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yanderedbdimagines · 3 years

Note

Fem survivor hiding in a locker, and Nightmare, Oni and the Shape can’t get in. I once had a bug a long while ago where the killers couldn’t search a locker. Got patched very quickly of course. I’d like to ask short scenarios about it where the Entity protects her for some reason after the killers saw the opportunity to try and kidnap their beloved for themselves. :P Perhaps to spite/punish the killers? Go wild, and thank you!

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Sure thing! And no thanks required at all! 😊 I personally would have laughed my butt off if that ever happened to me, whether killer or survivor. They only game breaking bug I ever had was being stuck on something in Haddonfield(can’t remember what). The killer couldn’t get to me either, and I had to disconnect after I had tried everything I could think of at the time, not wanting to ruin the game for the others. Good times…

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The Nightmare

You curse from underneath your gasping breath as a low chuckle reaches your ears, your heart hammering violently against your ribcage as you try to flatten yourself against the backwall of the locker.

He’s seen you get in here, and now you’re about to pay the price if you don’t time the trick Jane has taught you well enough. After all, the others have already been sacrificed, so no one could save you or distract him from the difficult situation you currently find yourself in.

You take a deep, shivery breath and ready yourself just as the killer’s footsteps reach close before trying to slam the doors open as quickly and as powerfully as you can, only for them not to budge in the slightest…

Freddy has heard the distinct thuds of your hands smashing against the wood just as he pulls against the handle, only to have a similar outcome roll out for him too, the sniggering quickly fading into a displeased grunt.

It’s silent for a second…

As you eventually were busy trying to think of another plan when the doors do open, as busy as the Nightmare was trying to pick the lock with a clawed finger. Metal scraping, screeching and ticking against metal brings you on your nerves as you stare at the lock, but you nearly jump out of your skin as the killer suddenly speaks to you with a tone of voice which nearly leaves you shaking in your boots.

“Please doll. It’s rude to stay in there and keep little ol’ Freddy out here waiting.~ Do come out and I’ll promise I’ll be on my best behavior.~”

You hear how he stops rummaging with the lock, listening to the knives running over the chipped paint instead before they tick against the metallic bars making up the outer skeleton of the red locker.

Of course, you’re not convinced.

But you’re not going to tell him that and decide to remain absolutely silent instead, hoping that he’d leave or disappear by some miraculous wonder.

If only it were that easy…

“Come now sweet cheeks.~ Don’t play coy with me. I know you’re still in there and if you don’t open up now I might do something the both of us will regret later. You don’t want that to happen, now do you?”

You think about it for a second before drawing a conclusion. You’re about to voice that out loud before the ground suddenly gives out from underneath you.

You yelp loudly as you find yourself falling into darkness, an angry yell from the Nightmare being heard from above soon after.

And before you could fully comprehend on what was going on, you found yourself face to face with concerned survivors who found you splayed out besides the main camp’s ever familiar stack of burning wood…

The Oni

A cold sweat overtakes your senses as you make yourself as small as you possibly could in the corner of the cramped locker and with wide eyes glued on the wooden doors, unblinking.

You don’t know where the other remaining survivor is. They might have escaped, but they also could have been killed or sacrificed at this point. Either way, you’re in heaps of trouble as you feel the vibrations of heavy footsteps marching briskly into your direction.

The locker budges as the Oni tries to tear the door open with his open hand, only to find it to be locked. It surprises the both of you…

Your heart is beating within your throat at this point as you remain to watch the doors like a hawk, not believing what’s happening right now before your thoughts flash over to the Entity, wondering what its intentions with you are.

Anyhow, you try to think of a plan to escape the Oni in case he does somehow manage to tear open the doors, your fingers brushing over the firecrackers that are bundled up in your pants left pocket. The ones you’ve found and picked up somewhere within the trial.

The said killer, on the other hand, is breathing even heavier than before as you hear his katana evaporate within the air as wisps of black smoke and embers before a large shadow peers through the rosters.

You choke on your breath as the Oni tries to pull open the doors through the help of his monstrous strength in addition to his full weight, the locker screeching and groaning in protest. Your attention is partly diverted as a familiar black mist suddenly coats the bottom of the locker before wrapping you into its cold embrace.

He keeps hanging on whilst shaking violently against the handles, a dark growl shivering the very air.

All you could do was to protect your ears from the loudness of his actions, fear gripping your heart at every clamorous sound and movement.

Yet, you can’t help but to pitch a gasp and a sob as a loud roar now pierces the surrounding area before something huge and bulky is being slammed against the locker’s entirety, feeling the indirect impact of it ripple throughout your frozen body. It is his Kanabo that he’s using out of frustration...

He’s pelting the locker with a barrage of strikes now, the screaming getting louder and louder with each powerful hit.

You close your eyes and shiver violently, scared that the Oni’s about to smash the locker wide open with you still in it.

However, a deafening silence soon overtook you, a heat now washing over your body and an orange light flickering from behind your closed eyelids.

You slowly open them, only to nearly jump up in joy as you come to stare at the flames which could only belong to one particular campfire…

The Shape

Your body is tormented by sweat and your lungs are burning like crazy as you rush straight into the dungeon’s nearest locker as a suicidal attempt to rid yourself from the man in the mask who’s hot on your trail.

The killer deliberately cornered you into the basement by cutting you off at a spot where you’d least expected him to be. And from there, you pretty much ran on raw panic and unadulterated fear as common sense was long since thrown out of the window as derived by your current course of action.

You’re breathing heavily as an all too familiar mask flashes through the splits of the roster, and close your eyes with a silent prayer falling from your lips and with your hands bawling the hem of your shirt into a tight bundle.

But… Nothing happens as you gradually open your eyes back up to the darkness of the world.

Your gaze is now set on the mask that has tilted to the side, seemingly in confusion. You quickly connected the dots afterwards, understanding that the locker’s suddenly been locked by the Entity for some reason just after you have ran into it.

You then hear his knife thwacking against the paint chipped wood before being recoiled by the effects of the impact.

Did he just try to stab the locker?

You feel your blood run cold as your hands start to tremble, realization kicking in…

In panic, you quickly hunch down, not wanting to be pierced by the sharp blade if it does manage to thrust its way through one of the doors like some sort of a magician’s sword and possibly ending your life that way as nasty consequence.

Another thwack follows, and then another.

Like a mindless animal stuck in a looped pattern, the Shape keeps on stabbing his favored kitchen knife against the locker over and over again, not even a single huff or growl of frustration being heard. He’s surprisingly silent, in fact, as he’s trying to cut his way into your awkward confinement…

Only short moments of complete silence are woven in between. Perhaps within those moments, he’s checking if the locker’s been unlocked due to his strange efforts.

You move your body into a sitting position, your hands now holding a flashlight as you closely keep your attention on both doors.

Your eyes quickly got diverted, however, as something cold creeps up your legs.

Michael freezes and his head dips the moment he feels something swirl past his ankles, now witnessing how black heavy smoke escapes through the cracks at the bottom of the locker.

He tilts his head yet again before his free hand reaches for the handle, managing to open the door normally this time, only to learn that you’ve disappeared into thin air…

His fingers twitch against the wooden hilt of his weapon…

#dbd #dead by daylight #reader #insert #kazan yamaoka #oni #michael myers #shape #freddy krueger #nightmare #yandere #dbd x reader

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tossawary · 3 years

Note

I need to know more about “SVSSS - Baby Brother Liu Qingge” bc I love tiny and very deadly baby LQG

I have a 3k-ish Shang Qinghua POV that was supposed to be the introduction to this fic concept! So... ah... baby Liu Qingge does not appear in this, but you can see the setup for how an 8yo-ish Liu Qingge was supposed to be introduced. My hope is that this will someday become a "Shang Qinghua and Shen Jiu go on a mission with Baby Brother Liu Qingge" one shot.

-cut-

Shang Qinghua didn't really have the words to describe what it was like having Proud Immortal Demon Way's characters finally come into his second life.

He didn't have the words to describe a lot of his transmigration experience, honestly! His words had described a lot of this world already, haha, hadn't they? Sometimes a person just had to put up with it and keep going.

And then excuse himself later to go scream into a pillow! Many times!

At first, life was just him in a body that didn't fit and strange memories that slipped between his fingers like sand. His memories of a past life had settled eventually, the System finally came fully online, and his relationship with his second family was fully fucked forever. That was fine, though! That was fine! With some unsolicited prodding from his System, he left to go seek his fortune soon enough and he never had to talk to his character's birth parents or siblings again.

But Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky had never said much of anything about Shang Qinghua’s family or home village, besides saying that the man had dreamed of more than his mediocre origins, so everything had been unfamiliar and original and real. Getting to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, which he had described in great detail, was a real headfuck. There were no words for the experience of recognizing things that he’d written in another life.

He saw the glistening rainbow bridge and the intimidating sect entrance and the majestic meeting hall on Qiong Ding, and he nearly screamed. He definitely squawked. His vision got really fuzzy for a minute there and he had to sit down on the ground before he fell over. What the fuck?! What the fuck?! He’d made a world! The System had really made a world out of his web-novel! He was really stuck in Proud Immortal Demon Way!

There were upsides and downsides to joining Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. Downsides included: the hard training, the harder workload, the dangerous missions, the disrespect towards An Ding Peak, and being surrounded by arrogant and foolish teenagers looking to look down on someone. It was really something else to look some of them in the eye and think, "Bro, I don’t know your name, but you kind of owe your existence to me. Could you stop being such a fucking asshole about leaving your chores for me to do?! Respect your father!"

Upsides included: actually becoming a cultivator (pretty cool, even though the work of cultivation sucked more often than not), better living accommodations and food, and actually getting to see some of the cooler places, plants, monsters, and magic that were a part of his world. Sure, carting a monster corpse brought in by Bai Zhan Peak to Xi Jiao Peak for butchering was smelly and heavy and altogether miserable, but seeing an impossible animal was still kind of incredible. If this unwilling Shang Qinghua could stop being pushed around and stepped on long enough to appreciate the upsides, he’d really appreciate it!

It was interesting and infuriating to log the differences between what he’d imagined, what he’d written, and what the System had created. What sort of author described every single object in every single room? Who had time for that? Who wanted to read that? The System had filled in all the living details of An Ding Peak - the Leisure Houses, the training grounds, the storehouses, the warehouses, the kitchens, the lesson halls, the leisure gardens, the farming fields, the livestock fields, the stables, the cart lot, the water supply, the sewage systems, and so on - so that people could actually live here. Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky as an author had done many things worthy of complaint and criticism, but wasting his readers’ time with sewage systems was not one of them!

The System had also filled in all the little details and decorations - the paintings on the walls of sect history, the detailing on the rooftops supposedly offering protections from dream demons, the chipped and faded paint of old storehouses that disciples would be tasked with replacing, the statues in the fields to scare off scavengers, the carvings on the doors meant to reduce resentful energy, the childish etchings of bored students the surface of the lesson hall desks, the old bench where the An Ding Peak Lord liked to sit and eat flatcakes - so that it really seemed like people had built this place and maintained it and added to it for generations.

Shang Qinghua had his quibbles here and there. Sometimes the System had made choices that he objected to! He would have done it differently if it had asked him, the author, to contribute. He really felt as though the System should have asked him to clarify the plot holes and the gaps in detail, instead of choosing precedence randomly or building off random implications taken way too literally.

Sometimes he found out that the System had built things out of throwaway lines that Shang Qinghua himself had completely forgotten about. It turned out that Ku Xing Peak made a lot of purification tools and containment vessels because Airplane had offhandedly mentioned that this was their specialty, and now Shang Qinghua had to cart around delicate ceramics to be sold to city merchants or other cultivation sects. He never would have dared to write that if he’d known that it would one day in another life be his job to do things like take inventory and chase down signatures for successful deliveries.

Places, items, and creatures were one thing, but logging the differences between the people he met and the characters he’d created was something else. At first it was okay, because he was surrounded by nameless An Ding Peak nobodies - his fellow disciples, their teachers, the hardworking managers and merchants, even the peak lord - none of them had ever mattered in Proud Immortal Demon Way. If Airplane had been the one to name any of them, he didn’t recognize the names or remember them.

Then he met Yue Qingyuan.

Wow, it was a worse headfuck than first arriving at Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, when Shang Qinghua finally realized that this was the young version of one of his actual characters. It took him a minute. As a lowly outer disciple, Shang Qinghua hadn’t received “Qinghua” as a name yet (his name was Houhua, not that anyone ever used it) and the future Yue Qingyuan was still called Yue Qi.

Shang Qinghua was fourteen at the time. Yue Qingyuan must have been around the same age, so he didn’t strike the tall and handsome figure of the sect leader Airplane had described. The boy was broad, but actually a little short. He had freckles. He had acne.

But he also had a warm smile that seemed to go all the way to his eyes when he offered to give Shang Qinghua directions to the right office on Qiong Ding. He had a steady hand when he helped Shang Qinghua up, after the An Ding disciple had suddenly tripped over nothing upon being introduced. Yue Qingyuan - Yue Qi - walked him to the right office and did his best to make small talk, friendly and kind even though Shang Qinghua was having difficulty stringing more than a few words together in his shock.

Even then, it was obvious that the boy was developing the calm surety and the social charm that would make him a greatly admired sect leader someday! It was all Shang Qinghua could do not to blurt out: “Holy shit, you’re REAL?!” Which would be closely followed by: “Hey, is Shen Qingqiu really real too?!” And then maybe closely followed by: “FUCK!!!”

As the years went by, Shang Qinghua met more of Proud Immortal Demon Way’s characters, and it was weird every time. None of them were exactly like he was expecting. He kept expecting… well… he kept expecting them to look like the fanart, like flawless character models, more or less. Instead, he kept getting… people.

Wei Qingwei, head disciple of the sword-focused Wan Jian Peak, was also shorter than he was expecting, kind of stout, with a wide face and a wider smile. Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky had apparently had the man crack a few jokes upon his rare appearances in the web-novel, usually during tense situations, as he was reminded by the System upon thinking to himself: “Why is this guy LIKE THIS?!” So, because of just a few lines, the real Wei Qingwei had a relentless sense of humor and loved telling jokes.

Upon their first meeting, when Shang Qinghua was fifteen and had been sent over to help renovate some Wan Jian dormitories, fifteen-year-old Wei Qingwei had pretended to fumble a sword and, using a packet of dye and a sleight of hand, made it look like he’d accidentally cut off his own hand at the wrist. Of course Shang Qinghua had screamed and panicked! Anyone would panic! But Wei Qingwei had laughed at him and said, “Got you! Shang-Shidi, the sword wasn’t even unsheathed!” Asshole!

Qi Qingqi, the head disciple of Xian Shu Peak, was much taller than he was expecting. Apparently Airplane had once described a group of some of the peak lords by saying something like: “Each one of them was like a giant to young Luo Binghe.” That group had included Qi Qingqi. The System apparently had taken that to mean that Qi Qingqi was of a height with the likes of Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu. Shang Qinghua discovered this adaptational choice when he was almost sixteen, when this giraffe-like girl came to An Ding Peak to complain about an order someone along the pipeline had dropped completely, and he accidentally found himself (still waiting on a really good growth spurt) eye-level with Qi Qingqi’s chest.

Airplane had apparently once said in Proud Immortal Demon Way that Qian Cao Peak Lord Mu Qingfang appeared a little older than his colleagues, by which he’d probably meant that the man was just tired or something, but this head disciple Mu Qingfang appeared to have ten years on all the other head disciples. Which was good! Shang Qinghua approved of their future head healer not being a teenager and having more training!

On the bad side of things, Airplane had also once said in Proud Immortal Demon Way that the Zui Xian Peak Lord Zhang Qingyan liked his drink too much. This was the peak specializing in alcohol, so it had seemed to make sense! It was supposed to be funny, if anything! Well, at sixteen, Shang Qinghua found out that the System had focused too much on the “too much” part of that statement and now the head disciple of Zui Xian Peak was pretty clearly a budding alcoholic. (Sometimes a cultivator’s constitution and ability to “cure” themselves just… made a person drink more. A lot more.) Which was… not good.

At seventeen, Shang Qinghua met Mobei-Jun.

He didn’t know where to get started with Mobei-Jun.

Somehow he’d… forgotten that Mobei-Jun had been originally based on Airplane’s idea of “the perfect man” and not the super pretty, muscular but slim-waisted protagonist type? The real Mobei-Jun was… tall… and big… and thick. Mobei-Jun’s intimidating features were… more striking than pretty. The first time Shang Qinghua had come back to his Leisure House and found this spoiled brat of an ice demon napping shirtless on his bed, and gotten an eyeful of all that heavy muscle and chest hair, he’d nearly knocked himself out on the doorframe trying to turn away before he had a heart attack.

Mobei-Jun really was going to be the death of him, holy shit.

Especially because this ice demon really was a spoiled brat! Airplane had described this character as being arrogant and apathetic, so now Shang Qinghua had to deal with a Mobei-Jun who took long baths and then carelessly dripped water all over the floor and all over fresh sheets! Who ate all of Shang Qinghua’s cooking and ungratefully only demanded more food, sprawled over furniture not really fit for someone of his size, and then watched Shang Qinghua like a fat tiger! Ahhh, this demon really was lucky he was handsome!

Mobei-Jun was also kind of violent, and mean, which was… well, it sucked.

Back to the sect that Shang Qinghua was now actively betraying, however, as far as he could see, there was still one future peak lord missing.

It wasn’t Shen Qingqiu, who Shang Qinghua had thought would be the last one to show up. Shen Qingqiu had shown up and had been advancing through the ranks of Qing Jing Peak before Shang Qinghua had even met Mobei-Jun, which meant that Yue Qingyuan had finally stopped looking like someone had torn out his soul. (Shang Qinghua had been forced to grit his teeth every time that someone mentioned how privileged that Yue Qingyuan was to have been granted that year of secluded cultivation in the Lingxi Caves at such a young age.)

No, of all the peak lords, it was Liu Qingge who Shang Qinghua had yet to meet.

After meeting Mobei-Jun and becoming an inner disciple, the System had given Shang Qinghua three years to make it to head disciple, probably because the deadline for a new generation of peak lords to ascend was fast approaching. He was working hard to achieve that! Not only did he have to sabotage the current favorite, but he had to make sure all his own training, missions, work, and research were as close to flawless as he could get it! All while keeping an intruding ice demon happy! He wasn’t totally sure that he was going to make it at this rate, even though he’d been here for years.

So it was a little concerning that Liu Qingge hadn't shown up yet. There was so much left to do. A world-state that had yet to be established. Liu Qingge had work to do here!

Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu still had to develop a hatred for each other as disciples that would extend to everyone believing that Shen Qingqiu had murdered Liu Qingge as peak lords, after all. Granted, all Liu Qingge really had to do was beat everyone else on Bai Zhan Peak up to obtain the position, and it wasn’t exactly hard to get Shen Qingqiu to develop a lifelong grudge, but the guy was still cutting it pretty close.

It was possible that Liu Qingge was already on Bai Zhan Peak and making good progress, but that he was just so solitary and focused on searching out the next big battle that Shang Qinghua had just never had the opportunity to meet him. Shang Qinghua did his best to avoid Bai Zhan Peak most of the time, honestly! He was curious about where Liu Qingge was, about what the man looked like, but he didn’t let himself sweat at not seeing the future war god, when he already had so many things to sweat about. The System had taken care of bringing in everyone else, so Shang Qinghua was sure that Liu Qingge would follow sooner or later.

Shang Qinghua’s first sign that something was wrong was that, on the day that Liu Qingge finally announced his existence by beating up everyone on Bai Zhan Peak, everyone was saying things like, “I can’t believe some kid managed to topple all of Bai Zhan like that!”

He… may or may not have ignored this sign.

To be fair to this poor writer-turned-disciple, though, he’d been up all night finishing some paperwork catastrophe the An Ding Peak Lord had thrown at him to fix, as some kind of “test” of his logistics skills. Upon hearing the latest gossip, Shang Qinghua thought, “Oh, finally?” And then his overtired brain collapsed from the effort of thinking two words together in a sentence, and all he could manage from there was to feel the intense need to go to bed at a maximum, static-y volume. No words. No more thinky thoughts. Just the need for speedy sleep.

He stumbled through the rest of his day and then passed out for 18 hours straight. In hindsight, this would have been the time when the gossip was at its hottest. He missed all of it.

When he woke up, everyone was still dealing with the aftermath of what had happened on Bai Zhan Peak, but the conversation had shifted more towards replacing Qian Cao Peak’s depleted supplies and the repairs to Bai Zhan’s training grounds. Liu Qingge was the name on everyone’s lips, still, but everyone knew the basic information now. Now, everyone was just exclaiming over and over again how unbelievably young (and pretty) he was to have bested every other disciple on the sect battle-focused peak. This didn't seem too strange.

The System probably would have based the War God's appearance on his sister, Liu Mingyan, a strong contender for the most beautiful woman in all of Proud Immortal Demon Way. Liu Qingge apparently being a very pretty boy fell neatly into line with all the other character design surprises that Shang Qinghua had gotten smacked with so far.

If Airplane had known that he'd be transmigrating into his novel, maybe there would have been even more handsome men! And everyone would have lived happily ever after and nothing bad would have happened ever, probably, but also there might be more sexy guys too.

TBC

#timetomakeanewwish #tossawary updates #tossawary svsss #shang qinghua #unrealistically young prodigy liu qingge au #ask tossawary

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gryffindors-weasley · 3 years

Text

Old and New

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Requested by @futuremrsmalfoy20 : “Draco buys you a kitten fluff”

Summary: When you return home from work, Draco has a surprise waiting for you.

Warnings: loss of a pet, mild angst, fluff, kisses

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Thank you for such a sweet request!

Draco Malfoy was never a fan of cats, or any kind of animal for that matter. He didn’t grow up with household pets, save for his owl, but even then he wasn’t too fond of the feathered creature. He didn’t dislike them, not really, he rather was indifferent. However, you on the other hand were the complete opposite.

You had had a cat once before, finding a feline more preferable rather than the traditional owl that most students had selected for themselves. She was a fluffy black cat with miscellaneous splotches of white, striking and round green eyes that were far too adorable for you to ignore. Her name was Ophelia and she was wonderfully sweet, not a minute going by in her presence without her nudging you affectionately.

She accompanied you throughout your years of magical endeavors at Hogwarts until seventh year, and you made the decision to bring her home to your parents before the war had begun in full force. You had loved her far too dearly to risk the potential of putting her in harm’s way, she was your home away from home.

Since then, she had lived her days and nights in the blissful environment of your parents house, and you were quite sure you’d never seen her more content in an environment in your life. Always tucked away in the most unconventional of places whether it be the garden, the top shelf of your closet, or even nestled between the thick tree roots on the edge of the property. It was there where she had lived her life most contently, and you couldn’t have asked for anything more.

—

You sigh tiredly upon finally seeing your beloved home, smiling at the sight of the little yellow car parked on the mossy cobblestone driveway. As if it weren’t already obvious that Draco had gotten home before you, the smoke puffing out of the lone chimney and the warm glow in the frosted windows were more than enough indication. You pushed open the creaky wrought iron gate without hesitation, the sound only accentuated by the drizzling rain pattering down.

Rushing up the stone path to your front door, you push it open and escape from the rain. The warmth you were met with was immediate upon your entrance, as was the ever familiar scent of cinnamon and sugar, a hint of coffee mixed in. Your soft smile never faltered as you shrugged off your rain dampened jacket, slipping it on the copper hook just inside the door next to Draco’s.

“Love?” An ever so familiar voice called out, one that felt even more like home than that of the building the two of you claimed as your own just a year and a half ago.

You stepped out of your shoes and set them on the welcome rug, Draco appearing shortly after to see if it’d really been you. His hair was a mess from what it once neatly was before he left for work earlier that morning, the inclement weather having brought out waves of platinum. His smile was nothing short of adoring when he caught sight of you, and you barely had time to set down your keys before his hands settled on your flushed cheeks. His lips were soft against yours as he kissed you, the expected taste of coffee and cream lingering on his lips. His hands are cooled against your heated skin, but the shiver running through you was of no importance at that moment.

“Hi darling,” he manages when he brings himself to part from you, though he hadn’t strayed too far as his nose brushed against yours.

“Hey,” you sigh, his kiss nearly making you a fool no matter how short it may have been.

He tucked your hair behind your ear tenderly, the tips of his fingers tracing along your skin before traveling down your arm to grasp your hand. No matter how hard he tried, which hadn’t been very much, he finds himself capturing your lips once more in another kiss. You were far too irresistible for him not to bask in your affections.

“How was work?” He mumbles against your lips, squeezing your hands.

“Quite busy for a bookshop in the middle of the only wizarding town in the area. Peculiar isn’t it?” You respond, a laugh leaving your lips when his arms circle around your waist and press you to him in an embrace.

“Indeed,” he agrees quietly, kissing your cheek before his lips ghost across your neck and just under your ear warmly. You had to stop yourself from all but squealing at the very sensation tickling over your skin though a giggle does escape you.

“What’s got you so smiley?” You inquire, brow raised in curious amusement as you push back to look at him.

“What, can’t I be overjoyed that the love of my life has come home? Forgive me, darling,” he says in faux offense, his smile still very there regardless.

You roll your eyes, allowing yourself to fully look at him for the first time you’d gotten home just minutes ago. His cheeks were a bit flushed from what you assumed was the chilly weather, that and the feeling of your kisses had brought it out of him. His icy hair had been dipping over his forehead, covering over dark brows and tangling with even darker lashes. The grin on his kiss swollen lips had been very apparent the moment you saw him, faltering only slightly when he was busy casting his affections on you in greeting. A thick, black sweater hung from his shoulders, tattered and torn around the edges from constant use when he hadn’t needed to dress so formally for St. Mungo’s. Though you couldn’t help but to notice the extra runs and pulls in the soft yarn.

“Perhaps I will if you let me change out of these clothes,” you say, reluctantly leaving his loose grasp. “It is raining after all.”

A flurry of panicked emotions had crossed over his face in that very moment, his eyes widening a fraction as you step farther from him and closer to the stairway. Your brows furrow slightly at his sudden change in attitude, watching as his hand flies up to scratch at the back of his neck. When you turn away once more you’re quick to feel his hand envelope yours, effectively stealing your attention away from the task at hand briefly. As you open your mouth to speak, he beats you to it.

“I’ve already put your clothes in the dryer so they’d be warm for you, they’re in the laundry room,” he rushes, and his words are far too quick for you not to be even a little suspicious of it. “It’s that sweater of mine that you like, you know—the green one?”

He draws you closer as he speaks, noting the way your eyes squint in disbelief. Draco may have been good in the area of deception to just about anyone else, anyone but you. Not with the way his hand came to rest on your cheek, and how his thumb brushed over your skin. Certainly not with the way his bout of kisses resumed, blossoming over bare patches of skin. His valiant attempts to hold your attention had been working, but only for a few fleeting moments.

“And what if I wanted the maroon one?” You jest with a teasing smile, and with his moment of distraction you slip from his arms and make your way back to the stairs.

He finds himself at a loss for words as his panic builds with every bit of distance between you, and all he can do is follow behind and desperately try to find something else to say. When he comes up terribly short, he accepts his fate with a defeated huff.

“Darling wait!” He manages when you twist the doorknob, entering the cozy bedroom.

His face scrunches in a wince at the sight before you both, unsure of just how you’d react. For a small kitten lay curled up in a fluffy ball of snowy white fur, tucked and nuzzled into heaps of his old quidditch sweater. The small animal was seemingly unbothered by the newfound commotion that had entered the room, instead basking in the warmth of the deep green yarn. You even took notice to the lilac-colored collar fitted loosely around its neck, a small silver bell dangling from it.

You spun on your heel to face him with a raised brow, a soft smile fighting to tug at your lips and soon you couldn’t hide it. You were baffled more than anything. Draco’s cheeks were a noticeable blush pink as he offered you a hesitant smile, still looking rather panicked. “What’s this all about?”

He swallows thickly, his fingers running over his jaw in a nervous habit. “She’s…she’s ours.”

It took you a moment to process it as Draco shuffled around you, leaving you to look at the empty spot he once stood in for a brief few seconds before following where he’d walked. He scooped up the small animal with a certain gentleness that made your heart flutter in your chest, and she stretched tiredly against him. Her yawn had showcased perhaps the tiniest fangs you’d ever seen, the soft pink pads of her feet pressing to his chest.

“What do you mean?” You were still quite dumbfounded at the sudden news, your gaze flickering between the kitten cradled happily in his hands and to his hopeful face that you wouldn’t be mad at him.

“I uh…I adopted her,” he says with a nervous laugh as he looks down at her, a small meow escaping her mouth at the sound of his voice. “I know you’ve been missing Ophelia, love. And I know I’m not very fond of cats but I think I’m warming up to her, she seems to like me—”

His rambling is promptly cut off when she nips at his bottom lip, doing it again twice more before he settles her into his sweater on the bed again.

“Draco, I…”

“Have I upset you?” He asks, a myriad of emotions rushing through him that maybe you still weren’t ready for a new pet at that moment in time. “Love, I didn’t mean—”

“I love her,” you finally manage after he all but sputters apology after apology, a jittery laugh leaving you as your gaze moves to his. Your laugh only continued softly at the light swelling of his lip from where she had bit at him in a playful curiosity.

Now he was the one that had been baffled, dumbfounded. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d heard you correctly. “You do?”

You respond with the kiss you press on his lips, firm yet gentle as the shock you’d once been in begins to wear off and disappear completely. His persistent panic only settles then, his obvious tension relaxing as his arms snake around your waist and a sigh is breathed. You part from him only to kiss him yet again, your fingers brushing over his cheek as your smile becomes apparent. “I love her.”

The words are whispered in giddy excitement as your lips sweep across his own with soft touches, his hair brushing against your forehead in the close proximity. The exhale of his relief puffs against your skin as he kisses your cheek once, twice, even three times, your arms hugging around his neck. Your grip on him was on the verge of being too tight, but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

You release him all too quickly in his opinion, but his inner complaints are quick to dissolve when he sees you grab the kitten gingerly. Her contented meow is instant in your gentle grasp, and you can’t help but kiss her tiny pink nose in a shower of affection.

All Draco could do was stand back to watch the happiness dance across your features, to listen to your delight laughs as you spoke ever so sweetly to the fluffy creature. He couldn’t help the way his heart had been hammering away in his chest at the very sight, the way his smile was unable to be controlled at the sheer excitement you held. It had diminished any last traces of worry and doubt he had that maybe it’d been too soon. That maybe it’d upset you and maybe you’d think he was expecting you to move on. Any and all fears that had plagued his mind on the subject were gone at the way you beamed.

In that moment he found he’d do just about anything to see you smile, to bring you happiness. He knows very well that he hasn’t always been the easiest person to love, far from it, he knows that his life and his prior choices have put you through more than he’d like to think about. For if he did dwell on it for too long, he’d certainly make himself miserable because it still vexes him that you could love him so fully, without hesitation. But if there had been one thing he knew with certainty, it’s that he’d go to the ends of the earth just to make you happy. He hadn’t known how he deserved you after everything, but he was determined to give you all that he could.

“Have you named her yet?” You ask, pulling him from his daze and back to you.

He was distracted for a mere moment, trying to piece together what you had said because he’d been too caught up in admiring you. “Well, I…I was thinking Ivory. I thought it would be rather cute since—what is it?”

The corner of your mouth quirked up in a teasing smirk, your brow raising. “And to think you hated cats.”

He scoffs as he rolls his eyes, looking away from you to stave off his reddening cheeks.

“I do not hate them, I just never particularly liked them,” he grumbles.

“That is so untrue!” You exclaim, his gaze turning to you again, “You nearly declared war when Filch’s cat clawed you, Draco. If I recall correctly, you even said—”

Your words were cut off by his lips, for he didn’t want to hear just how right you were because you always are. So he quieted you the best way he knew how. The giggle it elicited tumbled from your lips and sounded against his mouth, fading away the more he had kissed you. After all, he had to make sure you didn’t bring up just how insufferable he once was in his childhood. But what was once an attempt to distract you became more profoundly distracting to him as your lips had him spellbound.

“Ivory is cute,” you murmur softly with another tender kiss as she paws at your hair, “and so are you, Dray.”

Her little meows have pulled your focus from each other and directed it towards the kitten in your arms who so openly expressed her feelings. Draco took her from your hands and kissed her head, and it was then that your quiet laughter erupted. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say as you try to stifle it, earning a narrowed stare. “You two look alike is all.”

His gaze only hardens at you before he looks at her, her pale blue eyes and icy hair too obvious a comparison to himself. But he will never admit that to you, you’re having way too much fun with it as it is. “No, we don’t.”

Your joyous laughter sounds once more, bringing the softest of smiles to his face. “Whatever you say, my love.”

In that moment your heart was full, because now you had not one love but two. The gesture was wonderfully thoughtful and entirely what you felt you missed, and while nothing could replace your treasured Ophelia no matter how many years have passed, now you could appreciate the old and new.

—

Tags: @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq @awritingtree @harrysweasleys @dracosathenaeum @snitches-at-dawn @lunalovecroft

#draco malfoy one shot #draco x you #draco malfoy #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy angst #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco fanfiction #draco malfoy fanfiction

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

Text

Trial by Fire (Part 1/3) Santiago “Pope” Garcia x GN reader

Summary: You’re finally introducing your new boyfriend to The Boys. It must be intimidating for your guy because, hello? Not only are they literally lethal, as well as infeasibly handsome, but they’re hella protective of you to boot. They want the best for you so, naturally, they make your guy run the gauntlet the whole evening. Santiago, though? Well. Given that he is secretly in love with you? Let’s just say he doesn’t handle the situation very well at all.

Genre / tropes: angst, friends to lovers, love confession.

Author’s note: I wasn’t planning on writing this (in fact I’m writing the opposite, where “Santi has a new girlfriend and you don’t take it well” as a series, loosely based around the 7 deadly sins); but, in the meatime, I wrote this to get back into the swing of things after a lil break. It’s just a quick one, but there will be a second and final part, if you want it! Let me know!

Word count: somehow, 4.4k.

Warnings: language, angst, best friends arguing, Santi being an asshole.

Rating: T

The boys aren’t being as awful as you had anticipated, at least. For the most part, they’re actually being pretty friendly, and although they’ve transitioned into grilling Dean about every aspect of his life, they are at least listening intently and smiling at his answers. All except for one fucker, of course; and, naturally, surprising no-one, the fucker misbehaving is one (1) Santiago “Pope” Garcia.

The group - the boys, yourself, and Dean- are huddled comfortably around the blazing warmth of the fire pit in Frankie’s yard. The dancing, oranged flames cut through the dark and cold of the crisp night, as you sit upwind of the smoke on scattered, mis-matched camp chairs.

Whilst the others are evidently enjoying the evening -faces painted with smiles, body language open and leaning-in to chat to Dean- that fucker Santi is leaning back in his chair, his jaw twitching in seeming aggravation, his arms folded, and his intense eyes needling your beau. In this dim light, with the firelight licking over the sharp planes of his face, he looks every bit like a trained killer about to leap out of the shadows and garotte someone. Well… a very petulant trained killer. His call sign should have been Mr. Grumpy Pants, you think idly.

What’s up with him this time?! you wonder.

He gets these moods sometimes. And, when it strikes him, he can be a little bit hostile - despite the fact he’s a puppy underneath it all. You had hoped that for once, maybe he would suck it up, and yet, your hopes had been in vain, it seems.

Every time Dean speaks, or touches you, or even laughs at another of the guys’ stories, Santi’s expression sinks further and further through layers of distaste; and, by this point, he’s eyeing Dean as though he’s a war criminal the squad have been sent to take-out. You half expect him to leap up and take down Frankie any second for fraternizing with “the enemy”, if you’re honest.

Truth be told, you’ve had just about enough of this. Your friend had better buck his ideas up, sharpish, or he’d be reminded very swiftly that you were Delta Force too.

For now, trying to ignore the bastard, you look back at Dean, and the sight of him in animated conversation with your buddies causes at least some of your aggravation to fall away. Things have been going well between you and Dean, even if you do say so yourself. Originally from Michigan, he now worked as a lecturer at a nearby music school. He was also a banjo musician in a bluegrass / synth power-pop mash-up of a band, which (sort of) explained his retro-inspired mop of brown hair and his thick dark moustache - majestic enough to rival Frankie’s. True, he wasn’t your usual type, but he was honest, and sweet and kind... Plus, he’d never killed anyone with his bare hands, which was rather refreshing too, if you were honest.

Safe to say, so far, things were working out. So well, in fact, that you’d recently met his parents for the first time while they were in town. So well, in fact, that -after keeping him purposefully away from the boys for as long as you feasibly could- you’d now brought him to meet your family. That’s what this squad was to you, after all. Your family.

Remembering sporadic moments from the past few months together, you smile gently as you listen to Dean talk. You watch him seamlessly integrate some tailored conversation starters you’d fed him ahead of time, and you gently squeeze his thigh in an act of reassurance and appreciation. He is feeling the pressure, you can tell, although he is handling it well. To be fair, you think, who wouldn’t feel the pressure? You’d been nervous enough to meet his parents, but this? A bunch of Delta Force guys and an MMA champion? This squad was lethal; literally -you’ve lost track of your combined kill count, though Will probably hasn’t, you are sure.

Aside from that though, most of all, they are your family. You need them to like Dean and vice versa, and you know that isn’t necessarily a given. You are a tight-knit group, with little hope of outsiders grasping the full extent of your decade’s old in-jokes, or the intense camaraderie instilled by facing a hail of bullets together. Plus, as the baby of the group, they were protective as all hell of you.

It came from a good place, you knew: they wanted what was best for you. But, there was a reason you’d delayed this meeting... It’s not as though they were threatening or anything. They didn’t do the whole “if you hurt our buddy, I’ll kill you” thing, for example (at least, not while you were present – you couldn’t vouch for what happened when you were out of earshot). However, after introducing a succession of boyfriends to them over the years, the squad had developed a well-rehearsed system for sizing-up your new squeeze. In the past, not all of your squeezes had made it through the gauntlet. It was a trial by fire, to be sure, and you were pleased that Dean has not yet been burned.

Of course, whilst the boys’ approval didn’t mean everything to you, you couldn’t deny it was important; perhaps especially this time, with this guy. And, out of all of the group, Santi’s approval meant the most to you. Always had. Probably because Santi meant the most to you, full stop. You simply couldn’t imagine having someone in your life that didn’t get on with your best friend. And, so, you are not overly thrilled at the reception Santi is giving Dean right now. The reception he had been giving him all evening, in fact. And the more you dwell on it, the more an anger bubbles forth from you. Even though you try to push it down, and focus on Dean, that fucker in the corner of your eye sends you.

“What’s wrong with you tonight, Garcia?” you blurt out, a little louder than intended, causing the amiable chat and giggles to stall, all eyes turning to you - then, in turn, following the direction of your fiery gaze over to Santi, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Now, he leans forward. Looks back at you with a rare venom in his eyes. With a smug curl of his mouth, he dips to pick up his beer from the floor and takes a swig - buying himself some time. Trying to brush you off. Still, your gaze does not relent as he rests his elbows on his thighs, bridging his fingers together in the space between, thumbs sticking in the air.

Now, he engages, and he looks directly at Dean, his eyes sweeping dismissively over the entirety of his form. Now, he speaks, his voice filled with far more bitterness than the situation merits. “Nothing at all. I’m fucking peachy. So, Dean. You play the motherfuckin’ banjo?” he offers, and yet, it sounds far more like an accusation than a question.

What the fuck is up with him?

Wilting a little beneath Santi’s stare, as the ex-operative squints his eyes in his direction, Dean casts a helpless, sideward glance at you from his place in the circle, and yet, you are so stupefied by anger that you can do little to help.

“I think what my dear friend means to say -” Frankie dips in valiantly, smacking Santi pointedly on the thigh, likely hoping to smack some sense into him too “- is why don’t you tell us more about your music, Dean?”

Frankie’s eyes and smile are soft when he looks at you, surreptitiously exchanging a pointed look -what’s up with that pendejo?- and you are grateful that at least some of the evident tension is diffused when he picks up the slack in the conversation.

Santi and his mood swings be damned, and, feeling bolstered, Dean continues on.

“Actually, it’s going pretty frickin’ well with the band. It’s a side-gig to my lecturing job, but we’re planning a tour during summer vacation. The States -east coast- and Western Europe for now. Maybe headlining a couple of small festivals, if that pans out, who knows.” Dean relates, humbly.

“That’s great, man,” Will chips in, helping Frankie get things back on track. “We’ll have to come down to a gig soon, hear you play.”

“Actually, we have something to tell you about the tour, don’t we, babe?” Dean says bashfully, and he looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to pick-up the thread. You’d talked about it before coming today, and it had seemed like a great idea at the time, but suddenly, now that the announcement is imminent, your mouth is dry - as if filled with cotton. Still, you force a smile, and you’re not sure why, but you look anywhere else but at Santi as your lips form the words. “Yeah – kinda big news, fellas. I’m going to join Dean on the Europe leg of the tour. I’ll be leaving you losers behind for a few months.”

Dean’s face cracks into a smile and he reaches for your hand, looking made-up at the prospect. Still, while you will yourself to be fully present in the moment, you find yourself focussed on looking anywhere but at Santi, sure that his stare must be boring into the side of your head. You hadn’t told him yet. Unfortunately, at Santi is where just about everyone else ends up looking, as the fucker abruptly pushes his camp chair back and stands, storming indoors before anyone can hope to fathom it.

You exchange glances with Frankie, Will, and Benny, with Benny thankfully stepping-in this time to distract Dean from the obvious, and asking him which stops you two will be making, and which sights you plan to see.

“Look, man, don’t mind that tool. Got any sightseeing plans?”

What is Santi’s problem? Why can’t he give Dean a chance? Yes, you’ve made some mistakes in the past- been hurt, and Santi had helped you pick up the pieces -every time- but you had a good feeling about Dean. A really good feeling. Can’t he see that too?

Frankie throws a concerned glance back towards the house and motions as if to stand, but you beat him to it, wanting to get to the bottom of this. “I’ll go,” you insist, motioning for Frankie to stay put, and with a quick promise to Dean that you’ll be back soon (and a silent plea to your boys to take care of him in your absence), you do just that, walk-jogging across the grass.

When you step inside to the kitchen, you find Santi stood, hunched over the counter, his palms clasping the surface tight enough that his knuckles pale, and his head hung low, his shoulders rising and falling as he takes in exaggerated breaths.

“Well?” you ask pointedly, with zero tolerance for his bullshit. “What’s going on with you? Wanna explain why you’re being an ass to my boyfriend?” you challenge to the back of him, and he instantly whips around at the sound of your voice.

“I’m being an ass?” he asks indignantly, his eyebrows shooting towards the top of his head.

“Yes. In a nutshell. Yes,” you hiss, any other interpretation feeling impossible. You fold your arms and purse your lips, making it plainly evident that you are waiting for some explanation. And, oh boy, it had better be good.

Instead of explaining though, Santi simply huffs out breath, gesturing angrily out of the window. “That guy, really? That’s the guy you’re gonna go all in for? Go to fucking Europe for?”

That guy, you mouth silently, completely stupefied for a moment. You’re not sure exactly what your so-called friend is insinuating, but you are clear that you don’t like it one bit.

“What is your fucking problem?” you ask, punctuating your words with motions of your hands, as if you are trying to strangle the air in-between you in lieu of his neck. “Dean’s a catch. He’s hot, he’s sweet, he’s a nice guy. He’s there for me. He takes care of me.”

“Like I don’t take care of you?!” Santi exclaims, his voice rising and abrasive; and then, immediately after the words tumble forth from his lips, he steps back imperceptibly, as if startled by his own outburst, his hand rasping over the stubble on his chin.

“What in the...? This isn’t about you, you ass!” you bite back, face scrunching up in confusion. Your fingers come to your temples as you grow increasingly lost-off and perplexed, and seemingly, your riposte only makes Santi double down on whatever the hell he is complaining about.

“Who’s the one who’s always been there for you, hmm? Who picks up the pieces every time you make yet another dumb shitty choice with another shitty guy?” he rambles, gesturing his hand towards you dismissively.

You step back from him this time, just a little, tears spiking instantaneously in your eyes at such an unnecessarily cruel blow. He’s right, in a sense: you had always relied on Santi to heal you, not to hurt you - and yet here he was dealing these painful, incoherent blows out of nowhere.

“Shit, Garcia. If it’s that much trouble to be there for me don’t bother next time,” you snap, your voice breaking as the swell of anger and hurt and adrenalin sends tears spilling over your cheeks. “Don’t worry though, I don’t think I’ll need you again. In fact, I have a feeling this guy might stick. So, maybe? Maybe you should think about the fact that the only shitty guy around here is you.”

“You really think he’s good enough for you, hmm? He’s really who you want to end up with?”

You listen, aghast, as his tirade keeps coming. However, as Santi’s voice breaks with emotion part-way through his second question, you can’t explain it, but you feel an intolerable sadness in the pit of you. Even though you’re not sure what’s causing all this, what you’re barrelling toward, you want to thrust this sadness away from you. Push him away from you. You want to push away the knot in your stomach for fear that if you tug at that thread, you might arrive at an answer to his question.

Exasperated, overwhelmed, you roughly paw tears from your cheeks, not knowing where all of these feelings are coming from, in either direction. “Fuck, I... I don’t understand what this is. I don’t get it!” you say, waving your hands, palms-up, through the air. “Is this some macho bullshit? Have I pissed you off somehow?”

At that, the wave of Santi’s anger crests and breaks; as you wonder if you annoyed him. Then, as suddenly as his anger came it is waning, his eyes pooling with rare tears now. With a huff of breath he tears off his damn cap, tossing it aside to run a hand through his grizzled hair.

“No. No,” he backtracks a little, palms up in surrender. “You haven’t... I.... I just...” He pinches his lips in-between his teeth and looks up at the ceiling as his words trail off, perhaps trying to steady his voice before continuing. Or, perhaps he has nothing else to say to you. Perhaps he’s said enough.

You examine him. Still pissed as all hell, but worried now too, and ultimately, your love for your best friend slightly edging-out the anger. It’s rare that anything affects him like this, and you can’t help the sudden rush of concern.

Cresting too, you exhale a tightly held breath into the now silent, taut space between you, and your body sags - just a little. You chew over your words a moment, but when your voice comes back the volume is lower, your tone softer - and, although it cannot be considered friendly, by any stretch, it’s the best you can do right now.

“You know what,” you offer, generously, wrapping your arms around your own middle, stroking your forearms with your own fingertips. “I’m giving you a pass. You don’t even want to give Dean a chance? Then just leave, Santi. Just go. I’ll give the guys some bullshit excuse that doesn’t leave you looking like a total ass, because I’m not a dick to my friends. So just go, okay?” You pump your eyebrow at him indignantly and await a response, your manner stiff and unyielding.

Santi closes his eyes and knits his brow together, something like regret finally passing over his face and he shuffles guiltily from foot-to-foot.

You puff out air through your teeth and shake your head, as you observe this Delta Force hero; the bravest man you know in many ways, but still too cowardly to tell it like it is. To admit that he’s in the wrong. You are afraid to say that even as his gaze comes back to you, misty-eyed, you have little sympathy for his plight. You are sure it is of his own doing. You are almost as sure that he won’t open-up.

“You know,” you begin, breaking from your position and gathering up a fresh cooler of beers from the fridge, turned away from him as you speak. “I brought Dean to meet my family. Do you understand that? I didn’t have parents and siblings for him to meet. I have you guys. You’re my family.”

Still nothing. Nothing but silence greets you. Nothing but a pained expression on his face, his brows drown together and the artificial light of the kitchen highlighting the harsh planes of his face as you look over your shoulder at him, waiting for some reaction. Some admission of guilt. None comes. He simply slots his hands into his jean pockets, looking sheepish.

“So,” you continue, greeted with a brick wall, “fuck knows why you don’t want me to be happy, but I am. I’m happy with him. Thanks a ton for shitting all over that.”

You don’t even bother to look towards him this time, instead placing the last of the clinking, condensation-adorned bottles into the carrier, resigned to head back out without him, and without any apology.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, and your head whips towards him in surprise.

He looks it - sorry. He looks apologetic. Deeply so. He looks sorry for this, for every way he’s ever slighted you, for every time he’s hurt you, even in ways and moments you never knew about. He looks sorry down to the pit of him, and it catches you off-guard when you see it freely offered there in his eyes.

Even so, this is a stubborn man. There’s an apology, but there’s no explanation. Nothing to explain his behaviour. So, even though it seems genuine, it also doesn’t seem like enough.

It doesn’t appease you, and yet, all you can bring yourself to do is sigh deeply.

You know Santi better than anyone, but there’s always been a part of him that has seemed out of reach, even to you. You’re not sure -never have been- whether to be scared or excited by those unknown parts of him. Not sure whether the impasse hints at buried secrets too dark and deep to bear, or whether it hints of a possibility of something more. Something deeper or something better you could have together, if only he would let you in. You don’t know, and you never have, but all you are sure of is that you have constantly teetered on the edge of that abyss, too much left unknown to know all of him, however much you may have wished to. He’s entitled to his secrets, of course, but you hate how they hurt him.

With a little sympathy now, you examine his watery eyes, and when your voice comes back this time, it is softer and slower than you intended. More tired than you expected.

“You know, Dean wants to be with me. And he tells me so.” You casually dip down to pick-up the cooler handle, eyes still fixed on your best friend. “He might not be Delta Force… he might be a banjo player from Michigan… but even he’s brave enough for that.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Santi says, bristling all over again, his hand rasping angrily over his stubbled jaw, and yet, you decline him an explanation. Instead, keeping your own secrets now, holding back, you head towards the door, beers in hand.

Still, you turn back to him. You might be angry, but you still care for him -more than you could say.

“If you figure out what’s up with you, let me know, and I’ll be there for you. Whatever you’ve got going on, you know that, right? But this? This isn’t okay, Garcia. You might think that I make dumb choices -you ass, by the way- but I’ve watched you hit self-destruct so many times instead of dealing with your feelings. Maybe you should look at your own life, huh, instead of shitting all over me for trying to be happy? Shit, at least I fucking try.”

His eyes shift from side to side in the room, the muscles in his jaw twitching, chin jutting forward, and his thumbs locked in his belt loops. He can’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze; at least not until you are disappearing through the threshold; until it’s almost too late. Why can’t he ever manage anything unless it’s too late?

“Wait!” he pleads, but you cut him off, before he can speak. Even though, truth be told, you’re not sure he would muster anything to say at all, even if you gave him a chance. He’s so used to holding back.

“No,” you say firmly. “Forget it, I’m done. I still love you- you’re my best friend. But, fuck, just go home, and get out of my sight, Santiago. I’m so pissed with you right now.”

And so, you turn away, and when his words finally do come, they are spoken to the back of your head. They are spoken without you ever seeing his lips move, and you wonder if he ever said them at all, or if this might be some cruel trick of the night. Some witching hour spell. That is, until you turn towards him and you see the words painted clearly on his face too.

“Fuck it. I’m in love with you.”

I’m in love with you.

Why can’t he ever manage anything unless it’s too late?

You’re not sure what reaction he was expecting, but you almost choke on the sudden lump in your throat. You feel a taste of bile rising-up into your mouth. An intense, resurgent anger fills you, which near makes the room spin, and makes your hands and your legs tremble.

Even if a hidden, unconscious part of you has been waiting, hoping for these words all these years, when they finally come all you can feel is... royally pissed off.

“Oh. No. No. No,” you repeat, words gradually increasing in volume, looking at Santi as if he has mortally wounded you, rather than offered that confession. “You do not get to do this to me.”

You see a hard swallow bob down his throat, a near-instant regret on his face, and your heart pounds in your chest as you reel with the implications of his words.

The coward. The fucking asshole. He waited until now? All the times things had gone to shit, and he waited until you were happy?

“All the times...” you accuse, your tone as bitter as the taste in your mouth, the metallic tang of blood as you feel a rushing in your ears. “All the fucking times. All the chances, Santi, and you do this now?” you continue, your finger sawing through the air, wagging accusations at him, even as your voice wavers, as your hands notceably tremble. “No. Fuck you, Garcia. Fuck you.”

You want to cry, or scream, but you are too angry. So angry, that it eclipses anything else which might come to light. So angry that you almost come full circle again, beginning to stabilise out at eerily calm.

Santi looks down at the floor, and exhales air, chuckling disbelievingly to himself, then lightly nodding his head, lips pressed tightly together. His feet shift agitatedly below him as he brings his endlessly familiar eyes back up to meet yours. This time when he looks at you, it hurts. You remember bullet wounds, and you swear that was nothing compared to this.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say to me, hmm? Fuck you, Garcia?”

“What the fuck were you expecting?” you say, launching your words before you realise the implications of them. Yes, you know fine well that your boyfriend is sitting outside, likely wondering where you have got to. But, if you had the wherewithall to have thought about it, you would know exactly what Santi was expecting, despite all of that. You would know that a part of him must be expecting, hoping, that when he told you, you might reciprocate. That you might love him back.

And, would that be so outside of the realms of possibility? Would it be so hard to imagine that the deep, magnetic, and unshakeable friendship you shared could be something else? Something more? That you could tip over the edge you had long been teetering on? Maybe it could, or maybe it could have, but right now, you can’t see past the flashbang he has just dropped over your life, and it is clouding your vision.

You were happy. You are happy. Fuck him for doing this now.

Why would you fall into the unknown for him, if you never knew whether he would catch you? If you never knew whether ruin or safety awaited you if you let yourself tip? He always held back.

What the fuck were you expecting?

Your words linger in the space between you, and in lieu of any other lifeline, realisation dawns on Santi’s face. Realisation that, although he jumped, you are not intending to catch him either. But how could you catch him, with your arms already full?

And, so, he slowly nods his head once again, his eyes beading with glassy tears and his hand grazing over his chin in a self-soothing gesture. Wordlessly, he sets his jaw and he abruptly replaces his baseball cap on his head, padding a few steps forward to stand opposite you, sucking all of the breath from your lungs. This time, when he looks at you, you see all of your past, but you still can’t see beyond that. The abyss still scares you too much.

Like this, facing each other down, eye-to-eye, the silence in the room grows sharp as a knife, refined to a point. So, when Santi abruptly turns to leave in a sharp, determined trajectory, without so much as looking at you, it is as if he has dragged the blade across your skin in an equally swift motion. As if he has left you open and bleeding-out, having delivered a mortal wound with the act of his exit. You’ve felt like this on the battelfield before, and in life, yet he was always there for you. Always there to patch you. To pick up the pieces.

Instead of screaming open-mouthed for help, this time, you simply watch him go, and now you are the wordless one, mustering nothing but a gasped inhale of breath before your vision blurs with tears - as you watch his hazy form disappear along the hall and out of your sight.

“Santi,” you call pathetically, your voice small and weak and teary, barely making it past your throat, and he doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t hear you but even if he had, you’re not sure anymore if he would have stopped.

When Santi slams the front door behind him, you shudder with it in its frame, your hand coming to your chest as if to hold your heart inside your opened-up ribs, and you close your eyes against the jarring sound, tears spilling down your cheeks, your face screwing-up into a shined, contorted grimace.

Entirely lost, now alone, you bizarrely wish for the room to be filled with anger again, instead of the intolerable sadness - which all too suddenly takes hold of you as your emotions crest and break. It is all you can do to stumble forward a few paces and hunch over the countertop, finding yourself in the exact position you had discovered Santi in. You stand, bracing yourself with your arms, fingers clutching the edge of the worktop, and your head slumped forward, tears freely spilling out of you as your chest heaves.

You wonder whether he’d held himself in this same position because he had felt an intolerable sadness too. An intolerable sadness at seeing you happy.

Suddenly you could understand it.

That fucker. Santiago “Pope” Garcia.

I’m in love with you.

The words echo in your mind, but this time, if you’re honest, you’re not wholly sure if they’re his, or yours.

PART TWO IS HERE

#santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier x reader #triple frontier fanfic

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gophergal · 3 years

Text

So this is the third oneshot I've finished this week (second I've posted here. The other that isn't posted here is already up on Ao3.) Don't expect this often, I just wanted to get some WIPs off my plate and I still have many to finish. This is just a short, sweet ficlet, but may have a companion or sequel later on. Who fucking knows. This is a sort of a collection of short moments with the two of them. No real plot, just fluff.

Home On The Range

Word Count: 2,000+ | Rating: T+ | Michael Myers x Jason Voorhees (Western AU) | M/M

Warnings: Implied Murder, Description of Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Failed Hanging Mention, Rushed Ending, Fluff

Samhain plodded along wearily, his rider slumped forward in the saddle as he made his way toward safety. The shootout in town, when the Shape had been driven from its prey, had resulted in Michael being shot thrice, twice in the shoulder, once center mass. He'd fled in a haze of pain and blood loss, mounted his horse, and eventually passed out.

And so that led Samhain to his current situation, following instinct to get he and his master somewhere safe, preferably somewhere with abundant food and water. The stallion stopped for a moment, ears perking up as he caught the sound of whistling coming from the valley below. A tall man, his head covered in a feed sack, was the source. The horse tentatively descended from the hilltop towards the strange man, focused on his joyful whistling.

Hearing the careful clop of hooves behind him, the large man turned, ready to strike with the ax in his hands, which he quickly lowered. Samhain snorted weakly where he stood, far away enough that the man couldn't grab him. Instead, the bag-headed man reached into a pocket on his tattered jacket, and pulled out a half eaten stick of peppermint, holding it out to the stallion who took it, eating greedily. His rough hand pet the horse's black, velvety nose and he hummed reassuringly. The horse's rider did not move, even as the tall man took the reins from his hands and led the horse away from the area.

Trees became more dense as they walked until they came upon a small cabin. Samhain's head perked up as his rider was removed from his back, and he let out a piercing whinny. The man hummed again, reassuring the distressed animal, who slowly returned to a relaxed state. Michael was taken from the horse's back, draped limply in the big man's arms like a doll. He groaned, still unconscious, but alive. After taking the smaller man into the tiny log cabin, the large man returned and removed the tack from the black stallion, running his hand along the sweaty, matted coat that had been beneath, then led the horse to a small stream by the halter, leaving him there to graze and drink the fresh cool water that flowed so freely.

Back in the cabin, Jason studied the man he'd sat on his bed, scratching his beard through the rough burlap of his hood. The dark haired man was covered with a layer of cold sweat, his face twisted in pain, even while asleep. Grabbing a basin of clean water and a rag, Jason set to work undressing the man's torso, looking at the bullet wounds that littered his flesh, nestled alongside other pale scars, some fresher than others. While dabbing the blood crusted injuries, he examined them, determining that the shoulders had been entered and exited cleanly. They would only need liquor poured on them to fight infection. The shot in the abdomen, however, looked more serious, and had no exit wound, all but guaranteeing that the offending lead was lodged within. Jason debated whether he should remove the bullet while the man was unconscious or not, deciding to finish dressing the other two wounds beforehand.

When the alcohol was administered, the man roused with a shout of pain, startling Jason, who in turn fell backward. The man looked around in panic, wearily reaching for his gun, which was no longer on his hip. There was a fire in his eyes, which Jason could now see were mismatched, one black as the horse he rode in on and the other milky white. Rolling off the bed, the man struggled to get to his feet, groaning quietly in agony. Jason approached slowly, as one would a wild animal, which earned him a glare. Disregarding this, he grabbed the man's good arm, careful to help him get seated on the mattress. He did not fight back, but kept scowling weakly, allowing his saviour to do as he pleased. With little fuss, his wounds were bandaged, the pressure of it relieving some of the aching.

Michael fell back onto the cushion, flinching in pain that radiated from his midsection. He inhaled sharply, looking over at the bag headed man who gestured to the leaking wound. He mimed pulling something out, which Michael nodded in response to. Steeling himself in preparation of the pain and biting down on the rolled cloth which was put in his mouth. His eyes screwed shut at the first penetration of the hole, burning pain blinding all his senses as the man's fingers searched for the bullet. It seemed to last forever, and Michael threatened to black out.

His stomach turned as the white hot agony coursed through him, reaching every point on his body. Finally, the man extracted his fingers, and he relaxed slightly, breathing heavily around the fabric gripped tightly in his mouth. When he looked up, the man held the bullet in his bloodied hand. Which he set down beside the basin of water. The pain had subsided enough that Michael could feel the touch of water on his abdomen as the man cleaned his wound again, and finally wrapped it.

“Michael,” he rasped, exhaling sharply and extending a hand to the other man, who said nothing in reply, instead holding his hand after shaking it, and drawing wobbly letters into his palm with a finger. He did this twice, then again, writing on his palm until Michael picked it up: J-A-S-O-N. Michael nodded in recognition, leaning back into the mattress and shutting his eyes. He let out a shaky breath, recalling what had happened in the past week. Then shoving it aside. Yet again, the Shape had led him into danger, just as it always had in search of feeding its insatiable hunger.

A few days passed with Michael resting up and Jason keeping his wounds clean. The two would sit in each other's presence, drinking in the peace. Samhain was well, happy to munch on the green grass of the field nearby. It was nice, but Michael was growing restless. His wounds were beginning to close and hurt far less than they had at first. As soon as he was well enough to ride out again, he'd go after that damned Marshall's head. The thought was delightful and served as his sole motivator for remaining at the cabin. So he told himself, that is.

The other big reason was standing out in the clearing around the back, the muscles of his arms shifting as he chopped firewood. Jason had the strength and stature of no one Michael had ever seen. Even the big bastards he'd get in fights with while swacked on whiskey were puny in comparison, though Jason didn't seem the type to fight drunkards in run down dead-fall saloons. No, he seemed like a good enough man that Michael felt no worry around him. Even if he hadn't seen the man's face, which Michael figured was his right to hide anyway, he could tell in his gut that Jason could be trusted. Michael stirred the pot of stew on the stove as he tried to figure out his plan for when he'd head out.

The more he thought about it, he began to realize that he had no idea where to start looking for Marshall Loomis. In theory, he could just go to the nearest town and start shit, then wait while word spread of his whereabouts, but that just wasn't the way Michael liked to do things. He'd much rather be the hunter, waiting in the shadows for his prey.

Jason walked in, skin still glistening from his hard work outside. It should be time for supper soon, he figured. After all, the sun was hanging low in the sky, ready to set within a couple hours. Jason stopped in the doorway, watching as Michael stood at the stove. Something was nice about watching the smaller man (and that's smaller, mind you, not small. Michael was a large fellow in his own right) tend to their supper.

It was very thoughtful of him, despite how Jason tried to keep him off his feet, lest his wounds reopen. There was also something about the scene that caused warmth to bloom in his chest. He pushed it down. Michael would leave at some point. Jason would be on his own again. He didn't even know why he'd helped the younger man.

A month later, December brought cold, dry weather and Michael sitting in front of the fireplace with Jason, whittling away at a chunk of wood. As he whittled, he made excuses for why he should stay now that his wounds had fully healed, now just marks on his skin where the skin dipped low. He owed it to Jason to repay him for all he'd done in nursing him back to health. Samhain needed time to recuperate. Things to justify his extended stay.

With a glance to his side, he stopped carving for a moment, taking in the picture of Jason, his burlap hood nowhere to be seen. His red hair burned vibrant in the firelight as he mended the hole in a shirt. Michael stopped lying to himself, knowing in his heart that he stayed for his own selfish reasons. Jason was a warm presence. Comforting in a way Michael had never felt.

It was contentment, he supposed it would be called. The closest he'd ever gotten was the come down off an adrenaline high of fighting or the fuzzy, numb stupor he would often find at the bottom of a bottle, but neither of those quite fit the word. It just felt good to be around the red haired man. Michael was good at reading people, a trait that came from many years of playing poker to pay for his needs, but he didn't need any of that to know that Jason felt the same. Michael just couldn't leave him now, he simply had no desire to.

Jason had once showed his face freely to those around him. Back when his mama was alive. He remembers the name calling, the tears Mama wiped away, the accusations after her death, the first bit of darkness when his head covered when he was to be hanged, all of the things that led to his hiding. He'd been nervous when Michael saw his face that first time. Washing his burlap hood in the stream, he'd been suddenly confronted by the brunet. His good eye scanned Jason's face with curiosity. He didn't say anything, just looked. There was no laughter or disgust, just the fire of interest, then of concern when they dropped to the faint ring of scarring around his neck. The two sat there quietly, a silent understanding forming.

That had been within the first couple weeks of Michael's stay. Now, Jason kept the hood off. Only putting it back on when trespassers came to their land, in need of disposal. Michael showed no hatred of that horrible face, but often looked at him, focused as though he were looking at the brightest star in the heavens. Jason allowed himself to hold onto the warmth it brought this time, savoring the way Michael brought him comfort.

Michael rode off to take his vengeance on the Marshall in mid spring. He'd put it off long enough, for as much as he wished to stay with Jason, true peace would not come to him until Marshall Loomis was dead and buried. There was a kiss goodbye, a lingering farewell and promise of return, then suddenly the red haired man was left alone once again. The land was emptier now without Michael. Jason busied himself with protecting their home (for now it was just as much Michael's as it was Jason's before) in the meantime.

It was incredibly lonesome, more than he'd expected. It's not as though Michael left without warning, he'd mentioned he would, and yet Jason was worried. Worried that he'd never see the dark haired man again. Had those silent confessions of adoration been lies? They never were on Jason's part, but Michael's face held no clues to the truth. He supposed Michael would been great at bluffing. It reminded him of something Mama once said: You ought not trust a poker player, Jason, they'll steal everything from you, and they'll make you feel special when it happens. He didn't want to think about that, and held on to the memory of the last time he held the black eyed man.

Days began to blend together before Michael returned on his black stallion. He'd been injured again, but nowhere near as badly. He fell into Jason's arms two months after he'd first left. He was weaker now, a husk of who he'd been. Anger no longer held him together. Jason could tell that he'd ate little and slept less since he'd been gone. His heart was simultaneously broken at the sight of his frail state and filled with his presence. He didn't want to ever let him go again. After a few days rest and many good meals, Michael looked much better physically, but something was different still.

Touching was more common than it had been before. When they sat in front of the fireplace of an evening, Jason would often find Michael reaching out for his own calloused hand, weaving their fingers together and scooting closer. Once, he pushed a curly, red lock of hair behind his ear, the corners of his mouth quirked up in an unpracticed smile. Jason melted at that first smile and every smile after. The weight that had been lifted from Michael's shoulders would never be commented on by either of them. They were simply too wrapped up in the pleasure of one other's presence and comfort to bring up that pain.

There was no pain or unhappiness in their little home that they built, not anymore. Not so long as they had each other to look out for them.

#slashers #michael myers #jason voorhees #myerhees #western au #gopher writes

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fridayfirefly · 3 years

Text

Retirement

Read Retirement on AO3

Masterlist

For Maribat March Day 21 - Domestic Bliss

The first time Marinette and Garfield ever discussed retirement was before they even started dating. For superheroes, retirement was just a fact of life. One day, if you make it long enough, you'll put down the suit and you'll never pick it up again. Maybe someone will take your place. Hopefully, no one will need to. But no matter how strong you are, not even if you're Superman in his prime, the simple fact was that someday you would retire.

"What do you think you'll do after you retire?" Marinette mused to Garfield. Out of all the Titans, Marinette spent the most time around Gar, simply because the two of them spent a lot of time in the living room. Marinette liked the ambient noise that his video games provided when she worked on her projects, and Gar liked to have someone to talk to while he played. Most of Marinette's current focus was on the embroidery in her hands, as she stitched vines running down the sleeves of her shirt, but she still took the time to start a conversation with Gar.

"I dunno..." Gar glanced up from the game he was playing. "What'll you do once you give up being Ladybug."

"That's a tough question. I used to think that I wanted to run a big fashion company, like Agreste Fashion, but now I think I want something a little more low-key. In my ideal future, I own a little boutique where I make custom clothing. There would be a fabric store and a café on the same block as me, and I would never have to leave the neighborhood."

"That sounds nice. I think I might try going to college and see where that takes me. I applied to Jump City University right before Christmas, and they accepted me. If I went, I would start classes in the fall.”

Marinette’s head jerked up as she gave Gar her full, undivided attention. “I’m going to JCU next fall!” she exclaimed excitedly. “We might have classes together. What are you planning on majoring in?”

Gar shrugged, “JCU has a veterinary program that I'm interested in. I'd be taking animal behavior, biology, chemistry, and a whole bunch of other science classes.”

“That’s so cool!”

“It’s nothing much. I didn’t expect them to accept me, anyway.”

Gar seemed oddly subdued about the idea of going to college. He was a naturally enthusiastic person, which made it very out of character for him to be so dismissive. It worried Marinette. “No, you deserve praise for your accomplishment. Jump City University is a very selective school.”

“I’m not a genius. I’m just me.”

“You’re smart, Gar, I know you are. Getting accepted to JCU is just one of the many reasons why you are brilliant.”

“Are you gonna name them all for me?” joked Gar.

His question was rhetorical, just a joke, but Marinette wasn't finished convincing Gar that he deserved all the praise in the world. “For starters, you can finish any video game in less than a day. Even the ones where you need logic and strategy, you fly right through them. Secondly, you’re a genius when it comes to animals. And it’s not just because of your superpower. You taught yourself animal behavior so that you could blend in with the animals you’re imitating. Thirdly, you pretend not to be invested in politics, but I’ve seen how you keep yourself informed about environmental policies and activism. You really care about the planet. Fourthly-“

"Alright, Buginette,” laughed Gar, a slight blush on his cheeks. “You’ve proven your point.”

Marinette set her embroidery down on the coffee table and moved to Gar's couch. "Is this game multiplayer?"

"Yep. Do you want to play a few rounds?"

"Hmm... I think I could spare a few minutes to kick your butt."

"Please. I'm going to squash you like the little bug you are."

"You wish!"

----------

The next time Marinette and Gar discussed retirement was well after they started dating. They got together in their Junior year at JCU after spending two years in relationship limbo, with both too nervous to make the first move. They finally confessed their feelings for each other after Dick and Starfire locked them in a closet together until they admitted that they liked each other. They graduated college as a couple, with Gar planning on attending veterinary school and Marinette planning on starting up her fashion business. That summer they spent a lot of time talking about the future.

"I've been thinking of recruiting someone to take over as Ladybug," remarked Marinette as she cuddled up next to Gar on the couch.

"Really? Who do you have your eye on?" asked Gar.

"Wonder Woman recently took on a new protege, Cassie Sandsmark. The Ladybug Miraculous already has some connections to Wonder Woman and her home of Themyscira. Her mother, Queen Hippolyta, was a wielder of the Ladybug Miraculous for quite some time."

"If you gave up the Miraculous would you still fight crime?"

Marinette shook her head. "I think it might be time to give up crimefighting. It's been ten years since I took up the Ladybug Miraculous to fight Hawkmoth, and six years since Hawkmoth was defeated. I wasn't ready to give up that responsibility then, but I think I'm ready now."

"When would you give up the Miraculous?"

"Soon. I talked to Wonder Woman about it last week and she's enthusiastic about the idea. I would need to spend some time getting to know Cassie, just to make sure she's a good fit, and Tikki would need to vet her as well, but I have a good feeling that she'll pass any tests of character we put her through." Marinette turned to face Gar. "I didn't want to make any concrete decisions before I talked to you. I know that we've always fought crime together, but I'm ready to move on with my life. I'm ready to retire."

Gar nodded. "I understand and I fully support your decision. I've been considering leaving the Titans as well. I know I could continue living in the Tower and attend veterinary school at JCU, but last week I got an acceptance letter from UC Davis for their School of Veterinary Medicine."

Marinette's eyes widened. "Gar, that's amazing! I remember looking into UC Davis when you were applying, and their program is nationally ranked."

Gar grinned. "The best in the country. It's too good to pass up."

"You have to go!" exclaimed Marinette. "This is your dream!"

"I think I'll send in my acceptance tomorrow," decided Gar. "Maybe we can go to Davis this weekend and scout out an apartment."

"And fabric stores," chimed in Marinette.

Gar laughed. "Anything for you, Buginette."

----------

The final time Marinette and Gar discussed retirement was years later. Marinette and Gar had gotten married and had moved back to Jump City. Marinette opened her fashion boutique, which had very quickly exploded in popularity. Gar started working for a non-profit veterinary clinic, which provided free veterinary services to lower-income neighborhoods. They had both achieved their dreams, and yet neither seemed content with their lives.

"Maybe we just need a change of scenery," suggested Marinette, leaning her head against Gar as they both sat on the beach watching the sunset. "I'm so tired of the city."

"Maybe," said Gar. "It would be nice to have a house with a backyard, rather than just an apartment."

Marinette sighed. "I know that I always said that I wanted to be the owner of a successful boutique, but this wasn't really what I had in mind. I'm so busy that I feel like I never get to spend any time with you anymore. Every day my inbox is filled with emails asking me to sell my company or expand to more locations. I'm tired of it. My passion is for making clothes, not running a business."

"I know how you feel. Every day I encounter another neglectful pet owner who brings their animal to the clinic for help but refuses to listen to me when I tell them that they need to change the way they treat their animal. It's exhausting."

"We could both just quit our jobs and move into the woods," joked Marinette.

Gar nodded, but he wasn't joking. "I've actually been thinking about that. There are a lot of remote regions with a real need for veterinary practices to provide medical assistance for the farm animals out there. I would feel a lot more useful taking care of animals that don't have anyone else."

Marinette turned to face Gar. "I wouldn't mind moving. I've been sending all of the offers to buy my boutique straight to my email archive, but I'm sure if I looked through them all I could find someone who would be able to take care of the business aspect of Ladybug Designs. I could retire from the business and design on my own time, when the inspiration strikes, instead of forcing myself to churn out design after design."

"You really wouldn't mind?" asked Gar, a hopeful look on his face.

Marinette shook her head. "I was serious about moving out of the city. There's something I've been wanting to tell you for a while, but I've been waiting for the right moment. I think that moment is now. Gar, I'm pregnant."

The deer-in-the-headlights look on Gar's face was comical, to say the least. Marinette giggled, "Well?"

Gar snapped back to reality, transforming into an elephant, trumpeting his joy. He turned back into himself and wrapped his arms around Marinette. "I'm so happy! This is the best news I could have ever heard, Buginette. Now we have to move. I want our kid to have a backyard and a dog and a big driveway where I can teach them how to ride a bike and a pond where they can swim in the summer-"

Marinette cut Gar off with a kiss. "One thing at a time," she giggled.

"I think this will be the best decision we have ever made," declared Gar.

Marinette agreed. "I think that partial retirement will be good for us."

----------

This was bliss. The feeling of grass under Marinette’s bare feet as she walked back to the house from the lake, hand in hand with Gar. The sound of their daughter's laughter as she danced around them, catching fireflies. The taste of homemade apple pie and vanilla ice cream, eaten rebelliously early as Gar proclaimed, "Dessert before dinner!" The sight of the stars up above them, no light pollution to mask the beauty of the heavens. The sound of Gar's voice, whispering, "I love you, Buginette," into Marinette's ear. And as Marinette settled into her husband's arms, she knew for certain that retirement was the best decision she had ever made.

@maribatmarch-2k21

#maribat #garfield logan #marinette dupain-cheng #garmari #MaribatMarch2021 #miraculous ladybug fic #my work

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valdomarx · 4 years

Text

Geralt thinks he might be losing his mind.

He’s distracted, and short-tempered, even more so than usual. Every time he looks at Jaskier his heart rate rockets and his palms start sweating.

He can’t stop noticing Jaskier, everything he does, the way he stands, the way he moves, the way he nibbles his bottom lip when he’s thinking. He can’t focus, and if he can’t get this under control he’s going to get one or both of them killed.

His first thought is magic. Some kind of spell, maybe. But his medallion is still against his chest, and when he surreptitiously stops by a herbalist’s shop in a nearby town, the woman there finds no trace of a spell or curse on him.

Perhaps, he thinks, the problem is Jaskier. He’s wondered why Jaskier doesn’t seem to age, and how he has the energy to traipse across the continent after him. Perhaps Jaskier is hiding a secret. Perhaps he’s not as human as he seems.

Jaskier could be a siren. That would explain how he can enchant a crowd with a simple song, as Geralt has seen him do a hundred times, and how he could have enchanted Geralt as well. But when Geralt hands him his silver sword, ostensibly to hold while he cleans out their packs, Jaskier’s skin doesn’t smoke or burn. Instead, he turns the sword over in his hands, inspecting the sleek blade and the tightly bound leather of the grip. He runs a thumb over the edge to check its sharpness and nicks himself, clumsy as ever. Before Geralt can berate him, he brings his thumb up to his mouth, and then Geralt is distracted all over again by the way Jaskier sucks the digit between his plump lips, and that’s just not fair.

Maybe Jaskier is an incubus. That would make sense, given his fondness for the ladies and his obvious good looks. But if he’s been filing down his horns all this time, he’s done an awfully good job of it. Geralt finds an excuse to run a hand through Jaskier’s hair, and he doesn’t feel any bumps beneath his fingers. But Jaskier does lean into his touch, smiling softly, and Geralt’s heart flutters in a most unhelpful way.

Just because Geralt is dealing with an unwelcome onslaught of feelings, that doesn’t mean he has to make it Jaskier’s problem. He does his best to maintain the usual tone of their interactions: gruff and to the point. Businesslike. Practical.

He thinks he’s doing rather well at that. At least until they stop at a tavern and Jaskier performs for the locals, catching the eye of a pretty girl.

Geralt waits for Jaskier to head to the bar and he does, perhaps, talk a little louder than is strictly necessary about the horrible monsters which stalk anyone close to a witcher. And he does, perhaps, feel a mean twist of satisfaction when the pretty girl’s face pales and she runs from the tavern.

He feels a little bit guilty when Jaskier returns to find her gone, but Jaskier looks tired anyway and readily takes him up on the suggestion that they retire for the night, so he can’t have been that disappointed after all.

But when Geralt returns from washing and walks into their room he stops dead, feet frozen on the threshold. Because Jaskier is there, lounging on the bed. And he’s wearing one of Geralt’s shirts and nothing else. The black shirt hangs off his frame in a manner that’s somehow more obscene than if he’d just been naked.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Geralt manages to growl, and his voice only cracks a little bit.

“My clothes all need washing.” Jaskier shrugs, and the collar of the shirt slides down to reveal more of the smooth planes of his shoulder and the dark hair dusting his chest. Geralt can’t stop staring. “I borrowed this from your pack. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Geralt concentrates on getting his legs to work and takes a few steps toward the bed. Up close, it’s even worse. Jaskier smells like Geralt. No, he smells like he’s Geralt’s.

His bard in his shirt in his bed.

Something primal and possessive thrums through him, and he can’t tear his eyes away from how the black fabric highlights the pale skin of Jaskier’s throat, the way the hem of the shirt floats around the meat of his thighs. Blood pounds in his ears.

“Are you coming to bed then?” Jaskier asks, an impish smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Bed. Right. For sleeping. That’s what they’re supposed to be doing.

Stiffly, keeping his eyes firmly averted, he manages to climb into bed and resist the urge to tear the shirt off Jaskier and do.... something unwise. He curses his luck that the bed is so small, with barely enough room to keep a decent amount of space between them.

He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. As long as he doesn’t turn his head and look at Jaskier, everything will be fine.

Jaskier fusses and rearranges himself several times, energetic as ever, but Geralt steadfastly ignores him and soon enough he’s rolled over onto his side, back to Geralt, and fallen asleep.

Geralt allows his eyes to flick over Jaskier’s sleeping form then, and it still strikes him as astonishing that anyone could feel safe and trusting enough to sleep next to a witcher. But there Jaskier is, content to the point of naivety, vulnerable and fearless.

In sleep, Jaskier’s face softens and he looks even younger than usual, his typically animated features relaxed into something graceful and delicate. He sleeps soundly, unconcerned by the voices from the bar downstairs or the rustle of the nearby trees in the wind.

Geralt is fidgety and on edge, every sound blaring into his consciousness. He’s exquisitely aware of the feel of the rough cotton sheet beneath him, the warmth pouring off Jaskier, the gentle rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest, the comparatively furious rhythm of Jaskier’s heartbeat.

It takes him many, many hours, but eventually he sleeps.

Geralt wakes the next morning warm and comfortable, with a low thrum of pleasure spreading throughout his body. Something feels good, really good, and as he rolls his hips the pleasure spikes, heady and potent, waves of satisfaction running through him like the ocean lapping at a sandy beach.

He nuzzles into something soft and familiar, a soothing, spicy scent washing over him, a distant thrill of mounting gratification building inside him. Whatever this is, he's greedy for more of it.

It takes a few minutes until he wakes up fully and realises that he’s shifted in the night: His face is nestled into Jaskier’s hair, his arm is around Jaskier’s waist, his leg is thrown over Jaskier’s hip, and his dick is rock hard and grinding up against Jaskier’s arse.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He stills, trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to extract himself from this situation without making it any more embarrassing than it already is. He’s planning his exit strategy, trying to untangle their limbs, trying to keep his breath low and steady so as not to betray his roiling emotions, and then Jaskier’s hand curls around his and squeezes.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier says, voice thick with sleep, face still buried in the pillow.

And that’s. Gods. That’s exactly what he wants to hear, on one level, and some kind of tantalising torment on another. Because Jaskier surely can’t mean that, he can’t seriously want some lust-addled witcher rutting up against him. Who would want that?

Jaskier continues to defy his expectations, though, and rucks up his shirt to his waist to expose his bare ass, and Geralt can’t stop the little gasp that escapes his throat at that.

“C’mon,” Jaskier says, voice still thick but undeniably awake now, and Geralt is weak because before he can get a hold of himself he’s shoving his own shorts down and rubbing up against the soft swell of Jaskier’s ass, warm and smooth and deliriously good.

His cock slides between Jaskier’s thighs and Jaskier squeezes, and he’s dizzy with it for a minute, the heat and the scent of Jaskier and the strong grip of muscles around his cock. He fucks between Jaskier’s legs with abandon, and judging by the way Jaskier reaches down and furiously jerks himself off he’s enjoying it plenty too.

If Geralt cranes his neck he can just see the tip of his cock sliding between Jaskier’s legs, periodically bumping up against his balls or rubbing against Jaskier’s hand where he’s working himself.

He grabs onto Jaskier’s hips and holds on tight, tight enough that he’s going to leave bruises if he’s not careful, and then he’s picturing Jaskier walking around for days with impressions on his skin in the exact shape of Geralt’s spread fingers, marked and owned. That’s really all it takes to push him over the edge, and the next thing he knows he’s coming all over Jaskier’s ass and thighs with a low moan.

He nestles closer, making an utter mess of both of them but he doesn’t care, he just wants to feel Jaskier in his arms and smell that maddening scent that’s been hovering around him for days. They’re so close that he can feel Jaskier’s approaching orgasm, feel the way his muscles clench and his toes curl, and feel the moment he lets go and comes with a breathy sound over his hand and the bed and Geralt’s shirt.

Geralt winces. He’s going to have to burn that shirt, because it’s now covered in both of their seed and he’ll never be able to look at it again without thinking of this morning and this moment, and that’s not the kind of reminder he needs.

They lie there for a time, bodies intertwined, just breathing together. Soon Geralt knows he’ll have to push himself up and clean himself off and go back to pretending that this... whatever it is between them... is enough for him, that he’s happy, that he‘s getting what he wants.

His heart aches at the thought of slipping back into their routine of bickering or casual friendship, interspersed with moments of unspoken lust. Not that he doesn’t want that, he certainly does, but he longs for something more. He doesn’t know how to name it, but he knows what he wants is too much for someone like him to ask for.

Still, for now, he lets himself inhale Jaskier’s scent and feel Jaskier’s solid weight in his arms, and he lets himself indulge in the fantasy of what life might look like if this were something he could actually have.

#geralt wrestles ineffectively with his feelings and his morning wood #feat. jaskier in geralt's clothes 😏#geralt and jaskier's brothel adventures #geraskier #the witcher #my writing

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lost-in-fanfic · 3 years

Text

The Woman - Thomas Shelby x reader (Part 2)

A/N: So here is part 2, I hope you all enjoy it. Part 1 link below. Not my Gif and please don’t steal my work :)

Warnings: Mention of killing, quiet a bit of bad language.

A brief summary: After receiving a mysterious note, Tommy is about to meet with the woman hired to kill him.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Word Count: 2538

“This is fucking mental Tommy!” Arthur shouted for the tenth time that morning. After Tommy had run out of The Garrison last night without warning Polly had demanded to see the note. He had consequently spent the rest of the night, and now this morning stood in the kitchen at Watery Lane being told he was making a stupid mistake. Gripping the back of the chair, Tommy let out an exasperated sigh, his patience was wearing thin and it was time he headed to his meeting. He had been to meetings with people who wanted to kill him before, but normally he manged to get the business done without any of the others realising what he was up to. “Thomas,” Polly was leaning against the fireplace looking at her nephew, his eyes staring down at the floor, “when you get a note, from someone who won’t even give their name, saying they have been hired to kill you, it isn’t generally a good idea to go and sit down for a cosy chat. At least let Arthur and John hide in the backroom.” She was just as tired of arguing as Tommy. Tired of watching him seek out ways to find danger, it came easily enough in their lives, why did he have to always hold the door open for it? Finally, he looked up at her, then Tommy straightened up as he pulled his peaky cap onto his head, fastened his coat, and moved to the door. “Today is going to be a busy day here. Arthur and John, keep an eye on the bets and don’t forget to watch Sam Guest, he’s won a fucking lot recently and no one gets that lucky on a fixed race. Polly it’s safe count day.” He opened the door and stepped onto the street just before he closed the door behind him, he turned back and said, “and if any of you set foot in The Garrison this morning, I will shoot you myself.” With that he slammed the door and headed up the road.

Tommy pulled out his keys, finding the correct one for the back door of The Garrison knowing that the front door would still be bolted from the inside this time of day, however as he drew closer to the pub, he could see the front door wasn’t locked at all. In fact, it stood ever so slightly open with no sign of damage to suggest it had been forced. Tommy took his gun from its holster and held it up as he slowly pushed open the door, just for a second he pictured the ambush he was about to walk into and thought to himself he should probably have brought John and Arthur after all.

(Y/N) had arrived early that morning, keen to be as prepared as always. She had made a note of the heavy sliding bolts on the front door the night before, and when a small argument had broken out earlier in the night and distracted the barman, she had taken the opportunity to check exactly where the back door was and find out just how easy that lock would be to pick. This should be a day like any other in her life, but that morning she had found herself strangely nervous to meet with Tommy and regretted her rash decision to arrange a face-to-face meeting. In her career she had developed a policy of never giving out her name and only met with people face to face on rare occasions. The only time she had broken this rule was with people she was certain would not be a threat to her in the future, such as grateful targets that she decided to let live or the odd desperate housewife. Tommy Shelby was definitely not desperate and could very possibly be the biggest danger to her future she had ever faced, yet here she sat waiting for him.

When he entered the pub the last thing Tommy had truly expected was one woman, sat on her own at a table in the middle of the room. She had moved the other chairs away from it so there was just one for her and one for him. Leant back smoking she looking as relaxed as if she owned the place and he were walking into her territory, not the other way around. This woman, however, could not have stood out more against the grey of Small Heath. Her hair was shinning in the light coming through the dusty windows, each strand perfectly in place, her bright green dress fitted each part of her body perfectly and was so stylish she would have looked more at home in one of Ada’s magazines than sat in The Garrison. Tommy was so taken aback he did not even realise he was still pointing his gun at her.

“I did promise not to kill you during this conversation Mr Shelby, I would appreciate it if you lowered your gun.” Her voice was like silk as it reached him and without really meaning to, he put his gun away, closing the door behind him. She motioned to the seat opposite her for him to sit down, but her initial spell over him seemed to weaken somewhat as he realised he was not accustomed to being offered a seat in his own pub. Instead, he walked over to the bar, leaning against it he took a cigarette from his case and rolled it over his lips before striking a match and lighting it. All the while never breaking eye contact with the woman before him. (Y/N) refused to let his stare cause her to back down, she looked straight back at him. Quickly though she realised how right she had been in thinking that meeting Tommy like this was a big risk, his eyes seemed to be seeing right into her, and she was fairly sure if one of them did not break the silence soon there was a very big chance her carefully built defences would crumble. Exhaling his first draw on his cigarette Tommy decided to take the opportunity to try and control the conversation. “Well, you know my name, seems only fair you should tell me yours.” His voice oozed with confidence and sent a thrill deep into (Y/N)’s core. “I’ll tell you what Mr Shelby, how about I ask what I need to know so I can make my decision and at the end of the conversation you can ask me any question you like, which I swear I will answer honestly. If knowing my name is still important then, I shall give you the truth. Alternatively, I could just give you a fake name now and we can go into this telling lies.” She matched his confidence with every word, putting out her cigarette as she finished, showing she was ready to get down to business.

Tommy couldn’t help but allow the smallest of smiles to tug at the corner of his mouth as he sat down opposite her unbuttoning his coat and motioning for her to continue. “As I said, I am here to decide if you deserve to die.” She began, “Almost certainly do.” Tommy’s answer cut across her, she wasn’t expecting him to speak yet, and would never have imagined that would be the answer he gave. Raising her eyebrow slightly she scanned his face, his jaw was set and eyes fixed, there was no hint that he was joking or even scared of the idea of dying.

“Mr Shelby, my client has hired me for a specific reason. I have several rules in my business and one of them is I will only carry out the contract if that reason is justified, regardless of whatever else maybe true of the person.” She paused as Tommy flicked his ash into the tray, his face was expressionless, but there was something in his eyes. (Y/N) was convinced that she had never seen a more crystal-clear blue in her life and although they seemed cold and calculating she had a gut feeling that if only she knew him better, they would be the only key to reading how he felt. Tommy said nothing, he had never been more intrigued by a woman so quickly and he wanted to ensure he paid attention to everything she said, after all this woman may yet try to kill him.

“I am here to get your side of the story, regarding Daniel Owen better known as Danny Whiz-Bang.” Whatever Tommy had been expecting her to say it certainly wasn’t that. (Y/N) noticed the way his eyes unwittingly widened in shock, once again she had surprised him putting him entirely on the back foot, she had always relished being in control of every situation and there was something even more intoxicating about having any sort of power over a man like Thomas Shelby.

The end of Tommy’s cigarette glowed as he inhaled deeply, taking the opportunity of a brief pause to get himself back in check. “Daniel Owens was killed by Billy Kimber. I killed Billy Kimber. End of story.” His voice was deep and controlled as he tried to reveal as little emotion as possible. (Y/N) leant forward slightly, the fact that he didn’t fully understand why she was here excited her. “I know that. My client is more interested in the fact he was there at all, after all you had already killed him yourself, hadn’t you?” Tommy decided enough was enough, putting out his cigarette he leant forward to match her, “who the fuck is your client?” his tone had changed it dripped with menace and power. “I told you Mr Shelby, I will answer one question at the end. Don’t worry,” she could see his eyes darkening, there were only so many times you could poke a stick at a dangerous animal before it attacked, and she felt she had pushed her luck far enough. “I only have one more question for you, why did you let Danny Whiz-Bang live?” her tone was different, she was no longer toying with him, vying for control, she genuinely wanted to know why he hadn’t just killed him. If Tommy were more of a fool, he would have thought she cared.

“Danny Whiz-bang didn’t kill that Italian, the monster that lived in the mud in his head did. He brought that monster back from France, he saved my life over there in that mud, so I killed the monster and sent Danny away so he could try and clean his head out.” It was the truth; he had known since they returned from France that Danny had no control at times. Tommy had brought his own monster back with him and the thought of what that monster could turn him into is what kept him fighting.

“Very well.” (Y/N) had listened to every word he had said, the honesty in his voice was clear. This time she found herself on the back foot, the truth concealed just the tiniest shred of vulnerability and that was something she had not expected to find. Over his shoulder she spotted two silhouettes, which she strongly suspected of belonging to his brothers, hovering by the door. “Thank you for meeting with me this morning Mr Shelby.” Standing up she slipped into her white coat and made towards the back room and the door she had come in through earlier. “Hang on,” said Tommy standing up as well, “you owe me a question remember? A deal is a deal.” His eyes were back to being their calm crystal blue, if there had been a moment in which he had been even close to vulnerable it had passed. There was, however, a slight tinge of desperation to keep her there in his voice which even Tommy wouldn’t have been able to explain. (Y/N) turned back to him and nodded. “What’s your name? I assume from your note it starts with W.” There were other more important questions he should probably ask, like if she was still going to try and kill him, but all he wanted to know was her name. (Y/N) couldn’t stop a small soft smile from forming and she bit her bottom lip to try and stop it. Every single part of her willed her to lie, or distract him, she couldn’t risk giving any part of herself to him. Not even her name was safe to give, but even the strongest woman can’t hold out fully under the gaze of those eyes. “I use the W for business. My name is (Y/N), oh and by the way I think your brothers are getting impatient.” She replied, nodding towards the door where Arthur and John were waiting. As Tommy turned to look, she silently slipped away, gone by the time he turned back.

He stood there stuck in silence for a moment, her name playing through his head like a song, as if she had placed him under a spell again. It was only a first name though and he felt cheated, he had clearly meant both names. Tommy Shelby did not like being cheated. He gathered himself together and then went out the front where Arthur and John were stood with guilty faces. “We didn’t come in Tom.” John said as soon as he walked out, he sounded like a child that had been caught going for the biscuit tin. Tommy didn’t care though, he just wanted to know where (Y/N) was going. “Round the back, she’s wearing a white coat, you can see her green dress hanging out the bottom and she’s got (y/h/c) hair. Follow her and tell me where she goes.” He barely looked at them just gave the order and began to move back to the house. “She?” said Arthur, “The killers a she?” his confusion evident. “Yes Arthur, a woman, now go before you lose her.” Tommy strode off. “Polly is gunna love this.” Muttered John. The brothers hurried around the corner looking for the white coat and green dress. “Watch out!” shouted Arthur as he turned the corner colliding straight into a woman wearing all black. “Sorry.” She muttered scurrying up the street.

When Tommy had turned his back (Y/N) had moved quickly, going to where she had left a bag earlier by the back door. Knowing she only had moments she pulled off her coat, grabbed out a black skirt that she put on to cover the bottom of her dress, turned her coat inside out so it was now black and put it on over the top. Looking down she checked that no green was now showing. Next, she took out a wig that was several shades darker than her natural colour, it pulled on easily as she gathered her own hair up. Finally, a simple black hat with a vail to cover her face. Checking quickly in the mirror she was pleased to see she looked just like a young widow, not an unusual sight in Small Heath. Leaving out the back door she rounded the corner and walked straight into Arthur Shelby, muttering apologies she moved out of his way and headed back to the boarding house.

@comebackjessica @nemesis729 @spacenijntje

#peaky blinders #by order of the peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cilian murphy

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lady-of-the-lotus · 3 years

Text

Looking through a paperman's eyes, Xiao Xingchen can suddenly see again.

See Chengmei's face.

Xue Yang's face...

His mind split between multiple papermen, Xingchen fractures.

Xue Yang breaks with him.

E - Xuexiao - Read on AO3! - Head the tags! ; ) The art here is only tonally appropriate for this chapter... Chapter 2

Chapter 1 of 2

They walk for an hour and a half, cross-country. Rumor of a new threat had found its way to their corner of Yi City. Disappearing people, strange sightings, the usual, except there have been none of the normal signs of demonic activity.

Chengmei, impatient as always, had wanted to fly, but Xiao Xingchen had insisted they get some exercise.

“The weather is nice, and there’s no need to rush home,” he says. “A-Qing has gone off again.” Every few months, A-Qing’s restlessness resurfaces and she disappears for a few days, making Xiao Xingchen worry until he hears the tap-tap-tap of her stick on the stone of the courtyard.

“She’ll be fine,” Chengmei says. “She was on her own her whole life.”

“I know, but…”

“She was doing better than you were, my friend.” Chengmei laughs, touching his elbow, sending a little spark up Xingchen’s arm. “I still can’t believe you gave her your coin purse.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Well, if you’d asked me—”

Xiao Xingchen smiles in anticipation of whatever he’s going to say, but Chengmei breaks off abruptly with a low whistle.

“We’re here. A burial mound. Or rather, a mass grave.”

Xiao Xingchen’s sword is already out. “The resentful energy is quite strong.”

Chengmei snorts, something Xiao Xingchen has learned is his way of rolling his eyes so Xiao Xingchen can hear. Xingchen smiles to himself. He does this on purpose sometimes, winds Chengmei up, ruffles him. He delights in how expressive Chengmei’s voice is, how he wears his emotions on his sleeve, good or bad.

“‘Quite strong’?” Chengmei teases. “It almost bowled me the fu—the hell—no that doesn’t work—”

Now Xiao Xingchen does laugh. He can’t see Chengmei’s face, but hears the smile in his voice.

“Bowled me the fig over,” Chengmei finishes.

“A good save.”

“I know, right?” A creak of leather as Chengmei crouches. “There’s a stone headstone type thing here. I can’t quite make it out in this light.” Another creak as he seats himself on what seems to be a small cenotaph. "Probably from the war."

Xiao Xingchen frowns at him.

“How did you know I sat on it?” Chengmei shuffles his feet in the grass as if he’s risen, but he remains seated on the cenotaph.

“I know you too well, I suppose.”

Chengmei laughs. “You really are something else, daozhang.”

Xiao Xingchen waits for him to expand on that. He’s long since learned that Chengmei does that sometimes, throws out a non sequitur or random statement, sometimes to get a reaction, sometimes to change the subject, without really thinking it through.

Xiao Xingchen likes it, usually. Keeps things interesting. Often just by his remaining silent, as if uninterested, Chengmei will immediately follow up with something even wilder.

Tonight, however, his companion is silent, as if lost in thought.

“Get up, Chengmei, please. Let’s at least try not to anger malevolent spirits this time.”

A creak as Chengmei rises. “Still mad about what happened last week, I see.”

“That ghost almost killed you, all because you had to make fun of her fingernails, of all things!”

“You should have seen them. Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can’t be well-groomed.”

“Chengmei…” He sighs, but he can’t contain a smile. “Describe what’s around us. What are we looking at? …You looking at,” he corrects himself before Chengmei can.

“Bones, all over the place. Scattered over the burial mound. Rather homey.”

“Human bones?”

“Human and animal, by the look of things. This reminds me of the time at this little inn in Bianzhuang, where the soup had the most suspicious-looking pieces of—”

A bellowing sound cuts him off. “On your left!” he hisses, but Shuanghua is already up.

A crashing of underbrush, a foul stench of rotting meat, a rattle of displaced bones. The earth shakes beneath the creature’s hooves, he hears the rush of air around a supernaturally huge monster, but there’s not a hint of demonic energy, and for the first time since he lost his eyes, Xiao Xingchen is afraid.

Chengmei is reckless—

He lashes out, aiming at the sound. He hits something solid, and the beast roars, enraged. A cry from Chengmei and Xingchen is flung out of the way, tumbling to the rocky ground, out of the path of the charging beast.

The all-too-familiar sound of something piercing flesh. The scent of blood.

Xiao Xingchen slashes at the smell, aiming far enough away from the sound to avoid striking Chengmei. Shuanghua strikes flesh, hits bone, and is almost jerked out of his hands by the bucking creature. It turns and charges at him, dragging Chengmei along with it, by the sound of his tangled curses—

He ducks out of the way at the last moment. A crash as it thunders through the underbrush, turns again—

Chengmei’s voice, raised, half-choked: “Fuck you, stay away from him—” A stabbing sound, an angry cry, and something strikes him hard in the midriff, sending him slamming into a rock.

Blood again

His blood—

A bellow of pain. Distant, echoing. Chengmei’s shout, the whistle of a blade through the air.

A stabbing sound.

More blood, blooming thickly on the warm night air.

Xiao Xingchen passes out.

* * * *

At first, the only way he knows he’s alive is the blinding pain in his skull.

Blinding pain. Ha. That’s funny. Something Chengmei would have teased him for saying—

Memory rushes back to him. Patting around for his sword, he tries to get up but falls out of bed.

He’s safe at home in the Coffin House, on the floor beside Chengmei’s bed. He recognizes the creak of floorboard, the scent of the drying herbs strung from the rafters, the melancholy whistle of wind through the gaps in the walls.

“Daozhang!” A hand at his elbow, guiding him back into bed. “You’re awake!”

“What happened?”

“You saved my life. The usual.”

“What was it?”

“Hell if I know. Some kind of boar monster. Take more than some pig to kill me, though.”

“What time is it?”

“Still night.”

Xiao Xingchen struggles to marshal his thoughts. “You almost died.”

He can almost feel Chengmei’s shrug. “Not the first time, and it won’t be the last time. Well, the ‘almost’ part might be the last time; I might actually bite it next time.”

Xiao Xingchen doesn’t bother trying to parse that one out. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing serious.”

Xiao Xingchen frowns. “Come here.”

“Come…”

“I can’t get up. Come here.”

Hesitating, Chengmei crawls into bed beside him.

“Take off your clothes.”

Normally this would elicit an off-color joke that would have Xiao Xingchen frowning at him and blushing, but now Chengmei hesitates again.

“I…well…”

“You are hurt!” Xiao Xingchen pats him down, forgetting his headache in the sudden flurry of panic. He should have reacted faster last night, should have killed the beast with his first blow, should have protected Chengmei—

Bandages beneath his fingertips, bare skin, a slight stickiness.

“The tusks!”

“Ruined a good robe, having to cut it off,” Chengmei says, back to his usual casual, flippant self. “Not sure even you can sew it back up. The robes, I mean, not my side.”

Xiao Xingchen’s heart is beating so fast he feels dizzy. “You almost died, Chengmei—”

“So did you.”

Xiao Xingchen pinches his temples. “You shouldn’t have shoved me out of the way. The boar—the boar gored you—”

“Just a flesh wound.”

“We—we should go back to its lair when we’re better, bury the bones—”

Chengmei snickers. “ ‘Lair’?”

“As soon as you’re stronger, we’ll go back.”

“I’m fine now.”

“How many stitches did you need?” An inane question, but something simple he can use to ground himself. It’s starting to sink in now, his mind fully clearing: his blindness in the face of the beast, the boar’s agonized bellow, the fear in Chengmei’s voice—

He had almost lost him tonight. All because Xingchen had insisted on going night-hunting, continuing to push his own egotistical agenda on Chengmei despite the fact that he couldn’t see, selfishly endangering everyone around him. What had he expected to happen?

“Didn’t exactly stitch myself up,” Chengmei says. Lost in his own thoughts, Xingchen had almost forgotten his own question. “I sealed up my meridians, so it’s just pain, and I can handle pain.”

Xiao Xingchen reaches out again, touching Chengmei’s arm, and Chengmei inhales sharply.

“Your arm!”

He imagines Chengmei wrinkling his nose. “Well, the boar did a poor job of killing me, but an excellent job of shattering my arm. You know how it is.”

“I certainly don’t know how it is!”

“Left arm,” says Chengmei, as if that makes it better.

Xiao Xingchen is not a hugger, but he has a sudden overwhelming urge to fold Chengmei in his arms, hold him till Chengmei understands that this is not a normal way to react to grievous bodily injury.

“Not the first time it’s happened, and not the last,” Chengmei says, and Xiao Xingchen reaches out to take his good hand.

“I’m going to set your arm and stitch you up,” he says, “and then you are going to eat and go to sleep.”

“Fine, have it your way,” says Chengmei, teasing, but Xiao Xingchen does not smile.

He does not smile as he fashions a splint for Chengmei’s arm, or mops the blood from Chengmei’s torso, stitches the deep gashes in Chengmei’s side, or as he fastens the bandages around Chengmei’s middle.

“—nasty-looking bugger; I think it was some kind of boar crossed with a wolf, twisted and bloated by some kind of magic—it was powerful enough to mask its energy; that’s probably why Shuanghua didn’t sense it—”

Xiao Xingchen barely hears him. His heart is beating fast, and he’s so distracted by the fact that Chengmei almost died trying to save his life that he reaches up to adjust his blindfold and leaves a smear of wetness across his cheek.

The last of his clean blindfolds.

Another inane thought.

He’ll have to wash it out in the morning—

“All done? It was nothing, really.” Chengmei’s hand is on his arm. He’s very close to Xiao Xingchen as they sit on the edge of the bed, so close Xiao Xingchen can feel the brush of his shoulder against his. He radiates warmth, and Xiao Xingchen, perpetually cold, is seized again by a fierce desire to wrap him in his arms, curl into his heat, whisper to him that of course it matters if his arm is broken—

“You need to be more careful,” is all that comes out.

“I give you my solemn word that next time we go night-hunting, I won’t let you get knocked out again.”

Xiao Xingchen isn’t sure if he’s baiting him on purpose or if he genuinely means it. “I mean you need to take care of yourself.”

“Bathe more often. Got it.”

“Can’t you be serious for once?” Xiao Xingchen's voice is sharper than he intends, but it’s too late to take that back now. “If you were to be killed, I—”

“—would have one less mouth to feed.”

Xiao Xingchen grips Chengmei’s good wrist. “Chengmei—”

Chengmei laughs, bending his head slightly, his silky hair sliding over the gap in Xiao Xingchen’s open inner robe, tickling his chest.

“Chengmei, please be serious for once. If you were to be—”

“You look so pretty with blood on your face,” Chengmei interrupts, and that does something to Xingchen, sends a quivery rush of heat through his body. Chengmei slides to the floor, kneeling before him, trembling good hand resting lightly on his knee.

“I—”

Cheingmei's hand moves up his leg, finds Xingchen's hand gripping the blankets on the edge of the bed, strokes it gently, fingertip sliding over the sensitive skin between his fingers, over his palm.

Xiao Xingchen swallows hard. He’s trembling too now, heart pounding, the warmth flowing through his limbs gathering to pulse gently in one confusing, embarrassing place.

“Ever done this before?” Chengmei asks, almost murmurs. His voice is a mere shadow of its usual blunt, teasing self.

Xingchen twists at the sheets with his free hand, trying to keep his voice steady. He must be mistaken. Concussed, perhaps. Hallucinating. The pulse between his legs has become a throb, and that’s not helping his perception of things, either. “No, it’s not something I…get…get up, Chengmei, we were having a serious conversation. If you were to be seriously hurt, I don’t know what I’d—”

Again Chengmei cuts him off before he can finish. “You almost died tonight, daozhang. Let me take care of you.”

“That’s not what—” He gasps slightly as Chengmei’s hand moves back to his leg, creeps over his inner thigh, just grazing the half-hard flesh he wishes he could somehow hide.

Heat rises in his cheeks. He wants to pull away, cover it before Chengmei notices, but there’s a brush of fabric, a whisper of warmth breath, and then his half-hard—his half-hard cock is plunged in wet heat.

“I’m—I’m not—”

The wet heat disappears. “Is that a no?”

“It’s—” And suddenly all he wants is a return of the wet heat. Proof that Chengmei is still alive, still warm. “I’ll tell you when to stop,” he says. Trying to compensate for his inexperience, it comes out more commandingly than intended, but Chengmei gives a little whine and eases Xiao Xingchen’s knees farther apart, his bad arm wrapped around one leg, good hand wandering, slipping underneath him, brushing the soft, sensitive spot he’s never thought of touching before, fondling his—

“Not there,” he wants to say, but all that comes out is a little whimper that sets a flush of shame rising in his already-hot cheeks. Reflexively he digs his fingers in Chengmei’s hair, tugging it slightly, and Chengmei gives a little moan that sends vibrations over his painfully hard cock.

Chengmei’s head is moving now, up and down, tongue gliding along the sides of his cock, sucking hard on the sensitive nerve bundle beneath the tip, taking him deep into his throat. Xiao Xingchen forgets to breathe as he digs his finger deeper in his hair, tugging it again, and Chengmei full-on gasps, throat clenching around Xiao Xingchen in rhythmic convulsions.

Xiao Xingchen comes, spilling deep into Chengmei’s throat. Chengmei swallows, an embarrassingly filthy wet choking sound, and Xiao Xingchen pulls his head off of his cock.

“I’m so sorry—” he starts, but then he’s on his back on the bed, and Chengmei is kissing a string of bruises into his throat, branding Xiao Xingchen.

“Good thing A-Qing isn’t home,” Chengmei whispers, and Xiao Xingchen laughs, shame gone.

“Let me try it,” he whispers. He feels like his bones have been ripped out, limbs calm and relaxed, but his heart is still fluttering.

The kisses stop. “Try what?”

“Lie down.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

“You want to?”

Xiao Xingchen’s heart thuds against his bruised ribcage. His hands are shaking slightly, and he hopes Chengmei doesn’t notice. “Yes.”

“I…”

“Let me try.”

And then Chengmei is on his back, and Xiao Xingchen is trailing his lips down his bruised chest, down his naval, working himself up to do the thing he’s afraid of wanting as much as he does.

A tinge of shame returns. To want to do something like this—

But Chengmei is warm, Chengmei is alive, Chengmei is his.

He takes Chengmei’s cock in his hand, squeezing it gently, examining it with his fingers, rubbing his fingers along the hot, firm sides, smearing it with the little pearls of moisture leaking from the tip. He’s never been so close to another man’s cock before. A new pulse rises between his legs, prickles over his legs, clouds his thoughts with renewed need—

And then Chengmei’s cock is in Xiao Xingchen’s mouth, a living thing, silk-smooth and pulsing with life.

It fills more of his mouth than he’d expected. Thicker, hotter. Heavy on his tongue, pressing up against the back of his throat, making his eyes tear up and jaws ache.

“You don’t have to—” Chengmei whispers, fingers of his good hand tracing the top of Xiao Xingchen’s blindfold, thumb stroking the bridge of his nose, and Xiao Xingchen makes a little humming sound to let him know that it’s all right, that he wants to do this—

Chengmei pulls him off his cock moments before he comes, ejaculating into his own hand.

A flash of disappointment, as if he’d wanted to take Chengmei deeper into him, swallow him down, ingest him, absorb him.

Bind him to him.

He bends down to lap at the wetness slicking Chengmei’s cock, cleaning it with his tongue. Chengmei gives a little whimper but doesn’t push him away. Xiao Xingchen licks at the cum, thoroughly cleaning him before turning to Chengmei’s hand.

Chengmei, who has been lying very still, breath coming in soft little starts, suddenly comes to life. “Don’t—”

“It’s fine.”

“But—”

“Shhh. I want to.”

Carefully, Xiao Xingchen runs his tongue over Chengmei’s palm. It tastes of blood and the salty tang of his cum. He cleans the palm, between the fingers, taking two fingers into his mouth when he’s done. He likes the feel of having Chengmei inside him again, even just his fingers. Warm, alive —

Chengmei raises his legs slightly, framing Xiao Xingchen between his thighs. He tilts his knee, sliding his foot under Xiao Xingchen’s groin. He moves his finger inside Xingchen’s mouth, sliding over Xiao Xingchen’s tongue, soft and slow. Xiao Xingchen sucks harder, rolling his hips into Chengmei’s ankle, one hand on his knee, the other on his hip.

He doesn’t quite come, not so soon after his last climax, but the friction feels good against his groin, Chengmei’s legs solid against his sides, the pain of his bruises reminding him of how fortunate he is to have Chengmei here, Chengmei beneath him.

He releases Chengmei’s finger and inches up to lie beside him. Chengmei rolls into him, nuzzling his throat with his nose.

“If your body is shattered in six places, we can’t do that again,” Xiao Xingchen murmurs into his hair. Chengmei’s heart, pounding against his chest, beats faster, but Chengmei’s tone is his usual flippant one as he asks, “Again?”

“If you promise to take better care of yourself. No more stunts.”

“I promise. Word of honor.”

“That’s what you said when you swore you’d stop teasing A-Qing.”

Chengmei laughs, the vibrations soothing Xiao Xingchen’s aching ribs. “Yeah, but I actually mean it this time.”

Shaking his head, but smiling to himself, Xiao Xingchen pulls him closer.

* * * *

Chengmei is up before him that afternoon. He’s prepared a meal of eggplant and rice he just saves from scorching, something he only manages about half the time. Xiao Xingchen isn’t sure what there is in the Coffin House to get diverted by, but Chengmei is easily distracted.

“And then I have a surprise for you,” he tells Xiao Xingchen. He rocks back and forth on his chair the whole meal—he’s never been good at sitting still—and jumps up to clear the dishes when Xiao Xingchen has finished eating.

Xiao Xingchen sits and lets him despite Chengmei’s broken arm, afraid of mentioning the injury and bringing up what had happened the night before. Everything is all so—so normal, and he’s afraid that if he so much as asks Chengmei how he’s feeling, the spell will break, or worse yet, last night will have been revealed to have been a dream.

“I brought you this,” Chengmei says when he’s finished, setting something down on the table. He takes Xiao Xingchen’s hand and lays it on the pouch set down on the table, then pulls his hand away quickly, as if the touch of Xingchen’s skin is something forbidden.

An awkward silence. The warmth of Chengmei’s touch lingers on Xiao Xingchen’s hand—

Xiao Xingchen reaches up, lays the hand on Chengmei’s elbow, and the awkwardness is dispelled as if it had never been there. Chengmei leans over his shoulder, reaching around him. His cheek grazes Xingchen’s, as warm as his hand had been.

“I removed the beast’s core last night,” he says. “It was a spirit beast, the first I’ve seen in years. The core is strong. You can—you know, take it, use it to make spiritual tools or whatever…” He pulls away, and Xiao Xingchen quickly turns to glance sightlessly up at him over his shoulder.

"A real core?"

"As real as they come."

It’s an impressive gift, the core. The spirit beast’s magical essence, it can be used in elixirs and spiritual tools. Xingchen has never encountered a beast with a core potent enough to do more than make healing draughts and powders, but he can sense the thrum of power clean through the containing pouch.

Instinctively he knows that this is more than a mere gift. That for someone like Chengmei—a survivor, a forager, a scrounger, a child of the streets—to give up such an advantage, something that he could use—

He rises, pouch in hand, and lays the other on Chengmei’s shoulder.

“Thank you, A-Mei,” he says.

He has nothing to give Chengmei in return except for that—“A-Mei”—but it seems to be enough.

Silence. And then, “Well, I’d best be letting you play with your new toy,” says Chengmei. “Be careful with it. It’s got more malevolent energy than I’ve seen anywhere for a while. You wouldn’t want a corrupted spiritual tool killing you in your sleep, would you?”

“Could that actually happen?”

“I wouldn’t let it happen,” says Chengmei, a bit too emphatically, and he slips out of the house as if he’s said too much.

Xiao Xingchen sits back down. He wants to rush out after Chengmei, plead with him to be careful, to not exert himself with his wounded side and broken arm, but instead he smiles fondly after him, hoping he’s looking over his shoulder, and turns to the pouch.

After a moment he rises, rummages through Chengmei’s small store of things. Normally he would never look through his things—(“Look.” Ha. What would Chengmei have to say to that?) but this is going to be a gift for Chengmei, as he’s not so presumptuous to think a pet name is much of a gift.

But this will help him keep Chengmei safe, and he would do anything to keep Chengmei safe.

Carefully, he cuts a paperman out of Chengmei’s talisman paper and lays it flat on his hand.

He’d only done this once before, under Shifu’s supervision, and it had drained his spiritual powers for a week afterward.

He’s stronger now than he was then, but he still knows the dangers of being trapped outside his body, of fracturing his mind between two loci, of the damage to his psyche if the paperman is harmed while he’s still in it.

He hasn’t dared risk anything like this since losing his eyes. He’s relied too heavily on his spiritual energy to find his way around and defend himself to risk losing it for a week. Had no one to protect his body while he was in the paperman, keep him from the thousand dangers of the road.

But he has a home now, and he can rely on Chengmei to look after him if he drains his powers for a few days. And he doesn’t think he will drain them—the beauty of the core is that it will provide an alternate source of power for the consciousness transfer.

Or rather, consciousness splitting.

If all goes well, he can split his consciousness between his body and the paperman on night-hunts, seeing through the paperman’s eyes, being able to see threats, monsters, demons, beasts, defend himself and Chengmei, so that last night’s events will never be repeated.

And—he can’t help but blush at the thought—he’ll finally get to see what Chengmei looks like. It’s not as if it matters to him. Chengmei is Chengmei. He’s his, no matter what. He already knows he’s good looking, going by overheard scraps of conversation, but that had meant nothing to him as a blind man, and he knows it will mean nothing even after he sees his face.

But to be able to gaze upon his face as he lies next to him in bed, look across the table at him at dinner, see the light catching in his eye as he laughs, finally see the smile that sounds so very infectious—

It’s worth the risk involved in splitting his consciousness between his body and the paperman.

And the risk in using the malevolent core. Chengmei was right—there’s a strong dark energy in the deceptively bright and golden core.

But he can handle it. Use the light, leave the darkness in the pouch.

He wonders how long he has till Chengmei returns. He checks the shelf—so he took a basket with him, that must mean he was going to the market. Not something he should be doing in his state, but at least it gives Xiao Xingchen a bit more time before he’s expected back.

He sits cross-legged on the mediation mat beside his old coffin—they really ought to move that out, make more room in the house—what will they tell A-Qing?—he’ll leave that up to Chengmei—he doesn’t think she’ll care much, but they’ll have to swear to secrecy; he can’t imagine the neighbors will like having two cut-sleeves in their town—

He takes a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts, but for once they refuse to be calmed.

Is he a cut-sleeve? Is that what this is? Outside friendship, he'd never had so much as a flicker of interest in anyone before, man or woman, but he’d taken an innate interest in women for granted. He should go back and examine the last ten years of his life, recontextualize the last fifteen years of his life, see if there were signs, revisit his time with Song Lan—

Another deep breath. None of this matters now. What matters is that Chengmei will be home soon, and Xiao Xingchen wants to surprise him. And how now Xingchen willl be able to examine last night’s stitches, make sure the splint is in correctly place, ensure that Chengmei heals properly.

Eat dinner on the porch, watching the sunset together.

See the moon.

Lie on his back, looking up at the stars....

Best not think about that. Best not get his hopes up in case he fails—

He does not fail.

It’s like a red-hot razor is slicing slivers from his brain, carving it in half. He’s about to cry out when the agonizing pain is gone and only the heat remains.

His own face looks down at him, its wide mouth hanging open slightly, eyebrows raised above the blood-streaked blindfold.

He drops the paperman in shock, and the room dips and whirls around him. Dizzied by the sense of motion despite being still, he immediately bends down to snatch at the fluttering paperman, stop its fall. It eludes him as, nausesous, he watches his giant hand snatch at his paperman face like an enormous white hawk grasping at its prey—

He slams his head into the table and falls off his chair.

Sitting on the floor with the paperman tucked safely in his robe, queasy with motion sickness, he laughs to himself at his own clumsiness.

He can see.

Xingchen is about to rise, look around, examine every nook and cranny of his suddenly-new home, when he hears off-key whistling from outside.

His pulse quickens. Chengmei is home, sooner than expected—

Chengmei steps over the threshold.

“I’m back, daozhang!” he calls. “Where are you hiding? I bought you some fresh apples; I thought we could cook them in honey or something, maybe add some sweet wine—”

Xiao Xingchen gazes at him in mute horror through the paperman’s eyes.

It’s him.

That’s Chengmei’s voice. His familiar cheerful, irreverent voice.

But the face—

Xiao Xingchen leaps to his feet, stumbling backwards over the chair and falling in a tangle of limbs to the floor.

Chengmei—not Chengmei—the imposter—is beside him in a moment, apples rolling across the floor and smashed egg oozing from the dropped basket.

“Daozhang!” He lifts him to his feet with his customary combination of gentleness and roughness. “I knew I shouldn’t leave you alone with your head injury!”

Xiao Xingchen’s knees give way. “I’m—I’m—you—”

Chengmei—the imposter—Xue Yang’s—eyes are wide. “What is it?”

“I—you—”

“Lean on me, daozhang. I’ll help you to bed.” Looping Xiao Xingchen’s arm over his shoulder, Xue Yang half-carries him to bed. The paperman is nestled inside Xingchen’s robe, vibrating against his skin. “You just lie there, and I’ll peel you some apples. Perk you up a little. Maybe don’t go to sleep for a bit, I once half-cracked my skull, and I passed out in a ditch, and when I woke up I—”

Xiao Xingchen doesn’t hear the rest of his story. Weak with horror, he stares at Xue Yang as he slices apples at the table, holding the fruit steady with the elbow of his bad arm.

Bad arm. The arm with the hand that—that—

He hadn’t felt the glove the night before. Xue Yang must have taken it off.

Taken it off when they had—

He rolls over on his side and vomits into the water jug.

* * *

Like it? AO3

#xiao xingchen #xue yang #xuexiao #yi city #you look so pretty with blood on your face #lotus writes #mdzs fanfiction #cql fanfic

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writingformymentalhealth · 3 years

Text

Chapter 7

Josephine Fawley or as her brother liked to call her the tomboy Princess had a striking romance with Hogwarts very own Pureblood rebel Sirius Black.

Sadly her parents deemed his Brother the so called Slytherin Prince as a better fit and arranged a marriage with the younger Black.

Tw: Arranged marriage, possible smut, swear words, lots of fluff, angst,

Part 1

Part 8

Masterlist

Wattpad

The next morning, Joey woke up to an empty bed. Everything was folded neatly, and it looked like the bed had been untouched for the night and even though she felt hostile towards the Slytherin, she would have preferred to wake up next to a familiar face instead of a cold and empty room.

Sighing, she put on a dress, guessing that Orion and Walburga probably weren’t the breakfast in Pyjama kind of people.

In the dining room she only found Regulus eating his breakfast while reading the newspaper thoroughly.

She cleared her throat. “Morning.”

“Good Morning, Kreacher will bring you breakfast in a minute.”

She nodded, sitting down next to him, nervously playing with her hair till the house-elf brought her breakfast.

“My Parents aren’t going to be home till the evening and I have no idea where Sirius went.” Regulus informed her, not looking up from his newspaper.

She let her mind wander to Sirius; he was drunk yesterday and although she wished it was different; she doubted that Sirius Black would want to be the dirty little secret of somebody - yet alone herself. She looked at her fiancée who didn’t even spare her a look and had to blink back tears - she was in for a lonely summer and probably an even lonelier life.

She shuddered thinking about her married life with Regulus, her only source of affection being cold gazes and snippy comments.

After both teens finished their breakfast, Regulus got up, making his way to the door.

“Can we explore the house today?” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“I live here there is nothing to explore.”

“I don’t live here.” She said, fully aware of how pleading her voice sounded.

“There is nothing interesting here, besides maybe Sirius room - if you are into half naked woman on motorcycles, but I guess you already explored that thoroughly.”

“Reggie-” the nickname slipped from her lips so easily that it surprised even herself. She expected Regulus to be angry, but he just nodded curtly.

“Alright I’ll give you a tour.”

He walked her through the hallways showing her some of the guest rooms that all had a similar eerie decor that made Joey’s hair stand up.

“Told you.” He muttered after guest room number three, but Joey was adamant about seeing every room in the enormous mansion.

The last door of the hallway looked different, less dusty, and Regulus hesitated before opening it.

The room was beautiful. Huge bookshelves decorated the walls, a comfortable-looking sofa next to a fireplace, and a huge piano in the middle of the room.

“I like this room,” Regulus informed her, his eyes slipping over the furniture as if he wanted to make sure that nothing was missing

“It’s beautiful.” she walked to the piano, gently caressing the expensive wood. “Can you play?”

“A little.”

“Play for me.”

“Is this an order?” Regulus asked and Joey felt her body tense up, although the boy didn’t seem angry, just curious.

“Just hoping you will consider my request.”

He made a smacking sound with his mouth before his long, slender fingers found their way to the piano keys. He started playing a melody that Joey didn’t know, but she liked it, and most importantly she liked how regulus looked when playing the piano. So peaceful, so emotional, so young, so very human. Joey found herself fascinated by the boy she saw, and she clapped excitedly after he finished his play and for a short second she thought she almost saw him smile a little.

But his face soon became cold again as he informed her he had some work for his parents to do and she was welcome to look around on her own.

Shocked by his sudden change in demeanor, Joey just nodded, making her way back to Regulus room, plopping herself on the bed trying to read a book.

The next few days went by in a blur, the Black parents being occupied by something they called ‘important business’, Regulus practically ignoring her and Sirius still not coming back.

It was Monday evening during dinner that Sirius decided to rejoin the Black household.

“Late as always,” Walburga sneered as the boy sat down opposite of Joey.

Sirius stayed silent, shoving food inside his mouth while Walburga went on about what a disappointment Sirius was. Joey opened her mouth to say something, but Regulus shook his head, giving her a warning glare.

“And now to you,” Walburga said, looking at Joey and regulus, “you seem so distant with each other, why don’t you hold hands or something?”

Orion snorted dismissively. “They sleep in the same room I’m sure they are far past hand holding.”Joey felt her cheeks heat up as the two adults talked about her sex life so nonchalantly and her eyes automatically looked to Sirius, her subconscious still holding on to all the years that he has been her comfort but Sirius eyes were filled with something that could only be described as pure rage as he glared at his brother who didn’t even flinch under the older Black boy’s gaze instead he swiftly slipped his hand into her’s.

Sirius looked ready to burst and Joey felt comfort in Regulus casually holding her hand as Sirius stood up abruptly, walking up the wooden stairs in his room.

Joey’s heart sank. She hated it when Sirius got angry, especially when it was because of her, but there was nothing she could do for this situation - at least till the adults were asleep.

It was past midnight as Joey slipped into Sirius’ room, half expecting him to be fast asleep but instead finding his head in his hands sitting on the floor next to a fist shaped hole in the wall.

“Sirius.”

She didn’t get an answer she slowly made her way towards him as if he was a wild animal. Joey lowered herself next to the trembling boy’s body, reaching out a hand to comfort him but stopping a few inches before his skin.

Was it okay for him if she comforted him? After all, he wasn’t hers anymore.

Did he even want to see her?

Was he sad or mad?

“I’m sorry,” she stated, not sure for what exactly she was apologizing for.

The drunk make-out session? The break up? The hand holding?

“It’s just so unfair.” he breathed. “You’re the girl who called me an asshole the first time we spoke. The girl who tried to pay for our sweets even after she learned I am a Black and have more than enough money. You’re the girl who risked falling out of the window to feed the orphaned birds, who makes my breath hitch whether you’re wearing a tight dress or oversized sweatpants. You’re- “ he paused, his grey eyes locking with her green ones “You are my girl.”

She swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth heart still belongs to you.”

“But everything else belongs to my brother, doesn’t it?” Joey shuffled away at the sudden harshness of his voice.

“He didn’t touch me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Some emotion swirled in his grey eyes, making her bite her lip.

“Do you love him?”

“No. You’re the only one for me, you’ll always be.”

Tears started pooling in her eyes as she faced the bitter truth her words held.

“You feel nothing for him?” Sirius clarified, shifting closer to her.

“Nothing, he is just the guy I am forced to marry.”

And then Sirius’ lips crashed against hers, holding her body close as if he was scared she might disappear. She buried her head in his neck, pressing kisses there too, inhaling his familiar scent of expensive cologne and smoke.

“It’s only for our parents? You don’t like being close to him?” Sirius asked for the hundredth time, searching her eyes for any sign of a lie.

“Yes Sirius. You are the only one I want to be close to.” He nodded, letting his head fall back down on her chest. “I still need to sleep in his room though.” She said, playing with Sirius’ soft locks.

He gripped the sheet tightly, trying to control the boiling anger that came with the image of his girl sleeping next to his baby brother. “I Hate him”

“He did nothing wrong, Siri.”

He gave her a dirty look. “He touched you.”

“For your parents. Now c’mon let me leave before we both fall asleep.”

Sirius grumbled as he pushed his body off of her so she could get up.

“Wait,” he said as she went to the door. She turned around, seeing a grinning Sirius handing her one of his shirts. “wear this.”

“Sirius-“

“It’s one of the shirts my mother purchased, she could never make out which shirt belonged to Regulus and which one was mine.” He grinned mischievously, “but Regulus can.

She rolled her eyes although taking the shirt out of his hand. “You’re such a child, Black.”

With one swift motion, she pulled her shirt over her head, practically feeling Sirius’ dark eyes boring into her body before she pulled over his oversized shirt.

Sirius smirked darkly, “Perfect.”

She rolled her eyes again before sneaking out of the door into Regulus room, only stopping in her treks as she found Regulus wide awake writing something on his desk instead of finding him fast asleep as she expected.

“I thought you were asleep.” She stammered awkwardly as his gaze met hers.

“I don’t usually sleep early.”

“But you are always awake before me?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“We always went to bed together,” she exclaimed, puzzled by the boy’s behavior.

“Figured I’d be less awkward like that.”

Joey blinked slowly. Her brain couldn’t fathom Regulus black sitting somewhere thinking how he could make things less awkward for the girl he was forced to marry.

“That’s” she paused, clearing her throat, “very kind of you.”

He didn’t answer, turning around and packing away his things. And Joey had the feeling that she was supposed to say something, but she didn’t know what.

“I suppose you made up.” He said turning around gesturing to her shirt, “assuming that’s his shirt.”

“Uh yeah.” He nodded, pulling his shirt over his head before slipping under the covers. “So you always go to sleep when I go to sleep?” She asked awkwardly.

“No. I am going to bed, sometimes I fall asleep eventually sometimes I wait till you sleep to get up and read something downstairs.” He said, turning to the side, clearly signaling that the conversation is over.

Even though Joey thought she would have a good night’s sleep, being in the clear with Sirius and all, she couldn’t help but toss and turn in bed, Regulus confession stirring up a weird feeling in her stomach. Only an arm's length away from her Regulus too couldn’t sleep. Seeing Joey in his brother’s shirt, her legs covered in dark hickeys for some reason rubbed him the wrong way.

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ibijau · 3 years

Text

part 9 of the Nomad Nie AU // On AO3

the nomads move for the winter, and encounter some trouble on the way

After some consideration, Lan Xichen and Huaisang decided that Mingjue did not need to know that his brother had hurt himself for the time being. Though the wound was healing slowly, Huaisang swore that it was getting better at what was a normal speed for him, and Lan Xichen believed him. After all, Huaisang had stopped fighting his husband on that subject, and allowed Lan Xichen to help him keep the wound clean and to check on it when they were alone. It did seem healthy enough, as long as Huaisang didn't poke it too much.

They also decided that, until Mingjue had forgiven Lan Xichen for the hunting trip, it would be best if he didn’t know that Huaisang had shared his secret with his husband. Lan Xichen felt somewhat uncomfortable about what seemed like a lie to him, but trusted Huaisang to know his brother’s temper.

There were more pressing things to think about anyway. A few days after that conversation, the time came for the whole clan to move toward their winter dwellings, and such an endeavour left little time for personal problems. Lan Xichen had never even moved houses, except for the summer after his mother’s death which his brother and him spent at a relative’s home. Taking what amounted to an entire village and putting it on wheels was particularly impressive to him. He asked as many questions as he could, and Huaisang patiently answered them all, with Mingjue or Meng Yao adding details if one of thel was around.

As Huaisang explained, for their clan moving was a more complicated thing than for most others, because they were a larger group than most nomads. If Mingjue had not been Khan, it was likely that some of their most distant cousins would have broken off in search of their own territory. Even like this, they usually separated in two smaller groups during the winter so that their respective herds didn’t compete for food and exhaust the winter grass too soon.

“You don’t prepare hay for the winter?” Lan Xichen asked upon hearing this.

“Hay?” Huaisang repeated. “Hay… I don’t know that word.”

“It’s… cutting grass and putting it to dry so animals have something to eat in winter,” Lan Xichen explained.

“Ah… no, they manage on their own. Our animals are smart enough for that,” Huaisang proudly said. “If Han beasts are too stupid to feed themselves, it must be so bothersome.”

“We just raise them differently,” Lan Xichen protested, though having lived most of his life in the city before this trip with his uncle, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps Han animals were really lazy and pampered. He would have to ask Meng Yao if he was more educated in these matters. “Isn’t it dangerous to break into groups like this? Aren’t you at war with the Wen?”

Huaisang laughed, and nodded before explaining that it would have been rude for anyone to attack in winter. It offended the heavens, and unless there was some very great dispute happening between two clans or two tribes, then usually even enemies could be expected to offer hospitality once the first snows started. In the same manner, attacking while people were moving camp was such a repulsive concept that Huaisang actually shivered when Lan Xichen expressed that worry.

“What honour is there in a victory over weakened people?” Huaisang asked.

“But then, less soldiers die,” Lan Xichen pointed out, which got him a horrified look. Sun Zi possibly wouldn’t be a popular read here, he figured, and quickly changed the subject before offending his husband’s sensibilities any further.

When the big day came, it took barely more than a sichen for each family to dismantle their ger, and only a little more time to place the different components on carts pulled by oxen. For personal items, crates had been put on the back of other oxen. Those crates were also used to carry those too young or too old to be riding horses. Cattle could carry more weight than horses, Huaisang had explained, and they were usually more even tempered. At the same time, they were more dangerous when their temper did change, and it was not unusual for people to die or be wounded during the move. They did everything they could to prevent that, but the risk could never be fully eliminated.

Because the migration could be dangerous, young people often took it as a matter of pride to help keep everyone safe. Almost everyone had a story about some disaster or other that they had prevented, be it calming an ox before it could throw off the babies it carried, or killing wolves that had been chasing one of the herds. Everyone except Huaisang, who Khan Mingjue kept close to himself and forbade from putting himself in danger.

That year, like every year apparently, Huaisang begged his brother to put him in charge of something. He promised to be careful, to let someone else handle the oxen if they were too agitated, to only shoot from a distance if there were wolves, but his brother refused to listen, and even threatened to have him ride on an ox like a child if he wouldn’t stop being unreasonable.

Having said this, Khan Mingjue braced himself for his brother to explode with anger, as did everyone around them. Yet Huaisang, in spite of his obvious humiliation at being dismissed that way, managed to keep his calm this time.

“If that’s my Khan’s decision, I’ll respect it,” he hissed. Then, after a glance at Lan Xichen who nodded encouragingly, he added. “Still, do consider it, if the need arises. We need everyone to do their part, and I don’t want to do any less than others. If there’s something I can do, I hope you’ll let me.”

“I will,” Mingjue promised, taken aback by that reasonable reaction.

Satisfied for the time being by that progress, Huaisang dropped the matter and went away with his husband to show him the cart containing their own ger. When they were far enough from the Khan, Huaisang kicked some clump of yellowed grass with enough force to send it flying, and launched into a long rant against his brother’s tyrannical tendencies. Lan Xichen counted this as a victory anyway. If Huaisang could learn to keep his temper in check around his brother, then the Khan might start to accept that his brother was more than just a capricious child.

Huaisang’s promise to be well behaved and not put himself in danger was soon put to the test. Even within the first few days, there were already incidents happening. Nothing too big on the whole, but only because it was caught on time: oxen getting annoyed, herds being spooked by somethings and nearly running in panic, and a pack of wolves that seemed to be following them from a safe distance, clearly waiting for a chance to strike.

“We’ll lose a few horses, probably some cows as well,” Huaisang predicted, before his face turned dark. “In bad years, we lose a child that wandered off.”

Lan Xichen shivered upon hearing this. He knew wolves were dangerous, of course, but they had never been part of his daily life. His uncle had warned him they might encounter some as they travelled west, but he had made it sound like a small risk compared to what some nomads might do to them if caught. Lan Xichen hoped he wouldn’t have to come anywhere near wolves, not when even someone as fearless as Zonghui would show caution when chasing them away from the herds.

Of course, younger men showed less fear. About a week into the start of the journey, one boy a little younger than Huaisang managed to shoot a wolf that had attacked a heifer under the cover of night. He proudly showed off his kill to the entire clan, and was treated like a hero by his peers. Even though the Khan advised against needless acts of courage, he too congratulated the boy for his success. Huaisang watched, clearly devoured by envy, but said nothing.

A few nights after, when there was another attack while Huaisang was keeping watch. It was a normal chore for young people, but for Huaisang it was a first, and the Khan had made it quite clear he shouldn't take it as an excuse to be reckless. So when he heard wolves, Huaisang dutifully told others to go after the animals and stayed safely behind. This time two wolves were killed, and again the Khan thanked the young people who had protected the herds while his brother seethed quietly.

The morning after, Huaisang was in a predictably dreadful mood as they resumed their journey. Sitting on his horse more stiffly than usual, Huaisang kept glaring at everyone, and looked ready to snap at whoever would dare to talk to him. Lan Xichen felt dreadfully sorry for his husband, especially as he was beginning to understand just how important that sort of heroism was among the nomads. The wolves’ pelts had been prepared to be kept right away both times, and Lan Xichen had been explained they’d either be sold for a very high price or kept as precious courting gifts, valued as highly as a good racing horse.

“You’ll have your turn too,” Lan Xichen told Huaisang when his husband kept glancing toward the heroes of the day. “Your brother will come to reason, sooner or later.”

Huaisang shrugged, his expression only becoming darker at that reassurance. Lan Xichen turned to Meng Yao, who was riding with them that day. He hoped that his friend would support him and encourage Huaisang to obedience, since he was so scared of the Khan himself, but Meng Yao shook his head.

“If the Khan was to ever trust Huaisang, it would have happened already,” he said, turning to Huaisang. “If you wait for his permission, you will be an elder and you will never have killed anything fiercer than a rabbit. Of course I’m not encouraging you to put yourself in danger,” Meng Yao quickly added when Lan Xichen frowned at him. “It would be very unwise to cross him, especially when he already has so many worries, trying to get everyone safely to the winter dwellings. Still… things are what they are.”

Huaisang sighed deeply.

“I really don’t want to bother him, but also… I could have killed one of those wolves last night. I could have!”he exploded, slightly startling his horse. “If Yasheng could, then anyone might have managed. It wasn’t even that big of a wolf, probably a pup born this spring!”

“Then why didn’t you try?” Meng Yao asked. “Don’t tell me you’re really expecting your brother to notice your obedience? He never pays attention to what you do, unless it crosses him, you know that.”

Lan Xichen felt a little annoyed at Meng Yao for saying that. It was a great misunderstanding of the Khan’s character in his opinion. Of course Meng Yao couldn’t understand how much Mingjue cared about his brother, and there was bad blood between him and the Khan. Still, even before learning of Huaisang’s secret, Lan Xichen wouldn’t have accused the Khan of being uncaring. A little clumsy in handling his emotions, yes, but right from the first moment he had known that Mingjue loved his brother dearly, and wanted nothing but his happiness.

“I’m trying something,” Huaisang evasively answered. “I’m a married man now, I can’t continue acting like a child. I have to show an example for my poor, unmarried brother so that he too can see the appeal of settling down.”

Meng Yao smiled indulgently at the weak joke, but he did not appear quite convinced by that explanation. Lan Xichen then promptly asked about a mountain range in the distance, eager to change the topic. Even if Huaisang had been doing well so far at keeping himself out of trouble, Lan Xichen worried that talking too much about this would tempt him to do something stupid.

For a few days, there were no more attacks on the herd. The pack of wolves that had followed them for a while seemed to have given up on pursuing them after such heavy losses. But this didn’t mean the animals were safe: soon enough, a few people spotted a solitary male trailing them, which Lan Xichen learned was far more worrying than a pack. Wolves did not do well on their own, and so that lone male might get desperate and attack just anything it would get close to -or anyone.

Still, this wasn’t the biggest worry on everyone’s mind. It had started snowing, and that was a more urgent concern. The snow remained light so far, but it was also constant, and everyone was worried they’d struggle to reach their wintering location. Everyone also kept a close eye on children and elderly people to make sure they did not suffer too much from the cold. Lan Xichen himself had some trouble with those temperatures, and was given as warm of a deel as could be found to wear under his Han robes and help him withstand this weather he wasn’t used to.

Quite shamelessly, Nie Huaisang also kept offering to help keep him warm, a devious smile on his lips. Lan Xichen always mildly scolded him for suggesting something so improper, while his husband laughed at his reaction. Mostly, Lan Xichen was annoyed that there was even less privacy than usual as they travelled, which meant they barely managed to kiss, let alone think of other things.

Not that he wasn’t happy with the time they spent together. Lan Xichen was glad that they could ride their horses together, that Huaisang was teaching him how to help around and be an active member of the clan, that they could chat whenever there was a moment of quiet. He enjoyed all this greatly. It was just that he had the ever growing certainty he’d also enjoy being perfectly alone with Huaisang to slowly peel away every layer of clothing on his husband’s body so he could kiss every inch of warm skin and…

And that was not a train of thought he ought to have had in public, Lan Xichen had to remind himself several times every day. The time for it would come, hopefully, but the time just wasn’t now.

On one snowy morning, it was decided that the time had come for the group to divide into two, since they were approaching one of the wintering spots that the clan used. They spent most of that morning checking who was going in what direction, whether nobody would be taking something that wasn’t theirs, and how soon someone should ride between the two camps to check that everyone had managed to settle according to plan.

While Lan Xichen was rather untouched by all this activity, it wasn’t so for Meng Yao. It had initially been decided that he would go with the other group, but at the last moment Khan Mingjue changed his mind. Meng Yao would stay where the Khan could keep an eye on him, which meant all his possessions would have to be transferred to a different cart. So far he had been sharing the cart of Wenyan, a widow with whom he got along fairly well, and whose toddler was particularly attached to him. The child cried heavy tears the entire time Meng Yao moved his possessions, but the Khan had made up his mind and wouldn’t be moved.

It really was unfair, Lan Xichen thought. Maybe once the Khan had been convinced to trust his brother a little more, they would have to work on making him do the same with poor Meng Yao. When they started moving again around noon, Lan Xichen shared that idea with Huaisang who agreed that the situation was ridiculous, and they tried to find ideas on how to make the two reconcile.

It kept them busy for a good half of the afternoon, until they had the surprise of being joined by Meng Yao who should have been very far away already.

“Wenyan says that Cunzhi is missing,” Meng Yao urgently said when they asked why he had returned. “Nobody has seen him nearly since we separated, and she was afraid he managed to escape to come see me so she rode all the way here. Someone needs to warn the Khan, but her horse is tired and I… well, I can’t,” he sighed. “I’m already going to be blamed for this, I don’t want to be the one to tell him.”

“I’ll tell him,” Huaisang immediately said, already preparing to dash ahead, but Meng Yao shook his head.

“Isn’t it better if you send Lan gongzi and come with me to look for Cunzhi? He could be just anywhere, and you’re one of the best riders of the clan. If he’s out in the wild, I’m sure you’ll be the one to find him.”

This gave Huaisang pause. His hands tightened on his reins, and he glanced at Lan Xichen, to ask for his opinion. It was obvious that he desperately wanted to go. After all, finding that child would show people that he wasn’t just lazy and pampered, while also being far less dangerous than hunting wolves or calming an ox.

“Your brother won’t be happy if you go without his permission,” Lan Xichen still said. Huaisang’s face fell at the reminder. “The child is probably just hiding on a cart. I’ll go with Meng Yao to check if he wandered off, you warn your brother and see what he thinks should be done.”

With great reluctance, Huaisang agreed and sent his horse galloping toward the front of the group. Meng Yao watched him go with an unreadable expression, before turning his own horse around to go in search of the child while Lan Xichen followed suit. They joined up with a few others to check that the child hadn't been found, then quickly separated after agreeing to meet at a certain place. Meng Yao and two others went riding in the direction the other group ought to be while Lan Xichen retraced their steps. They all thought it unlikely that Cunzhi would have been just left behind, so it seemed enough to have just one person go that way. Meng Yao had volunteered, but the Khan did not allow for him to ride alone, so Lan Xichen was picked instead.

Just as expected, Lan Xichen reached the site where they had camped for the night without seeing a trace of the child. He could easily have turned around then, but decided instead to check carefully. Unlikely didn't mean impossible. Jumping down from Shuoyue, Lan Xichen called Cunzhi’s name until he thought he spotted something in a small bush, a touch of red hidden under the snow covered branches. It could have been nothing more than a bird, or a scrap of fabric, but Lan Xichen thought it prudent to check.

Inside the bush, he found Cunzhi.

In spite of the warm clothes he wore, the child’s face and hands were a concerning shade of purple, and it was rather obvious that he had been crying a lot. Lan Xichen didn’t lose a moment. He fell to his knees and plunged his hands into the bush to retrieve the child, not noticing the way sharp thorns were tearing at his skin and sleeves. He was only glad to be wearing some of his own clothes over the deel lended to him, since it made it easier to protect the child’s face from those same thorns.

“No!” Cunzhi weakly cried out, refusing to leave his hiding place. He struggled without much strength, sluggish from the cold. “Cunzhi want Menyao!”

“I’ll take you to Meng Yao,” Lan Xichen replied, without much effect. The child started crying again, and wriggled with all that he had, trying to escape his rescuer. “Please, Cunzhi, calm down. Meng Yao is looking for you, don’t you want to see him again?”

“Cunzhi wait here! Cunzhi is good!”

Lan Xichen sighed, and tried to get up again. It was not an easy task with the toddler fighting against his grasp, and riding Shuoyue would be even worse. The horse had a good temperament and shouldn’t get spooked by the cries of a child on his back, but if Cunzhi managed to escape Lan Xichen’s grasp and fell, he might get seriously hurt. Not only was Lan Xichen worried for the child, but more selfishly he feared the Khan’s reaction, should something of the sort happen.

Hoping to calm the toddler and buy his cooperation, Lan Xichen started looking into his clothes for a snack of some sort. “Do you want something to eat, Cunzhi?” he asked. “If you’re good, you will get a treat, and you will also see Meng Yao and your mother.”

“Mama?” Cunzhi sobbed, clumsily wiping his eyes. “Cunzhi want mama. Cunzhi want mama now!”

“Then Cunzhi comes with Xichen,” Lan Xichen said, dangling a piece of aarduul in front of the child. “You’re going to be good, right? Your mother is very worried.”

To Lan Xichen’s immense relief, the food had the intended effect. Cunzhi’s tears slowed down a little as he stared at the aarduul, making a grabbing movement. The toddler had finally started to calm down when Shuoyue decided it was its turn to become agitated. The horse whined and neighing with ever increasing alarm. When Lan Xichen turned to see what the matter was, he found himself face to face with a wolf.

If Lan Xichen had known more about wolves, he might have noticed that the animal was rather thin, as if it hadn’t eaten well for a long while, and not a particularly impressive specimen overall. But for Lan Xichen, who had been expecting wolves to be nothing but a bigger and meaner sort of dogs, the encounter was terrifying. He was unarmed, away from anyone who might have helped him, and hindered by a child who, after seeing the wolf, had just started crying again from fright.

Lan Xichen’s first impulse was to run for it and try to reach Shuoyue, but the wolf stood between him and his nervous horse. The animal looked ready to bolt away at the first excuse anyway, making that option unsafe.

The wolf growled, and stepped closer.

Overcome by terror, Lan Xichen glared at it and shushed it.

“Quiet!” he ordered in the same annoyed tone he once used on his brother when they were children and Wangji had decided to learn the guqin on his own. The wolf growled again. Lan Xichen stomped his foot and changed his hold on Cunzhi so he could wave one arm menacingly, making his long sleeve waver before him. “I said quiet! I don’t have time to deal with this, so you’d better leave me alone!”

Noticing that the wolf seemed to be following the movements of his sleeve, Lan Xichen waved his arm more menacingly.

“Go!” he shouted. “Or else we’re both going to regret it! Go! Go now!”

The wolf hesitated, snarling at Lan Xichen who continued shouting, stomping, and waving his free arm until the animal decided that this prey wouldn’t be worth the effort. It walked away, turning to check on Lan Xichen every few steps. Lan Xichen continued shouting until he figured that the wolf was far enough, at which point he ran to Shuoyue, jumped on its back, and sent it running. The horse, just as terrified as its riders, galloped for longer than was safe, until they reached the place where he was supposed to meet the others looking for Cunzhi.

Lan Xichen was the first one there, though Cunzhi and him were not alone for very long. After a little while, a group of riders joined him coming from the main group of nomad rather than those who had split off, among which were Khan Mingjue and Huaisang.

“You found him!” Huaisang said, bringing his horse closer. He looked at Shuoyue, drenched in sweat, trembling with exhaustion, and frowned. “Which did you push your horse so hard? It was not so urgent.”

“I was worried Cunshi would become sick,” Lan Xichen said, figuring there was no need to reveal his encounter with a wolf. “He seems unwell, no?”

“Cunzhi cold,” the toddler mumbled. “Was scary. Snow, and big dog.”

“Big dog?” Khan Mingjue remarked, coming close as well and taking the child from Lan Xichen. “What big dog?”

“It’s nothing,” Lan Xichen said, looking away. “We had an encounter, but nothing to worry at all. Cunzhi is safe, yes?”

Huaisang turned pale, and grabbed his husband’s wrist.

“You fought a wolf?” he asked. For a moment, Lan Xichen feared that his husband would get jealous over that chance for glory, but Huaisang’s face showed nothing but open concern. “Are you hurt? Did it bite you? Your hands are bleeding!”

“Not from the wolf,” Lan Xichen replied, a little embarrassed. “I’m fine, really. I just shouted at the wolf until it went away.”

The nomads, at first, stared at him as if he had insulted their ancestors. Before too long, Khan Mingjue burst out laughing, followed in this by the entire group except Huaisang who only looked more worried. They were all still laughing when Meng Yao and the others with him reached the meeting point. After being brought up to date on the situation, they started laughing as well, though at that point everyone was also complimenting Lan Xichen for handling that situation so well. Lan Xichen, who had just been terrified, accepted the compliments with humility, convinced he had just been lucky. If the wolf had been a little hungrier, or a little stronger, both him and Cunzhi would have been in trouble.

Later on, as they were alone in their tent and getting ready for the night, Huaisang cuddled against his husband’s side and made him give a more detailed account of the encounter. Huaisang shivered the whole time, and by the end of the story his expression was quite grim.

“You were very unlucky to have met that wolf,” he said, “but very lucky that things went so well. From now on, you need to carry a sword.”

Lan Xichen agreed. Several people had already told him the same thing, including the Khan himself.

“I guess now I understand a little better why my brother is like this,” Huaisang said. He paused a moment, pressing himself harder against Lan Xichen’s side who wrapped his arms around him. “Don’t tell Mingjue I said that. He’ll be awful if he hears I can agree with him sometimes.”

“Isn’t he always awful?” Lan Xichen teased.

“Only when he’s right,” Huaisang retorted with a pout. “Which happens far too often.”

Lan Xichen chuckled, and pulled Huaisang closer to him, until his husband was almost sitting on his lap. He’d get embarrassed in a moment when the Khan returned to their tent, but right then, as it finally hit him just how much danger he’d been in, Lan Xichen needed this too much to care about shame.

#xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #Nomad nie #hjkdsfhjshfjs I hate this chapter so much #it was such a pain in the ass to write #and I'm pretty sure it kinda sucks #but sometimes you just gotta push through and write a boring chapter so you can move on to more interesting stuff #jau writes

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invidiasaunder · 3 years

Text

Doom (”Hell AU”) scene

- Do you really think so?...

There is something wrong with how confused this strong, dangerous and even frightening creature looks, which is now gazing with hidden pain at its own hands. Following the other's gaze, the Marine does not hold back a heavy sigh, it was only necessary to understand - he was aimed at claws unusual for the human race, disfiguring the already painfully pale fingers.

- Really. - Seeing other people's torment becomes unbearable. To stand like an statue, among other things, too, and not having come up with anything better, the Slayer casually pats the head down dejectedly, as if in an absolutely idiotic attempt to support. The palm accidentally touches the root of the curved horns: - You proved to me that you retained not only self-control, but also a relatively sober mind. So why would I consider you disgusting?

- Because I'm a demon? - Skeptically responding, the fallen one clasps his hands in disgust and looks up, making no other attempts to study the body modified by Hell. The cruel truth hits where it should and an awkward silence hangs in the air: From the fact that I am a monster? Freak? Besides, you are unlikely to understand what this is, Flynn, and it is not your fault. Fortunately, of the two of us, only I am doomed to shy away from my own reflection.

- You're not a freak. - Trying to protest, the Soldier immediately purses his dry lips, as soon as he heard a bitter laugh from the side of the deceased comrade. Okay, who is he kidding? The old friend really looked ... not very good. To put it mildly: - Okay, listen. What they did to you is cruel, but personally I don't find you disgusting. In fact, your new look has its advantages.

Skepticism in someone else's gaze burns almost physically, and the Slayer feels drops of nervous sweat flowing down his temple. It was necessary to blurt out this. And now what to say? “You have become bigger and stronger” sounds so childish that even from the very thoughts a bashful blush lights up? - For example ... for example ... For example, your eyes.

- My eyes?

Obviously bewildered, the demon looks puzzled at the interlocutor, expecting a worthy explanation, and, unexpectedly for himself, the person realizes that in these red coals, bordered by a black shadow from the protruding cheekbones, there really is something attractive. Thought is striking in its suddenness and simple, ingenuous truth.

“When I look into your eyes, I see a flame. - After thinking, the Marine continued: - But, it does not burn me. Warms like a fire in a small hearth. Home association, or something like that.

- Did you have one? .. - The fallen man asked quietly, but as soon as he noticed the heavy look of the interlocutor, he immediately bit his own tongue with force and continued even quieter: - The eyes of other demons are also burning.

- They are burning. - The harshness in someone else's voice makes you tense, but not even a few seconds go by when a person, not without due effort, drives away unpleasant memories and clasps someone else's head with his palm before carefully looking into the face. The unexpected closeness puzzles even more - unable to withstand a direct gaze, the demon looks shyly at the floor: - They burn with rage and hunger. Thirst for blood. Hate. Yours could not be overshadowed even by the veil of her power, I still saw in them only the pain of the strayed Night Guard, and not the insane anger of a hellish animal: - Sighing heavily, the Slayer removes his hand from someone else's face and straightens up before confidently ending: “This is what sets you apart from them, Marauder. To hell with your looks if you remain yourself inside.

"Can you ... can you get your hand back?"

Having asked faster than fully realizing the meaning of his own request, the demon immediately lowers his gaze back and clenches his fists tighter, as if the pain from claws digging into his palm is nothing compared to the expectation of a natural refusal. Or contempt in the eyes of others. Both seemed unbearable, and their own vulnerability provoked an irritated groan. You can't. You can't open up that much. Hadn't he already got enough knives in his back? So, why does it still behave like a stray dog, which naively raises its head under the caress of a passerby's hand, even if, after a fleeting warmth, it is destined to remain in cold solitude again? A pathetic, disfigured creature, and it made me want to howl.

- If you want to..? - The confusion in someone else's voice is better than mockery, and a tight lump of doubt weakens its merciless pressure on the chest, or even disappears completely without a trace, one had only to feel the palm returning to the sharp cheekbone. Not daring to look up, the fallen one still feels a slight surprise when, instead of the coolness of the already familiar metal of rough gloves, the dead skin collides with someone else's, alive and hot. - So? Hmm. You see, you are not at all disgusting to me.

Strength, both moral and physical, is only enough to nod weakly, but this light, almost weightless movement is saturated with silent gratitude through and through, which does not go unnoticed. Emboldened by the reaction, the Marine thoughtfully strokes his sunken cheek, re-examining every detail of someone else's appearance, which now did not repulse at all with its ugliness caused by the association with the hated race. On the contrary, there was something special about this pale, almost milky-white skin, mottled with a web of pitch-dark veins, in those crooked horns that resemble an old helmet, because of the weight of which the demon always seemed to look sullenly. The initial shock and disgust in front of someone else's appearance, which later turned to polite ignoring, were now replaced by sincere interest, and the person not without surprise notices that the look of a comrade, defamed by Hell, can be called in its own way ... beautiful.

- Beautiful?

Startled with surprise, the Slayer with vague guilt notices a confused look opposite, belatedly realizing the spoken thoughts aloud. There was no time to come up with a worthy excuse, and therefore a confident nod follows and a direct, sincere answer: - Yes. I think you are beautiful.

Beautiful. Wonderful. Unique. In all the worlds there is no second person like you. You shouldn't consider yourself a monster unworthy of life, because this face is far from the first place that defines you in my eyes.

Tears have always been and remain the prerogative of the living, but old pain is replaced by a light, emerald glow, and the demon presses against someone else's hand, listening to the native voice of his comrade who has accepted his curse. Rough from scars and dry air, the palm awkwardly strokes the disfigured face, and with every touch, the unbearable melancholy subsides, ridding him of his snake venom, which did not allow him to rest or forget about the punishment deserved by betrayal. The time will come, the time will come to pay for all the sins of his past, but not now, when quiet, warm words forced him to flatter like that same abandoned dog, in front of which they decided not only to stop, but also to take him home. From the very depths of the chest, a barely audible rumbling unexpectedly escapes, puzzling both those present, but the gentle laugh that followed helps to relax again, for the first time in many hundreds of years feeling completely safe.

- You are so wonderful. I'm so glad I have you.

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sethrine-writes · 3 years

Text

Daughter of a Devil, Ch. 27

Main Characters: Father!Dante & Daughter!Reader

Words: 1631

Warnings: Mild canon-typical violence, Angst (but definitely some bittersweet happiness)

Story Summary: Being a parent wasn’t easy, nor was there such thing as being perfect at it. Good news for Dante, seeing as how he doesn’t have the slightest idea in hell what to do with a child. Sometimes, he was certain that fighting off a horde of demons was a far better match than keeping up with his own daughter. Well, at least he wasn’t going down without a fight.

A/N: So close to the end of this series! And the end of the Vergil arch is here! Enjoy!

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Chapter 27 - What He Never Could Have (1 yr.)

For Lady, the battle had just ended.

Lying before her, cold and lifeless to the world thanks to four shots from her own gun, was her father, Arkham. He was an evil man, one that had allowed a demon to corrupt his heart in hopes of obtaining Sparda’s power and becoming an all-powerful entity. He had killed her mother and countless other people just for this one goal, had ruined her life, and for that, he paid the ultimate price by her own hands.

A laugh escaped her lips as she looked up into the sky, the light sound soon turning into relieved sobs and cascading tears.

“Here I thought I wasn’t gonna cry.”

She stayed like that for several minutes, arms resting lethargically against her raised knees as her mismatched eyes stared into the grey sky above. It looked like morning was quickly approaching, but all that could be seen was the gloom of shadows and ashy colors. Still, it was better than the darkness that had taken over some hours ago, a sign of, hopefully, the end to a nightmare years in the making.

Something shifted strangely to the right, catching Lady’s attention almost immediately. Reflexively, she twisted her body until she was on one knee and in a position to attack, aiming her gun at the source of the movement. Instead of a rogue demon coming from the rubble as she had thought there would be, a passageway that had previously been sealed off had suddenly opened. Within, she could see a staircase leading down, and a sound that sounded like gurgling of some sort echoed from the chamber.

Lady stood and followed the path into a well-lit, open area. In the middle of the chamber stood a large bed-like structure with walls that came to her waist. Within, Lady was surprised to find a child lying within, her tiny arms wrapped around a stuffed animal.

“Well, hello. What are you doing here?”

You looked up at the new sound of a voice, eyes wide as you took in the curious face standing above you. You reached up after a moment and began to babble, surprising Lady even more at the ease of which you accepted her presence. With the slightest bit of hesitation, Lady reached forward and took hold of you, carefully lifting you from the makeshift playpen and cradling you in her arms.

From what she could tell, you looked unharmed and taken care of, unbothered by whatever destruction had been occurring all night. You couldn’t have been any more than a year, at most, a darling little girl with a striking feature Lady felt almost familiar with.

“That hair...”

”Oh, one more thing-”

Dante turned to look over his shoulder at Lady, her weapon she had allowed him to borrow, Kalina Ann, resting comfortably on the opposite side. His eyes were set, holding so much more seriousness than any of their previous interactions before, the light, carefree nature hidden within all but vanishing in that one moment of time.

“They took something from me, something I can’t live without. If you find it, keep it safe for me.”

He turned and continued on his way for possibly the final battle that would determine the fate of the world. Though she didn’t quite understand what he meant or what exactly he was talking about, she owed him that much to at least attempt to find whatever it was that had been stolen.

She would have been a fool not to try.

“Could you be what he was looking for?”

---

Dante was in the midst of fighting off Vergil, swords clashing and sparks flying through the air like lightning striking the night sky. He had not wanted things to come to this, yet in the end, he had expected it. Despite the outcome, Vergil was still family, still his brother. It was pointless, however, to make him see reason when he was so hell-bent on his own idea of power.

“Why did you take her away from me when you could have easily gotten my attention?” Dante asked after a brief separation from steel against steel. “Seems a little below you, even for your standards.”

Vergil paused for a moment himself, twisting his sword within his grasp for a few moments before darting forward once more with intent to kill.

“Nothing is below a man seeking power.”

More clashing of swords, even more sparks lighting the darkness around them. Vergil was becoming slower, and it was easy to tell that he wouldn’t be able to hold up much longer. Dante was faring a little better, but he, too, was becoming tired. The next blow would be the final blow.

“You know, you were always the smarter one of us both; you always had that “holier-than-thou” complex that just really pissed me off. Why the hell were you so envious of me? No…why are you still?”

Vergil panted heavily from a distance away, eyes narrowed and casting a venomous glare toward his twin counterpart.

“I never could understand you, Dante. No brains, but always well-liked by many. No need for power, yet stronger than ever. It unnerved me, not understanding how you were possibly better than me. It wasn’t until recently that I finally understood.”

Without warning, he came running forward; Dante had no other choice but to follow along. It was time to end it all.

---

Vergil had been defeated.

Dante’s will was strong enough to overcome the power his brother possessed and still continued to seek, all because he had set out to this place for one purpose. He would protect you and the world he would be raising you in until his final breath, even if it meant defeating his one and only brother.

“You…always had what I never could have. Strength beyond power, awareness beyond knowledge…it seems, in this instance, you were more powerful than I."

The portal was closing from above, the area around them crumbling from the closing of the gates. Vergil clutched at the amulet around his neck, the one their mother had given to each of them so many years ago.

“No one can have this, Dante... It's mine. It belongs to a son of Sparda. Leave me and go, if you don't want to be trapped into the demon world. I'm staying."

He looked around briefly, an air of finality about him set in stone.

"This place was our father's home; your daughter will have no place or sense of purpose with her father here.”

Dante gave a defeated look of his own, knowing he would not be able to convince Vergil otherwise. He couldn’t save his brother from himself; it was something even he had no influence over.

But he could still have his life with you.

---

“I need that back,” Lady stated with the slightest smile, pointing at her weapon, Kalina Ann, while carefully cradling you with her other arm.

Dante leaned against the large weapon resting upright on the ground, a small smile playing at his lips despite his worn appearance.

“Tell you what; I’ll trade you for that bundle of joy you’ve got there.”

Lady looked down at your suddenly gibbering form reaching out for Dante, eyes even brighter than before. She couldn’t stop the slight laugh that escaped her lips.

“Deal.”

Once Dante had you back in his arms, he held you close to him in a semi-tight embrace for several long moments despite your struggling at the end. It surprised him how much he had been affected by your absence, how much he really missed having you there with him, tugging at his hair and reaching for the amulet around his neck and nearly poking his eyes out when you got too excited.

He pulled you away to get a better look at your person, happy to find that you had not been harmed in any way. Vergil could have had anything done to you, could have killed you in the blink of an eye, yet he had kept you safe and sound, away from all the mess he had created.

Maybe there was some part of him that wasn’t so cold-blooded, after all.

“Are you crying?”

“It’s only the rain,” Dante responded, fully aware of the tears falling down his face. He was happy, and he was upset, two conflicting feelings that were wreaking havoc on his emotional state.

Lady looked up and around the area they had found themselves in. It was wet in some areas, if not a bit dusty from the rubble, and water was standing in puddles here and there, but it was no longer storming as it had been.

“But the rain already stopped.”

Dante smiled a bit then, a sad sort of smile that spoke volumes.

“Devils never cry.”

“I see.”

You suddenly gave a loud squeal of excitement as you reached forward to grab at Dante’s hair, taking hold of the strands in the front and trying to pull them back. You then became sidetracked by the shimmering red of the amulet around his neck and preoccupied yourself with the object shortly after. This forced a laugh from both Dante and Lady.

“Maybe somewhere out there even a devil may cry when he loses a loved one, or when he finds another. Don't you think?”

Dante smiled then, holding you steady with one hand under your bottom while the other came to run through your fluffy locks of hair.

This was something Vergil had been talking about, what he could never have. You were what made Dante stronger, what gave him power in his weakest moments, and what made him strive to become a better person and a better father.

There was nothing else Dante could ever ask for than to do right by you.

#devil may cry #dmc #devil may cry dante #dmc dante #reader #reader-insert #female reader #dmc lady #dmc vergil #dmc3 #Daughter of a Devil

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specialagentlokitty · 4 years

Text

Twilight x reader - safe

Can I Have A Tokyo Ghoul And Twilight Crossover? Male Reader Is Kaneki's Twin Brother, And Half A Ghoul Like Him. Reader Ended Up In The Twilight Universe When The CCG Used A Experimental Bomb. So Reader Moves To Forks To Be A Teacher The Cullens Realize He Isn't Human And Goes To Confront Him. - @rexburn12 💕

You were surrounded, there was no way out. Everywhere you looked the CCG was there.

I guess that’s the price you paid for being one of the most dangerous ghouls there was. You hoped you would be able to find your brother, but the white haired ghoul was no where to be seen.

“Sir, we have Raven surrounded. I repeat, we have him surrounded.” An investigator whispered.

You stood on edge, kagune flicking behind you, ready to strike if you needed to. But you didn’t want to, you didn’t want to hurt anyone. You hated hurting the investigators, it was the only reason why you were rated so dangerous. The one eyed ghoul, the raven. That was you.

You could see the same man who spoke nodded his head along, and with one hand movement everyone took a few steps back. It confused you.

“We’ll give you one chance to surrender Raven!” He yelled.

You didn’t reply and he pulled something from his pocket, presses something and threw it.

“Kaneki!” You hopelessly yelled.

You had no time to react, as soon as it hit the floor it went off and everything went black.

It felt like days before you came too, it was raining, your clothes were soaked and you were laying behind a bin.

Groaning, you pulled your mask off and tucked it into you jacket, pulling out your phone check the date but it was dead.

With a racing heart, you were quick to put your eye patch on.

Thankfully you did seem to be hungry, so staying in control would be a lot easier than you thought.

Stepping out from behind the bin and into the street you looked around, sweeping some hair from your face in order to see properly.

You had no clue where you were, and there was no one there so you started to wonder around, that’s when you noticed it.

A small shop, quickly rushing in to get out of the rain, you awkwardly looked around.

“Oh dear! You’re soaked to the bone!” An old woman rushed out.

“Come! Come! Let’s get you dried off!”

The woman walked around the racks of clothes, pulling things off and holding them against you, once she was satisfied she sent you to changed then sat you in front of a fire with some hot coffee.

“Where am I ma’am?” You asked politely.

“Forks of course, was it a rough night out?” She chuckled.

Forks... you never heard of it, and it was an odd name for a town.

“No ma’am I’m not from around here.” You sighed, “is there anywhere I might be able to work?”

The old woman, Marie, as she finally introduced herself after asking for you name, hummed.

“Ah, Yes! I know the high school has been looking for a new math teacher if you’re interested.”

You were pretty decent at math, so you should be able to get away with it. You didn’t have any form of document but you were sure you could figure something out.

“That sounds good, thank you.”

“It’s no problem dear, I’ve got a spare room above the shop that needs renting out too if you need first two months on me while you get settled.”

Thanking her again, you let her show you upstairs before you begun to work on forging some things. Being a ghoul had its perks, you learnt some useful skills like mask making, survival and you knew how to forge paperwork in order to make a live for yourself.

A few days later you had an interview, and a week after that you finally started at your new job.

It was 9:00am, you were stood with a cup of black coffee in front of our first class.

“Hello, I’m (Y/N)...” shit... last name... “(L/N), I’ll be your new math teacher. It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Today I’d just like to spend some time getting to know you all.”

As they introduced themselves, Alice and Jasper caught your attention. One sniff of the air and it was clear they weren’t human, but by the looks of it they couldn’t tell you weren’t. After all, you were technically half human still.

“Excuse me sir?” Alice asked softly.

“Yes miss Cullen?”

She gestured to one of her eyes.

“Why do you have an eye patch.”

Shit... you didn’t expect that question either. You had to think fast.

“I have a rare eye condition and it gets infected a lot, it’s easier this way.”

It wasn’t smooth as you hoped, but she seemed to buy it.

As time passed and you met more of the Cullen teens the more you noticed they weren’t human, and the more you noticed that they were getting suspicious of you as well.

On a walk back from work, you tried your best to avoid crowded places. It had been a while since you last ate, but it wasn’t like home where you could ask Touka or Kaneki to get you food, here you had to do it yourself but you couldn’t.

You were so wrapped up in your head you didn’t even realise you were surrounded until it was too late.

Startled, you jumped back, hands raised defensively until you noticed it was the Cullen teens with two others, whom you assumed to be their “parents”.

“We just wish to talk, my name is Carlisle Cullen, this is Esme. You already know I children.” Carlisle spoke carefully.

You nodded slowly, letting your guard down a little bit. Emmett, Jasper and Edward all seemed on the defence though, ready to jump in if they had to, while Rosalie and Alice just stood on the side lines, carefully watching you.

“My name is (Y/N).”

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Esme asked next.

You nodded slowly, Where was this heading?

“Jasper and Emmett have both raised concerns that you aren’t quite as you seem.”

Carlisle seemed to choose his words carefully, trying to to fully state anything for sure.

“I could say the same for you and your family Mr Cullen. You aren’t human, are you?”

Everyone teased up and starting getting restless.

“Enough.” Carlisle warned them.

“How did you know?” Esme asked.

“I... could smell the difference on my first day.”

“Do you mind explaining how you could?” Carlisle asked.

You sighed, looking around nervously before nodding. It was just you guys, and since you knew they weren’t human maybe they could help you.

“Everyone else in that class when they came through I could smell the blood running through them, a sweet smell. But with Alice and Jasper I couldn’t smell a single thing. That was my first clue. I put it together bit by bit afterwards.”

Carlisle and Esme nodded along, giving you a smile of comfort.

“We’re vampires, different from out kind. We only feed on animals. What are you?”

You gulped, they didn’t hunt humans... the couldn’t help.... but you couldn’t refuse them either.

Slowly you reached up and pulled you eyes patch off, keeping your eye closed as the other turnt to them all before you slowly opened it. The outside was pure black while what was meant to be (E/C) was a blood red.

“You’re eye!” Alice gasped, “what happened!?”

You laughed a little and shook your head.

“Nothing per say. My brother and I... were involved in an accident, and we had the organs of a ghoul put in us. As a result we both have one ghoul eye. I’m known as the Raven, and Kaneki is Eyepatch. Im a Triple S rated ghoul, very dangerous. We can’t eat human foods anymore, we have to live on human flesh. I never killed anyone, I still haven’t. I’d rather starve than harm someone.”

The Cullens gave you a look of sympathy, and lowered their guard instantly.

“I may be able to help you out if you’d like?” Carlisle offered, “but you’d have to agree to live by our rules.”

“Of course!”

You’d be able to live by their rules easily you knew that for a fact, and you’d be safer here for now. One day you’d find your way back to Kaneki and your family, but right now you didn’t want to go anywhere, you just wanted to live in peace

#twilight #twilight x reader #twilight x you #twilight imagine

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deathonyourtongue · 3 years

Text

Resurrection | 11

Summary: A ragtag team of Spec-Ops operators are brought out of retirement for all the wrong reasons. When the dust settles, only the best will be left standing. Pairing: Pablo Schreiber x OFC, Henry Cavill x OFC (listen, she gets with the whole team, okay? Don’t lie, you would too.) Word Count: 2.1K Warnings: Nothing much really. A/N: Shit hath hitteth the fan. Again.

“Ooh, smells like semen in here!” Jake says with far too much enthusiasm, smiling brightly at me as he pours two cups of coffee, doctoring mine just how I like it.

“Shut up. If you or anyone else brings it up, be ready to be on the receiving end of Beef’s fist,” I mutter, giving Jake the only warning he’ll get from me as I take my seat at the conference table, rolling my neck side to side, amazed at just how sore I am.

“My lips are sealed. I just gotta know one thing: What was he holding out for?”

“Me,” I whisper, watching as Jake’s eyebrows go sky high and he leans back in his seat, silenced.

“I mean, we all sort of suspected. He’s not exactly subtle about...well, anything, but you never seemed to catch on, so we left it alone.” He shrugs, his smile more genuine this time, Jake looking truly touched by the revelation.

“Yeah, well, next time do us both a favor and tell me sooner.”

“And spare him the blue balls? Where’s the fun in that? Was it a mess? Did you have to stick the shower head up there after?”

“Jake, shut up!” I crow, throwing a spare pen at him just as Rick walks through the door, breakfast in hand.

“Literally the last two people I expected to be up early after last night, but I’ll take it. Where’s the rest of the gang?” Rick asked, setting the bags of food and the tray of coffee down in the center of the table.

“What did you get up to last night?” It’s my turn to interrogate Jake, my eyebrow going up as I watch his smile go impish.

“Her name was Star and she did things to me that are deadly sins in most religions.” Jake says with as much seriousness as he can muster for all of 2.5 seconds, his face breaking into a smile just as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Just be glad you weren’t stuck in a box with him for more than 24 hours,” Benji mutters as he takes the seat to my left, squeezing my shoulders before sitting down.

“Morning,” Max mumbles as he sits to my right, avoiding eye contact with everyone, including me.

“Save the act, Beef. We all know you got some,” Dom cuts in, moving to sit next to Rick, leaning back in his seat, and grinning like that cat that ate the canary.

“Congratulations on losing your V-card, bro,” Flip adds as he comes in, patting Max on the back as he scoots by him.

“Alright, enough. What d’we got, Rick?” I cut the shenanigans short, knowing if I let it go on any longer, the guys will yank Max’s chain a little too hard first thing in the morning. Even I’m not that patient before coffee.

“Well, since we let Wallace literally walk out the front door, we have to chase again. I asked intel for his whereabo--”

There’s barely time to hear the blast before the shockwave hits us, taking out the bulletproof glass as if it were single pane. I feel Max’s body collide into mine, before we both hit the ground hard. Car alarms and smoke detectors go off in nearby buildings, making it clear the blast came from the outside in, but leaving no doubt we’re the targets.

Breaching charges come next, one at the front door, one at the secondary exit. I finally open my eyes as I get to my feet, keeping low and feeling Max’s hand clamped around the back of my neck. Though smoke fills the meeting room, I get enough of a glance to know that the guys are all okay, each of them in the same crouched position I am, all of us moving with precision.

Max pushes me into my room, slamming the door behind me. Without hesitation, I grab a t-shirt, vest, pants and socks, throwing everything on in a hurry. My boots go last, the laces double knotted so I don’t have a slip-up later. I pull my hair into a messy knot before grabbing my M4 and checking the mag. Seeing it fully loaded, I push it back into place and slam it home, ready to go.

The knock at my door comes just in time, and I knock back once to let whoever is on the other side know I’m ready and armed. Pulling it open, I fall in behind Flip, covering him and bringing up the tail end of our little procession down the hall. Up front, I hear Dom call out targets, he and Rick taking out three men without hesitation.

“Let’s move!” Rick calls out, and I pivot so that as I move forward, I can cover us against anyone who might want to come up behind. Within moments of doing so, two of Wallace’s men come out of the meeting room and into the hallway. Leveling my M4, I take four shots, ensuring both men’s deaths.

Just as I pass the last of the bedrooms, I feel my body get pulled sideways. With little time to react, I let my gun fall to my side and pull my knife out of my vest. Before I can sink it into the nearest limb, I feel his arm go around my throat in a rear naked choke, the man squeezing hard enough to make me see stars. I only have six seconds before the chokehold takes me out, and with gunfire sounding ahead of us, I know the boys won’t be coming to save me. Stepping forward, I pivot towards the man’s thumb, palm striking his hand away as I go. Out of the hold, I don’t waste time, wrapping his neck in a guillotine choke and cranking with every ounce of anger I feel towards the man who’s made our lives a living hell for the last few weeks.

It takes a second, but I feel the distinct pop of tendon and bone breaking and from how limp the man goes, I know he’s gone. Swinging my gun back into my hands, I check my corners and sprint to catch up with the team, reaching them as they start going down the exterior stairs of the building. At street level, more of Wallace’s men are posted up, guns aimed directly at us. I pause for a moment, eyeing the most imperative man to take out, and with a quick check through my scope, put two through his forehead, taking him out just before he can let a shot off; a shot that would’ve surely hit Rick where it counts. Taking out two more men before moving again, I sprint for our car, slipping in just as Dom puts the pedal to the floor.

“Everyone good?” Benji calls, his eyes wide as they dart around the van, watching carefully as we all pat ourselves down. Unlike our last shootout, I don’t find a hole where it shouldn’t be. Still, I’m not surprised when I find Max’s fingers lifting my chin.

“Jesus,” he hisses as I turn my head out of his grip, nodding.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be muteville for me tomorrow unless I can ice this soon,” I acknowledge, resting my head back against the seat as the pain finally kicks in.

Our secondary safehouse is nowhere near as luxurious as the one we use for headquarters, being nothing but a small, modified warehouse, but it has water, ice, and a place for me to lean back while I ice my neck. Max brings me the bag and gingerly sets the ice down on my neck, smoothing my hair back after. With a gentle kiss to my forehead, he takes his seat next to me, his gaze focusing on the screens where Rick is pulling up traffic cameras.

“Home Office is going to love knowing you broke the Freedom Act just for one man,” Max deadpans, all of us focusing on a different part of the screen, trying to figure out where Wallace and his men went after the bombing.

“I’ll have a look at security cam footage from right after the stairs, see if I can pinpoint what direction he went in,” Dom says, pulling his laptop closer before entering the same camera network the traffic ones are on. If nothing else, I’m glad we’re in London because as one of the most surveilled cities in the world, the chances of not finding him are slim to none.

Silence falls over the room as we all study the feeds, looking for any sign of the black vans Wallace and his men got into after the bombing. It seems like hours go by before Dom finally speaks up, his voice terse as he checks and double-checks his findings.

“Cameras show him headed east-”

“I got him. He’s on A12,” Rick interjects, standing to get a closer look at his square, where the two vans are headed in the exact direction Dom had said.

“A12 ends at London City. He’s gonna try and hop ship!” Max is the one on his feet now, reaching for his phone.

Taking the ice off my neck, I sit up, well-versed in what’s about to happen. Joint ops are always a mess, but we need the airport locked down with him and his team in it, and with the head start Wallace has, we’ll never make it in time.

Max paces as the call rings, his face making it clear he needs the person on the other end to pick up, and pick up quickly. As he waits, we all start getting ready. Vest plates are checked, mags get loaded and stowed, and extra ammo is stuffed into a singular go-bag one of us will carry just in case.

“John. Hey mate, I need a favor and I need it fast. No questions right now. I need you to lock down London City as quickly as you can. No making calls to anti-terror, understood? This one’s ours and ours alone. He’s an animal and we need to put him down. Can you do that, mate? Good, thank you. What’s your ETA?”

Max listens intently to his friend on the other line even as he starts prepping his own gear, knowing we don’t have much time.

“Great. I’ll see you there, mate. I’ll explain over a pint when it’s all over, I promise.” Closing the call, Max grabs his gear, on my heels as we all rush out the door and back into the truck.

We check and recheck everything as Max drives towards the airport we know Wallace will be trying to fly out of. The silence in the truck is deafening, all of us tensed and ready for what we hope will be the end of this nightmare.

London City’s facade reminds me of a used car dealership, all concrete and glass, with the airport’s title written in blue letters across the top of the entrance. It’s not a stunning piece of architecture, and despite its prime location, it’s nowhere near as heavily-trafficked as Heathrow or Gatwick. I try my best to keep my face neutral as we arrive; by the amount of lights and personnel standing around outside the building, the Mets weren’t exactly subtle about their approach. The chances that Wallace is still in the building drop more and more, the closer we get.

Max tears out of the car like a bull in a china shop, eyes narrowed with laser precision as he marches inside to find his friend. We follow suit, scanning the area for any sign of Wallace or his men, knowing he could be waiting to spring another trap on us at any moment.

“What the hell happened, John?” Max barks as he makes a beeline for his friend, having no idea how scary he looks when he’s on the warpath.

“We were too late, mate. He had a private jet set to take off. Wheels were up by the time we got to the counters. We’re pulling surveillance and the flight manifest as we speak.” John, to his credit, manages to face Max without shrinking in his presence, unintimidated by the rabid dog routine he tends to default to whenever a plan is going south.

Appeased by the quick reaction to missing their primary objective, Max backs off, scrubbing a hand over his face as he turns back towards us.

“We’re all in consensus that he wants to recreate the night he was arrested, correct?” He asks as we all gather around, ready to rejig the plan as necessary. Everyone nods, the rest of the team’s anger rising to the level of Max’s, none of us wanting a repeat of that night. “So he’s headed south. Probably back to Libya.”

The flight manifest appears before anyone can say another word, and as Max reads over the report, I know the bad news is about to be compounded.

“He took a hostage. FUCK!”

#henry cavill #pablo schreiber #henry cavill x ofc #pablo schreiber x ofc #resurrection #deathonyourtongueoriginals

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