council had been trying to foist them upon him for decades. Crowley had always refused saying his operations were just far too complex for interns. This, of course, was a lie.

 7. For the record, Death’s door is rather pleasant. He has a rather nice doormat featuring some lilies to great visitors,

8. He has had this conversation before, though Aziraphale usually passed out right after Crowley said his name. On one notable occasion, Aziraphale had stayed awake long enough for Crowley to say “I love you. I have loved you for centuries and I will love you for centuries more. So please believe me when I say, I am not worth this. I will never be worth this.” Crowley of course, admitted this, because he was fairly sure Aziraphale would not remember said conversation but that was beside the point because if a demon makes a love-stricken confession and no one but him remembers, did he really make it at all? (Yes, he did).

9.  Said Christmas sweater had a nice little snake pattern on the front that was entirely tacky. Aziraphale thought it was the best thing he’d ever found on the internet since sites for used limited edition books.

10.  Hell did not make scars sexy. Scars have always been sexy because God thinks individuality and triumph over death is rather fetching. That and a nice pair of shoes.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #iz writes #take this and enoy

[lovemesomerafael]

It’s Complicated                       Chapter 6:  A Little Too Easy

Source: @kendaspntwd

Chapters 1-5        Story on AO3

Amanda Rollins noticed Rafe Rojas the second he walked into the squad room.  Only a man who lived in jeans could make them fit like that.  And the squint lines around his dark eyes did something to her down low.  He was the lean, cowboy type – well, he was a literal cowboy – she absolutely could not resist.  His hat was well-worn and didn’t disguise the shagginess of his thick, dark hair.  She didn’t mean to come on to him.  She liked Frankie, and Frankie was in deep shit. But her older brother was basically sex in cowboy boots.  So Amanda got real Southern, real fast, the minute she stepped up to Rafe to introduce herself.  Sure, Porter was standing next to him and could have made the introductions.  But Amanda’s ovaries were in charge.  Or some part of her female anatomy, anyway.  

“We’re on our way out to Riker’s,” Porter explained.  “We just stopped by to give you guys a chance to ask any questions you may have thought of.”

“Nikki OK with that?”

“Nikki might not be aware of it,” Porter muttered.  “And your lives might be easier if you didn’t mention this visit to Stone, either. Unless something good comes out of it.  But I trust you guys.  I know you’re on Frankie’s side.  ”  

Dodds introduced himself to Rafe, who was a few inches shorter and a few shades darker.  Rafe’s voice was deep and Amanda thought she detected just the slightest twang, like a delicate spice that gave a tasty dish just the right, subtle kick.  

For several minutes, the group discussed anything in Frankie’s past that might be either helpful or hurtful, but there was nothing.  She was who she was.  She had no skeletons, no previous arrests (knife-related or otherwise), and no history of any kind of violence, unless having a hair-trigger temper and a sharp tongue counted. Rafe couldn’t help the case, except to reassure them that there were no surprises in his sister’s past waiting to trip her up.  

Porter and Rafe left shortly thereafter.  Amanda could feel her thighs quiver when Rafe touched his hat to her and said, “Miss,” as he left.  Amanda was positive he gave her a subtle wink along with his nod.  She stood just a little too long watching the hallway after they’d turned the corner toward the elevators.  

 *********************

Porter ran interference with the guard at Riker’s who tried to keep Rafe from hugging his little sister. He felt responsible for his friend being in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, and he wasn’t about to deny her the small comfort of a hug from her brother.  

“You all right, Snot-rocket?”  Rafe asked, sitting down next to Frankie.  

“Y-yeah,” Frankie stuttered, trying desperately not to cry.  

Rafe pulled her head to his shoulder, and Porter signaled to the guard to let them be.  

“Everybody sends their love. They’re pissed at you for tellin’ ‘em not to come, but they get it.”

“I can’t-“

“They know.  They treatin’ you OK in here?”

“Yeah.  It’s fine.  My lawyer knows some of the guards, and she has some clients in here, so…”

“Can’t say I’m too impressed with a lawyer whose clients are in prison.”

Frankie gave the tiniest laugh, then sniffled.  “She’s good. She’ll get me out of here.”

“Yeah, she will.  And if she don’t, me n’ the guys’ll stage a jailbreak.  Always wanted to do that.”  

“Don’t even joke about that in here,” Frankie told him.

“Ain’t jokin’.  So listen, Porter only got us five minutes, so I don’t wanna waste it.  Just… you need anything?  You need me to do anything?”

“No, there’s nothing. Dean gave you the keys to my apartment?”

“Yeah.  I’ll take care of it for you until you get home.  You just hang in, all right?  Porter’s gonna find that kid.  I met your team at SVU, and they seem like they got their shit together.  We got you, OK?”

“OK.”

“By the way, I’m gonna marry that Amanda.”

“She’s way too good for a snot-rocket like you.  But you go ahead and try.”    

 ********************

Things started to get strange about eight O’Clock the next morning.  Peter Stone got a call in his office.  Based on an anonymous tip, Detectives Carisi and Tutuola had picked up Juwon Jefferson and had him in custody.  And he was talking.  

He was a different kid than Stone had seen on the tapes of his first interrogation.  For one thing, he was a mass of bruises and cuts.  For another, he was giving them real information. The attitude was still on full display, and he was definitely not happy to be there.  But at least they had him, and for whatever reason, he was ready to tell them everything he knew about Alan Canady.  In part, Stone believed his story that Canady had been a truly evil son of a bitch, and now that he was dead, Juwon could safely say so.  But there was no way that was the whole story.  

“Yeah, man, I tol’ the Doc to go see the motherfucker, gave her the message he was gonna barbecue her boyfriend if she didn’t show up.  Ain’t nothin’ illegal ‘bout that.  I just delivered a message.”

“Did he pay you?”  Stone asked.

“Yeah, man, you think I play messenger boy for my health?”  

“Why did he want to see Dr. Rojas?”

“He said he was gonna fuck her up.  Said he was gonna do hisself, make it look like she done it.  Guess that’s pretty much what he done, ain’t it?  That’s bad-ass, man.  Stabbin’ yo’self.  That’s cold.”

Stone rolled his eyes. This was all way too convenient. Out of the blue, they get an anonymous tip and this kid who hadn’t cooperated at all is suddenly telling them the exact same wildly implausible story the suspect told?  And he just happened to be covered with injuries?  No.  Somebody got to this kid, and he was either getting something huge out of this, or they had something big over him.  Either way, Stone wasn’t about to let Rojas walk on the word of this little tweaker alone.

“Why should I believe you?” Stone asked, looking hard at the kid.

“I don’t give a shit if you believe me.  It’s that rich bitch doctor sittin’ in Rikers, not me.”

The kid had talked quite a bit about Alan Canady’s rapes of the three women.  That, at least, they could prove.  The kid’s evidence gave them probable cause to test Canady’s DNA against the rape kits, which was being done right that moment.  Stone thought blackly that it wasn’t like it was hard to collect Canady’s DNA - it was pooled all over the floor in that cheap motel room. But that still didn’t prove who had killed Canady, and it didn’t answer why this kid was suddenly in custody and talking.  Stone was suspicious of anything this neat and easy.

 ****************

Later that day, Stone stopped by Barba’s office.  Barba was sitting at his desk, tapping a pen and staring off into space.  

“Thinking deep legal thoughts?”  Stone grinned.

“Shallow ones, anyway. What can I do for you?”

“I wanna talk about this Rojas case.”

Barba frowned.  “You can’t talk to me about that case.”

“Not about the case itself, just…  Hypothetically, what would you say if you had a case with a very hard to find, reluctant, unreliable witness, who suddenly gets found by an ‘anonymous source’ and starts singing like a canary?”  Stone made himself comfortable in one of the chairs in front of Barba’s desk.

“I’d smell a rat. Especially if this suddenly cooperative witness is a junkie.”

“He is. Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically. Look, I’m in an impossible spot here. You know that.  I know Francisca Rojas didn’t kill Alan Canady.”

“You don’t know that, and neither does anyone else except Canady.  And he’s not talking.”

“I have instincts, same as you.  And I know this woman.”

“You’ve known this woman for a whole month.  And you’re fucking her.  Tends to mess with the instincts, Barba.”

Rafael shot Stone an irritated look and gave a snort of annoyance.  “What, exactly, do you want from me here?  There’s no way she did it.  I know that.  But if you’re asking me whether you can believe this tweaker’s sudden conversion to the light, I’d say no.  So you get all the information you can out of him, and you check it all out, and you prove she didn’t do it with that evidence.”

“What the hell’s happened to everyone around here?  Since when are we in the business of proving someone didn’t do a crime?”  Stone snapped.

“Since always.  We prove the truth, not just what we want to be true.  That’s why I’m saying don’t buy the tweaker’s story.  I’d like Franci-  Dr. Rojas out of Riker’s today.  But you have a job to do, and that means you need to be right.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Stone smirked, getting up.  

“That’s what I’m here for. Get her out.  Soon.  But do it the right way.”

Rafael was troubled.  The tweaker was back and now he was talking? What had she done?  Or what had been done on her behalf?  

 **********

The DNA matched.  Alan Canady was the Pattern 20 rapist. Unfortunately, that didn’t prove who had killed him.  Nothing did. The autopsy was consistent with either Canady stabbing himself or someone else stabbing him; it was inconclusive either way.  And both his fingerprints and Frankie Rojas’s were on the knife.  True, Canady had no defensive wounds, but she could simply have gotten a lucky shot before he realized what was happening.  Because Barba’s building had no security cameras, there was no way to prove that Canady or Jefferson had somehow gotten in and stolen the knife.  From an evidence standpoint, that meant it was equally likely that either Frankie had killed Canady, or he had done it himself.  

In the end, the Manhattan DA’s office had no choice but to drop the charges against Frankie Rojas.  With the tweaker kid’s testimony, there was simply too much reasonable doubt for Nikki Staines to work with.  Nikki had actually been in the office the day the decision was made, raising holy hell and making Peter Stone’s life miserable.  Stone wasn’t happy about any of it – he felt like they had been played by someone who had gotten to the tweaker kid, but he couldn’t prove it, and he had other cases he could prove.  So they dropped the charges and Nikki blew up the phones at Riker’s as she drove out to collect her client, making sure they would have her processed out and ready when Nikki arrived.  

She called Dean Porter from her car.  “You heard?”

“Yeah.  Can I go pick her up?”

“I’m on my way now. But listen.  I’m never gonna look a gift horse in the mouth, but Stone thinks he got played, and I can’t blame him.  Is there anything I should know about that Jefferson kid?  It does seem like he had a pretty sudden, and violent, change of heart.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you don’t. I just want to know I’m not gonna get any surprises, and my client isn’t either.”

“You won’t.  I swear to you, Nikki, it’s all above board.  The kid was telling the truth.”

“Yeah, but why was he telling the truth?”

“You know what?  Take the win.  It’s all good.”

“It better be.  You got a lot to lose these days.”

“Yeah, life is good. And I wouldn’t jeopardize that. We didn’t do anything to the tweaker kid that’s gonna hurt us.  Or you. Or Frankie.”

“You didn’t, huh? Then who’s ‘we’?”

“Did I say ‘we’?  I meant ‘I’.  Hey, Nikki, my other line is ringing.  I gotta answer that.  Nice working with you.”

***************

Frankie was pretty sure she was being set up.  She didn’t really like it, given what she’d just been through, but it was hard to find a basis to complain.  Her brother and Amanda had become very… close, and were both claiming that, since he was planning to fly back to Austin in the morning, it was their last opportunity to spend time together.  So, as badly as they felt about it – yeah, sure, she thought – they wondered whether Frankie would mind spending one more night at Barba’s.  Besides which, all her things were at Barba’s.  And they claimed already to have set it up with him.  

Frankie dimly felt that it was bizarre for people who loved her to be worrying about romance, their own or hers, after she had just been in prison for murder.  But she was exhausted.  She’d barely eaten or slept in the five days since her arrest, and she’d been in an emotional spin-cycle the entire time.  The truth was, she wanted two things.  She wanted to take a shower for about a week, followed by a soak in a bathtub for a month.  And she wanted Barba.  

She hadn’t spoken to him since her arrest.  He’d retained Nikki for her, and she’d had messages from him through Porter, but that had been all he could do.  Now that she was about to see him again, she was in a turmoil of different emotions.  She felt physically hideous and soiled, and she felt emotionally battered and horribly ashamed.  She thought she was far too needy to be going to stay with a man she knew as little as she knew Barba.  But, apparently, she was the only one who felt that way, because he was waiting for her when Nikki pulled up at the curb in front of his building.

He looked absolutely delectable to her.  Gorgeous and kind and caring and opening his arms to her before she was all the way out of the car, even though all she had to wear home was the terrible sweats they’d given her at the M.E.’s office when they’d taken her bloody clothes.  Nikki smiled broadly at Rafael as he moved to push the car door closed, cradling Frankie in his arms.  

“Thank you,” he mouthed.

“My pleasure,” she replied, waving.  She liked the idea of Barba owing her one.

Rafael gently guided Frankie through the door to the lobby, and held her while they waited for the elevator.  

“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” she mumbled into his shirt.  She hadn’t looked at him, really, as she’d climbed out of Nikki’s car, just put her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.  

“I would have come to your place, if you hadn’t come here.  Even with your brother there.  I want to help.  I’ve felt so fucking useless these past days…”

She squeezed him, hard. “You called Nikki.  You shouldn’t even have done that.  That was everything.”

“I know you didn’t kill him, Francisca.”

“No, you don’t.  No one does, except me and him.  But I didn’t.  I swear it.”

“Still arguing with me…” he said with a grin, as he led her into the elevator, still with her arms clasped to him and her face buried. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. It was wonderful to have her in his arms again, to be able to comfort her as he’d been aching to for days.  But the way she was clinging to him spoke of a depth of fear and anguish that he’d only guessed at.  He was intensely grateful she had come to him so that he could help her through it.  He was honored that his fresa, usually so dauntless and fiery, and now so crushed and wounded, would allow herself to be this vulnerable with him.  He vaguely realized that he would do anything for this woman in his arms, but he paid little attention to the thought, as he thought about what he could do to help her begin to recover from her ordeal.

She released him from her arms when he closed the door behind them, but stayed right next to him.

“I’m guessing you’d like the longest, hottest shower in the history of the world,” he suggested.  

“I’d give my left arm for that,” she sighed softly.

“No charge for guests. You go get in the shower, and I’ll bring you a drink.”

“Do you happen to have any scotch?”

Rafael couldn’t help but laugh at that.  Everyone knew about Rafael Barba and scotch.  He was a little amused by this evidence that they really hadn’t known each other that long.  “I have scotch.”

When he had poured a scotch for each of them, he hesitated outside the door to his bathroom for a moment. He could hear the water running, and see billows of steam floating lazily into the bedroom.  But he was suddenly unsure what she was expecting. Did she want privacy?  Should he wait for her to come out?  Well, he’d told her he was going to bring her a drink.  Besides, he realized, the steam was escaping into the bedroom because she had left the door ajar.  He knocked tentatively and pushed the door open a little.

“Francisca?  I brought your drink.”  

She didn’t respond. He noticed the sweatshirt and pants she’d been wearing wadded up on the floor.

“What do you want me to do with these sweats?”

It took her a second to answer.  “Bonfire,” she finally said in a choked voice.  

He was sure he heard a sob. He didn’t hesitate, but stepped into the room, set his drink on the counter, and pulled the shower curtain back just enough to see her.  Her hands were splayed on the tile wall and she was leaning on both arms, head hanging, crying hard and trying to be silent about it.

“Oh, mi fresa,” he said, pulling the curtain back and stepping, fully clothed, into the shower to take her into his arms.  She instantly let out a groan of agony, turning into him and clinging to him as she sobbed into his shoulder.  He held her drink just outside the spray of the shower.  

For long minutes, he just held her and let her cry, while the hot water cascaded down and soothed her. He didn’t realize he had begun to hum softly to her until she turned her face into his neck, muttering, “That’s nice.”

When she seemed to be done crying, he moved them a bit to the side and held the glass to her.  “Here, drink this,” he said softly, not letting go of her.  She downed its contents in one gulp and handed it back to him.  He smiled.  

When he felt her arms loosen around him, he reached behind her and set the glass down on the shower’s built-in tile shelf.  He took a bottle of shampoo and poured a little into his hand.  Moving her just a bit backward out of the spray, he began to shampoo her hair.  She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, the slightest smile touching her lips. When he was done, he moved her under the spray to rinse her hair and began to soap her body.  He tried not to make it sexual, given the situation and the fact that he was still wearing all of his now-soaked clothes.  But it wasn’t easy.  He wasn’t sure, but it seemed like she moved into his hands from time to time. He conditioned her hair when he’d finished washing her, and moved her once again under the spray to rinse out the conditioner.  

“MMmmmmmm,” she said. “This feels so nice.”

“That’s the point,” he said, leaning down without thinking and kissing her.  

He was just preparing to be concerned about pushing her when she reached to put a hand behind his head and wind her fingers in his wet hair, pulling his mouth harder on hers.  After thoroughly kissing him, she looked into his eyes for the first time since she’d arrived.  

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  And I mean that in a number of different ways. I like having you here, and I’m here for you.”

“I know,” she said.  “Can we take a bath?”

“Of course we can.”

“And… will you please take your clothes off?  I don’t care what you do when you’re alone, but I refuse to take a bath with a clothed man.”

Rafael put his forehead to Frankie’s.  “No, I won’t take them off.  But you’re welcome to, if you want.”

“Oh, you’re a pain in the ass, Barba.”  She kissed him again and began undressing him.  

When she had his clothes off, he quickly washed his hair and turned the dial that turned off the shower and began to fill the tub.  Pulling back the curtain, he picked up the pile of wet clothes and wrung them out as best he could, then tossed them across the bathroom into the sink to be dealt with later.  

“You get comfortable.” He said.  “I’ll be right back.”

Rafael quickly padded out to his kitchen and retrieved the bottle of scotch, bringing it to the bathroom and setting it down next to the tub where Frankie was pouring some shampoo under the water to make bubbles.  He took his glass from the counter, lifted hers from the shelf in the shower, and put them on the edge of the bathtub, then stepped into the water. She moved to let him get seated behind her, then scooted between his legs and relaxed against his chest. 

He poured some scotch into her glass and handed it to her, then picked up his own.  He wrapped one arm around her and she held his arm with hers. They sat in the rapidly-filling tub and sipped in silence.  

When the tub was full, Frankie used her foot to turn off the water and turned herself so that she was lying on her side, her cheek on his chest, and could put both arms around him.

“I love you,” she murmured, eyes closed and smiling.  

Rafael kissed the top of her head, wondering whether she could possibly have meant what she’d just said. She lay quietly, seemingly perfectly satisfied with no response other than a kiss.  She’d had two drinks – he had only poured a couple of fingers each time, but he had no idea when the last time she’d slept or eaten was, and for all he knew, she was asleep right this second.  Maybe she didn’t even know she’d said it.  He decided that’s what it was.  His chest felt warm anyway, and it wasn’t just because of the scotch.  

He thought he dozed a little, lying there holding her in the hot, bubbly water.  He was gently nudged back into consciousness when she shifted between his legs and mumbled, “It’s getting cold.”

“You want to put in some more hot water?”

“Mmmmmm, I want to be in bed.  I don’t want to get out of this tub and move to the bed.  I just want to be in bed without that part.”

“I’d like to do that for you, mi fresa, but I don’t think I possess that particular skill.”

She inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled.  “OK, we’ll do it the hard way.”

They helped each other to stand and climb out of the tub, and Rafael wrapped Frankie in a deliciously large, fluffy towel.  She was too sleepy to comment, but she made a mental note to compliment him on his taste in towels – and scotch – in the morning.  Neither bothered much with their hair – Rafael just toweled his off and Frankie twisted hers into a quick bun on top of her head.  They quickly brushed their teeth, leaning on one another, and were cuddled together in bed very soon thereafter, arms around one another and her head cradled on his shoulder.  

In the soft light coming through the window, Frankie looked up at Rafael.  She lifted her lips to kiss his jaw and he turned his head to take her lips between his.  He was a bit surprised when she subtly shifted her body and opened her mouth to his, sliding her hand down his side to his hip and thigh, angling her caress until she was softly cupping him in her hand.  

“Barba?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Will you please make love to me?”

“Anything for you.”

He followed her lead, going slowly and touching her softly, never taking his mouth from hers, even when whispering endearments and praise.  Her soft moan as she came with him inside her was pure enchantment, and he was almost positive it contained a whispered, “I love you.”

#law & order svu #law & order: special victims unit #rafael barba #raul esparza #peter stone #Law & Order Nikki Staines #law & order SVU Agent Dean Porter