#she made it herself (and can change to any utensil or blade she wants to)

[anartisticalniche]

Alright first doodles of my Pirate AU (A Corsair Freebooter) with some new character designs and some moments in the story (that I spent ALL DAY planning lol)

#smg4 #smg3 #smg4 tari #smg4 mario #smg4 luigi #smg4 meggy #smg4 boopkins #smg4 pirate au #a corsair freebooter #my art #yes tari does have a prostetic arm made of wood instead of her meta runner one #she made it herself (and can change to any utensil or blade she wants to) #also smg4 is part of the middle class before departing #and is a screenplay writer for comedy and drama plays #mostly featuring the mario bros x3 #smg34

[isis-astarte-diana]

One Of Those Days

Summary: “I can help you, if you want. Give you something to cry about.” Missy always seems to know exactly what you need.

Warnings: NSFW. Mummy kink. Spanking with a kitchen utensil an implement. Dodgy dynamics. MIHOW.

Word Count: 5499

NB: Hey, so, uh, this is a thing I wrote! You literally asked for this, I wash my hands of it. This is a kink that walks a fine line and I know that, so I’ve done my best to keep it on the side that I think is more-or-less palatable, ie. this is some fluffy smut about a rough day made better by spanking, snuggles, sex and submission. I think a lot of us could go for that every now and again!

"Now, what was that in aid of?”

The sound of Missy’s voice behind you would usually make you jump; she has a tendency to appear out of nowhere, catlike and silent on her feet despite her Edwardian heels. There’s a faint glimmer of amusement to her tone that, on any typical day, would have you prickling with delight.

Today is not a typical day.

You scrub a hand over your face, turning away from the cupboard door that you’ve just slammed with vicious force.

“Sorry,” you mutter, your jaw tight. “I’m just in a bad mood.”

“Yes, I can see that much.” The teasing lilt is still there, but you can hear a hint of warning blooming in the words. “Quite the stroppy little thing, today, aren’t you?”

“Missy,” you caution, trying hard to keep the bite out of her name. “Just- don’t. Seriously.”

“If you think I’m going to tiptoe around you just because you’re on the rag then-”

Incensed, you turn on her, snapping back, “I’m not on the fucking-!”

The words die in your throat when her hand slams down on the kitchen counter beside you.  She’s much closer than you expected, close enough to make you cringe back until the edge of the countertop digs into the base of your spine. She cocks her head, her eyes sparking dangerously, her painted lips curled into a half-smile with too many sharp teeth behind it.

“Careful, dearest,” she chimes sweetly. “Try again.”

Your gulp is deafening in the stillness.

Tentatively, you make another attempt. Your sour mood still shines through in your voice. “I’m just- I’m having one of those days. I don’t know why.” Missy raises an eyebrow, prompting you to continue, waiting with all the patience of a half-submerged crocodile for you to make another mistake. You turn your face away and take a steadying breath. “Everything- everything is getting to me. Everything’s too much. I feel like I’m gonna scream or break down in tears any second.”

“Maybe you should.”

You scoff wryly at her response and her other hand darts out, cool fingers taking hold of your chin, guiding your eyes back to her. Bristling at her audacity, you shrug her off. Her palm lands on your cheek, not harsh enough to be called a slap, but certainly with sufficient force to remind you that she would strike you if she had to. It pushes you into acquiescence as she turns your head once more.

Her expression has you dragging your bottom lip between your teeth, averting your eyes to avoid her gaze. She’s looking into you, through you, leaving you feeling pitifully exposed.

“I mean it.” Her thumb sweeps across your cheekbone with tenderness juxtaposed to her stern voice. She has a perfect way of doing this, of trapping you between severity and softness, disorientating you so that you never quite know if she’s about to kiss you or bite you. It consumes your attention and starts to unravel some of the throbbing knots in your mind. “I can help you, if you want. Give you something to cry about.”

Only Missy could make such a threat sound like a consolation.

Reaching up to cover her hand with your own, you risk meeting her eyes. Her lips quirk in encouragement. You’ve played this sort of game before, of course, but that doesn’t make it any easier to ask for; and she will make you ask for it.

Regardless of what you do now, pain will come. You were rude - downright nasty, in fact - and while she loves an argument better than anybody, she has her limits. Being snapped at like that is one of them. Your chances of sitting comfortably tonight are already miniscule. All that remains is for you to decide the context.

“Please.” It’s quiet, strained, the best you can manage. “Please... mummy.”

It’s hard to say if it’s uttering the words that knocks the wind out of you or if it’s the beaming smile that spreads across her face.

“Good girl,” she praises gently, her fingers curling under your chin with ticklish pressure that softens your tense posture immediately. It’s remarkable how easy this is for her, how swiftly she can turn you into whatever kind of creature she wants you to be, without even the barest hint of hypnosis. She can have you howling with rage, scratching and swearing and fighting her for all you’re worth, in one moment, and falling to your knees to worship at her feet in the next. If it weren’t so mutually beneficial it might frighten you.

Sometimes it still does.

“Mummy,” your voice is a cracked whisper as you nuzzle into the touch. She gives you a sympathetic pout and a soft click of her tongue. “I’m sorry I was rude.”

“I know you are, poppet.” She brushes a stray bit of hair behind your ear and loops her other arm around you, pulling you into her embrace. You gratefully accept it, tucking your head against her shoulder. “You’re just a sulky little girl, today, aren’t you? It’s not your fault.”

“S’no excuse,” you mumble into her blouse. It’s awkward, physically, to fold yourself up against her like this, but the soft cotton under your cheek and the scent of her perfumed neck call to you irresistibly. Your fingers press into her corseted back, savouring the warmth of her.

“No, it’s not,” she agrees, without reprimand. “But I’m not cross with you.” Her fingers card through your hair, her nails dragging soothingly against your scalp. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, hmm? We could have nipped this in the bud first thing this morning, before it ever got this far.”

“I don’t know.” You hold tighter to her, the soft admonition making you feel faintly ridiculous. “I just thought it’d go away on its own.”

“Silly girl.” She sweetens the words with a soft kiss to your ear that sends a pleasant tremor through you. Her palm presses between your shoulder blades, rubbing firmly. “You know that that’s what mummy’s here for.”

You’re already close to tears just from this tenderness, and you nod against her shoulder, sniffling them back. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, none of that, love,” she croons. “It’s alright. I’m here now, and I have the perfect medicine for a fussy girl like you.”

Missy, expertly as ever, changes your mood like she’s flicking a light switch. Desire creeps slow and warm down the back of your neck. The gentle touch of her nose, her lips, against your ear becomes a caress as sensual as anything you’ve ever felt. With one last peck she looses her arms from around you.

Being let go of after she’s peeled back your defences like this, baring all of your rawest parts to the world, is torturous, but she entwines her fingers with yours and squeezes your hand to soften the blow.

“I think that this,” she reaches past your shoulder and plucks something from the counter behind you, utensils rattling together in their holder as she disturbs them, “should do very nicely. Don’t you?”

Smiling like she’s presenting you with a gift, she holds up the wooden spoon and shows it to you.

The sight of it makes your mouth go dry.

You’d always assumed that there was such a thing as a cruel implement; that pain and pleasure hung upon the tools used to create them, in at least some small way. That notion has long since been cleared from your mind. Sensation, in all its guises, is what Missy chooses to make of it. She can kiss you into agonies or beat you into euphoria, depending on her mood.

She’s used this on you before, but only ever with playful intentions. In this moment, playful she is not. The fact that she isn’t cross with you doesn’t mean that you will be spared; only that she’ll whisper words of encouragement rather than sharp reprimands while she takes you apart.

“So quiet, now?” She purses her lips, a soft note of displeasure in her voice. “Cat got your tongue, dear?”

You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the spoon. “No, mummy.” You have to pause to wet your lips. “That- that would be good.”

Her face softens as if she’d been braced for you to protest. “Oh, my poor girl.” Once more, she squeezes your hand. “You really have had a miserable day, haven’t you?”

Feeling tears tug at your throat again, you nod silently.

“We’ll have you feeling better in no time. Come along.” Letting her chosen weapon hang at her side, she gently tugs you away from the counter. “I think we’ll do this in the bedroom today.”

With your eyes cast down you follow her through the TARDIS, its warbling hum a familiar comfort. Like everything else she does, Missy’s choice of location is always symbolic. If she were to bend you over the kitchen counter you could expect to have your arm twisted up behind your back - not necessarily with unkind force - and your clothes in disarray to expose you best. In the bedroom, things would be tidier. You would, you will, be bare across her lap, your fingers twisting in the duvet, the rhythm of her breaths and the shifting of her thighs reverberating through you like an extra heartbeat.

She’s utterly fearless as she strolls the halls, humming something to herself under her breath, the wooden spoon in her hand for all and sundry to see if you were to be witnessed. You doubt that your private activities are a mystery, as such, to your travelling companions, but the thought of the tableau that you would make as she leads you to the bedroom like this is enough to make you wince.

All shame is forgotten when you arrive.

“Would you be a dear, and fetch mummy’s box of tricks?” Missy lets go of your hand to brush your cheek with her knuckles, her voice a sweet and conspiratorial whisper. The feathery touch has you ducking your head with a shiver. “I’m certain I can find something in there to turn that little frown upside down.”

“Okay, mummy.” She flicks the tip of your nose with her fingertip and makes you squeak. Her smile widens.

“You see? It’s not all so bad, is it?” Her lips follow her finger, pressing a soft kiss to your nose. “Go on, poppet. You know where it is.”

The box of toys that she refers to is, you believe, a reupholstered sewing box, lined with black velvet. It sits on the middle shelf of the armoire, its mahogany grain gleaming in the rosy light of the bedroom, and you bring it to her with nothing short of reverence. It’s heavier than it looks.

It is, of course, bigger on the inside.

Missy takes it from you with a saucy wink and sets it down on the bed, atop the damask sheets, balancing the wooden spoon across its lid. It’s an impossibly tempting sight; she holds relief of every kind in her delicate hands. Something, almost a giggle, anticipation making you giddy and restless, bubbles up from your chest. You bite your lip to stifle more.

“Oh, my lovely girl.” The corners of her eyes crinkle as she takes both of your hands in hers, pulling you closer to stand in front of her when she sits at the side of the bed. “This is all you needed, isn’t it? A little bit of attention. A little bit of discipline.”

The words make your throat feel tight. Your eyes flit from her face down to the shape of her knees beneath the plum skirt. It’s too easy, teetering here on the precipice between symptom and cure, to let anxiety overtake you again, and your face heats with prickling self-consciousness. 

“I’m not doing this because I’m cross with you.” She lifts your right hand to her mouth and brushes a soft, damp kiss across your knuckles, her eyes trained on your face all the while. “It’s for your own good. You’ll feel better for it.”

You offer her a shallow nod and murmur, weakened by the tears that bite in your throat, “I know.”

With another encouraging squeeze to your hands she lets them go, lets you brace them on her shoulders as she takes hold of your hips and guides you between her parted knees.

“You really are ever so pretty, you know.” Her fingers creep under the hem of your long shirt, trailing light and ticklish at the bare skin above the waistband of your leggings. You shiver under the touch. “I’m terribly lucky to have you.”

Your breath hitches. “Missy-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she stills her hands, cool palms flat either side of your waist. One eyebrow quirks. “Mummy’s talking. It’s rude to interrupt.”

She’s almost too good at this. 

“Sorry, mummy.” Pressing your fingers into her shoulders, you bend to kiss the dark, unruly hair at the crown of her head. She curls her fingertips against your sides and rubs slow circles there.

“Such a soft little thing, you are.” It’s uncanny, how you can be stooped over her like this, your cheek pressed into her hair, and feel entirely at her mercy. When her fingernails drag across your skin, sending you twisting and whining at the feathery sensation, she titters. “Oh, I could just eat you all up!”

Missy bunches up the fabric of your shirt in her hands and lifts it to your waist, baring a few inches of skin above your leggings. Her mouth descends with unbridled glee. Cool, slick kisses attack your stomach, and you squeal, caught off guard and entirely delighted. Emboldened by your reaction, she pulls you tighter to her mouth, fastens her open lips to the soft flesh just above your navel and blows.

It tickles, of course, rippling through you until you almost lose your breath in a shriek, but it does more than that. You draw tighter around her, wrap your arms around her shoulders, shifting your thighs together as the sensation washes down your spine as well as up. Another flicker of arousal unfurls in your abdomen and licks at your cunt. Obviously aware of the effect that she’s having, she nuzzles her nose just above your waistband, tickling the skin there with her breath.

“You're such a good girl for me.” When she starts to work at your leggings you straighten up, keeping your hands on her shoulders, widening your stance to help her ease them over your hips and down your thighs. It’s impossible to ignore how close her face is to your exposed underwear. “You’re not going to give me any trouble, today, are you, hmm?”

It feels like a lot to promise. Still, you nod.

“You’re going to be a brave girl, and come over my knee without a fuss?”

“Yes, mummy.” That much, you think you can manage. What comes after is anybody’s guess. “I promise.”

Bravery, for so long, meant stoicism to you, as if the two were interchangeable. You’d always assumed that they were. The first time you’d done something like this, been brought to a helpless flood of tears at her hand, the shame of losing control in such a way had almost crushed you; the memory of her fingers combing through your hair as she crooned how well you’d done, how brave you’d been for her, never fails to give you strength now. For all of her madness, there is method, and for all of her sadism there is an odd sort of compassion.

You don’t doubt that she enjoys her role in this. Missy has no pretences about her desires, and even while she soothes or rebukes you in the midst of your torment she makes no bones about how gratified she is to be inflicting it. The pleasure of watching you endure for her is only ever made sweeter by the shrieking, sobbing, squirming evidence of just how much you’re suffering.

Your devotion is paid in blood, in sweat, in boundless tears. Hers is paid in the freedom to give them.

She strips off your leggings and your knickers and leaves you standing there in your oversized shirt, braless beneath it. The hem covers what little modesty you may have.

“On, or off?” Missy toys with the fabric, cocking her head as she gazes up at you. You pause for a moment to consider the question. It’s comfortable, this shirt - one of your favourites, one that smells of her and feels soft and warm enough that you reached for it this morning as soon as you knew what kind of day it was going to be.

“On,” you answer eventually. “Please.”

“As you like, poppet.” She sits further back on the bed and pats her lap. “Come on, then. Let’s have you.”

It should be absurd, this entire scene, the way you eagerly climb onto your knees on the bed and lie yourself across her lap without hesitation. When she lifts the hem of your shirt higher to expose your arse it should make you feel ridiculous, and it does, in a way, but there’s an inexplicable comfort that comes with that. She revels in it, in turning you into this - whatever this is - and you bask in her obvious pleasure with complete abandon.

“So well-behaved for me,” she murmurs, one hand curling into the bountiful fabric of the shirt, resting low on your back with grounding weight. “My good girl.”

You cross your arms on the duvet and cradle your face with them, cheek pressed into the damask. The first touch of her cool palm on your arse makes you shiver, and then sigh contentedly when she begins to massage and squeeze the soft flesh there.

“It’s been too long since we’ve done this, hasn’t it?” Her voice is soft, a little teasing lilt to it that makes you smile. “You know that you can ask me whenever you like.”

“I know,” you tell her again, feeling your toes curl and flex from the gentle stimulation. “I just... I feel silly. Asking you.”

“Oh, poppet.” She presses her knuckles into your back to rub there. “Taking care of you is never a chore to me, you know. It could only ever be a pleasure.”

It’s too much for you to answer to; too much for you to think on, for long, without falling apart. Luckily, she doesn’t wait for you to speak. Her ministrations cease abruptly and she lands a single, hard smack on the left side of your arse.

You jerk across her lap, breath catching. As the sting begins to sink in you hiss, near-silent, “fuck.”

“Such language,” Missy chides, hiding her amusement with enviable skill, completing the symmetry with another swat that makes you gasp. “Do you think that’s appropriate for a little girl?”

She hits you again, and you squeak, shaking your head emphatically “No, mummy. I’m sorry.”

“I should think so.” Another smack; the warmth is slowly building under her hand, a wash of prickling pink heat. Some of the tension is starting to ease from your back, your shoulders, your neck, muscles you hadn’t realised were tight beginning to loosen. “I ought to wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Oh, please don’t!” There’s barely a trace of play-acting in your panicked whimper. The first time she’d made such a threat, you’d assumed that it was in jest; you had, of course, assumed wrongly, and you have no intention of repeating that experience. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“Bold words, my dear.” When she lands a particularly sharp slap low on the curve of your arse, she follows it through, digging her fingers into the stinging flesh and squeezing hard. Your fingers wind into the duvet cover as you turn your head and cry out into the fabric. “I shan’t warn you again.”

Frankly, you’re lucky that she warned you the first time.

With that, she begins to warm you up properly. Because she is not cross, and because this is not a punishment, she doesn’t tease you. The rhythm she takes up is steady and unflinching, a pattern of blows delivered with clinical precision. That sting of warmth blooms into a glow, and then a burn, until your breaths are short and your lips are curled back in a tight grimace.

The sensation is not yet much beyond discomfort, but it’s enough to draw you out of the depths of your own mind, pulling you back into the body that she holds against hers. Beneath you is the soft wool of her skirt, the comfort of the bed you share, the stability of her powerful thighs. Above you she presses the heel of one hand into your back and uses the palm of the other to set you alight. Nothing matters, nothing exists beyond these sensations.

All too soon, she stops.

“There we are,” she coos, rubbing at the sting with tenderness you know better than to mistake for mercy. “Isn’t that nice?”

It’s beyond you to answer, but you offer her a stunted nod, nuzzling into the duvet beneath your face. You draw a steadying breath. Tears sit heavy in your eyes, waiting to fall, impatient for the pain to come.

“You’re so lovely and pink.” Her fingernails drag a spiralling pattern across your sore arse, setting your thighs trembling. “This always calms you down so nicely. You’re such a meek little thing, really. You just get yourself in a muddle, sometimes.”

She tightens her grip on your shirt, replacing the ticklish touch of her fingernails with the cool, smooth back of the spoon. It's the most tantalising threat she can give you.

“Aren’t you lucky, hmm?” She adjusts her position, lifting one leg just enough to tilt your hips and expose you better. “To have a mummy who cares about you so much?”

The first snap of wood against your already-heated skin is like a lit match. You cry out, pulled from your stupor, hands fisting into the duvet cover. It takes all of your strength to turn the expletive that races up your throat into a wordless yelp.

“Oh, you are so cherished, my love.” Her voice is soft when she strikes again, on oh, god, the exact same spot, sharp as anything. “I just adore you.”

Three, four, five times she brings the back of the spoon down in the same place, low on the curve of the right side of your arse. The skin there turns tight with blistering heat. Your throat thickens as the tears gather momentum, pitiful whimpers spilling from your grimacing mouth. Just when you think you can bear it no more, this repetitive pattern of merciless strikes, she switches sides and begins to do the same on the left.

“You really do make me terribly proud, you know.” The cadence of her words is a dizzying juxtaposition to the steady rhythm of her unfaltering smacks. “Entirely vexed, at times, but always unutterably proud.” Without warning, she switches back, catching you off guard with a blazing strike to the red-hot patch of skin she was previously administering to.

The dam breaks with a vengeance.

You shriek, lurching forwards, holding tight to the duvet as the tears begin to fall, it seems, all at once. The speed with which it overcomes you is startling. Your hips shift over her lap, legs kicking weakly, vainly seeking to retreat from the pain.

“Good girl,” Missy croons, winding more of the fabric of your shirt into her fist to keep you from moving too far. “There you go. You just relax and let me help.”

Having achieved what she’d set out to do, piercing the thin skin that held back your cries, she sets to work on turning the rest of your arse as sore as the two spots she’s been abusing with such precision.

You might be begging; it’s hard to tell. It’s hard to notice anything but the faultless way she applies her chosen weapon to your stinging flesh, carrying you on a wave of incandescent pain through that horrifying moment of losing control. You twist, you writhe, you push your face into the sheets until the fabric turns wet and cool with tears, and all the while she feeds the fire in your skin and soothes you with soft praise.

When you finally reach back, overcome by the pain, every square inch of skin tight and blazing, she knocks your hands away.

“Enough,” you manage, through great, hiccupping sobs. “Enough, that’s enough-”

“Almost, poppet.” She presses her hand down into the small of your back again, rubbing firmly, easing the cries from your lungs. “Just a little bit longer.”

“No, no, but-” wiping your streaming eyes with the back of your hand, you squirm in her grip. “I’m done, I- I don’t want-”

“Oh, hush now.” She cuts you off, striking again, this time lower; the sensitive patches at the very tops of your thighs, the spots you feel when you walk or sit, are still due to be paid attention in full. “If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, dearest. I take my duty to you very seriously. I’d hate to leave you wanting.”

Wanting is, perhaps, a strong word for it, but she does have a point. Being pushed just beyond the limits of your comfort never fails to leave you feeling better, in the end, once the tears have dried up and the endorphins begin to fade.

Fortunately for you, pushing is Missy’s speciality.

You’re a mess before she’s finished. The duvet cover is twisted up in your hands, folds of it stuffed into your mouth to muffle the helpless cries streaming from you. Your shoulders shake with desperate sobs. The heat that radiates from your punished skin seems to flow all the way down, merging seamlessly with the warmth of the slippery arousal that spills from you almost as readily as your tears, until it’s impossible to recall the border between desire and distress. Every nerve is alive and screaming. For half a second you wonder what could have possibly possessed you to ask for this.

And then she stops; and you remember.

“There’s my brave little girl.”

Slender fingers card through your hair, the palm of her other hand sweeping across your overheated skin. You keen miserably into the duvet, struggling to catch your breath, nuzzling against her hands. She clicks her tongue in sympathy.

“Oh, poppet.” The heel of her hand presses into the sore flesh of your arse, making you yelp and jerk, but this deeper pressure helps to ease the worst of the overwhelming sting. “Shh, shh, it’s alright. Just let it go. Mummy’s got you.”

Missy takes to this role as she takes to everything; with complete and utter mastery. She coaxes every drop of pent up emotion from you with her tireless hands, soothing pain as readily as she inflicts it, consoling what feels inconsolable. With immeasurable patience she cradles you in her lap while your wracking sobs die down into pitiful whimpers.

“There we are,” she coos eventually, scratching gently at your scalp with her blunt fingernails. “Do you feel that? It’s all gone, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you admit with a sniffle. “Think so.”

“Oh, I know so, dearest.” Satisfied that you’ve calmed down, she lightens her touch again, letting her fingertips trail across the intense heat left behind by her ministrations. Her touch feels like ice and you shiver. “Just like magic. I’m really rather good, if I do say so myself.”

It strengthens you, and you roll your eyes fondly, blinking away the last of the tears. Your smile is watery and genuine. “You’re the best.”

“Oh, you know it makes me all tingly when you say things like that.” Her fingers spiral lower. As they creep towards the apex of your thighs you start to shift over her lap again, for an altogether different reason. In the afterglow of pain, the catharsis of weeping, your earlier arousal makes itself known once more. “My sweet little girl. You look delightful like this.”

It’s supposed to be teasing, but the brush of her fingers against the inside of your parted thighs makes your breath hitch, turning the question into a tentative whisper. “Really?”

“Really.” You spread your legs wider, allowing her the space to spider-walk her fingers along the inside of your right thigh, drawing your attention to just how slick you are. “All pretty in pink, and behaving so nicely for me. I could do anything to you.”

“Would you?” You risk a glance over your shoulder for the first time and find her eyeing you with a mischievous twinkle. It makes your heart race. “Please, mummy?”

“Oh, you are incorrigible, my dear.” She pats the back of your thigh, just shy of the sore spots. “Up you come. Let me see that lovely smile.”

Shifting back up onto your knees is awkward, and the hem of your shirt falls back down with the movement to irritate your stinging skin. Missy holds you steady as you sit back on your heels beside her.

“There it is.” Her fingers curl beneath your jaw, gently tilting your face to her. Conscious of the state you must be in, cheeks flushed, eyes red, dry tears cracking on your face, you smile weakly. “Do I get a kiss, now that you’ve finished sulking?”

There’s no trace of admonition in the words. Your smile widens, and you nod tentatively. “Yes, please.”

“Such good manners.” She grins sharply, leaning in to nuzzle your nose with hers. “It’s a wonder I don’t do this every day.”

Her fingernails skim along the curve of your jaw when she kisses you, tickling your earlobe until you giggle into her mouth. In her lips you can feel the curve of a genuine smile; not teasing, not mocking, utterly without performance. It makes your heart flutter.

When you break away your arms loop around her shoulders. “Thank you,” you murmur against her cheek. “Really. Thank you for this.”

“My pleasure, dearest.” Trailing her fingertips down your neck, she adds softly, “I mean it, you know. Every word.”

You hold tighter to her, feeling yet another prickle of tears. It’s easier, like this - easier for her to say it, easier for you to hear it, how deeply she cares for you. When your role is meek acquiescence you can lie still and let her worship you, and she, for her part, can do it, free of interruption or inhibition. In these moments it occurs to you that you are not the only one liberated from shame.

Your lips catch the corner of her mouth. “I know.”

Again, with effortlessness that astounds you, she catches you before you can fall into another well of emotion. 

In a vertiginous display of speed she knocks you onto your back on the bed and straddles you to pepper your face with soft kisses. You shriek with delight, squirming underneath her, the raised pattern of the damask duvet cover irritating your stinging skin in a way that feels entirely too sensuous. The plentiful folds of her wool skirt warm your hips and thighs.

“That- ah!” Her hands dart underneath your shirt, fingers wriggling against your sides. “Mummy, that tickles!”

“My goodness, does it really?” Feigning innocence, she shifts lower, working feathery kisses over your throat now instead. “And this?”

“Yes!” You shiver under her touch when she drags her fingers further down, over your hips.

“Oh, well, I suppose I’ll stop, then.” Missy pauses dead still, her fingers curling into the dimples of your hips, her keen eyes fixed on your face as she peers up at you. She’s poised to strike, moments away from slotting herself between your thighs, and you bite your lip.

“Well... no.” Face heating under her gaze, you shift against her, rolling your hips. “I didn’t say that.”

“Make your mind up, poppet,” she teases, but she resumes her journey and swiftly has your legs hooked around her shoulders, her arms looped about your thighs to keep you open for her. Your back arches when you feel her breath against your vulva. “Are we playing, or aren’t we?”

The sight of her, lying on her stomach, her stockinged feet in the air and her ankles demurely crossed as she gazes, catlike, up from between your legs, plucks your spine with desire.

“Yes, please.” Once more, you tangle your hands in the duvet. “Please, mummy.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Her face splits into the familiar predatory grin and she holds your gaze as the flat of her tongue strokes the length of you. It’s enough to make you quiver, a hoarse cry ripped from your mouth at the heat, the velvet-soft touch of her. You can feel her throaty chuckle in your bones and when she pulls back, the loss makes you whimper.

“If you’re a very good girl, I might even let you choose a toy.”

#mine #nsfwork #missy x reader #the master x reader #gomez!master x reader #mummy kink tw #mommy kink tw #daddy kink tw #request #does it piss anyone else off how much i overuse italics in literally all of my fics???? #i have a Lot to Emphasise and i've tried not doing it but it just Feels Wrong

[stressedspidergirlsfandomblog]

Okay, so imagine this

Kaer Morhen is a place that little boys go to die, if they’re lucky, or they become witchers. 

(In some ways, Strangers Like Me is what fucking ran thru my head literally all night last night. I wrote nothing, I could not sleep, and my brain SPIRALED all over this)

And somehow, despite the world beating him down and beating him down and beating him down and shelling him out over and over, he runs into an idiot bard who has no fear of him. Who slowly goes from thinking he’s a simpleton to realizing there is a man in there, a boiling seething lake of feelings and anger overtopped by a thick layer of ice. And the bard makes it his life’s mission to help him learn that he is human. (the whole fic idea is more Geraskier, but it has to START the development elsewhere)

he also bumps sorceress who teaches him love and anger and all sorts of other things -fancy table manners, philosophy etc. He has access to things with her he’d never have had in the keep. She teaches him how to eat chicken on the bone with a fork and knife (book canon), and all the other fancy utensils because he’s a person dammit and he should know that his napkin goes in his lap. He devours her books, and since she can read minds she can draw out the conversations from him. She teaches him how to have those conversations and those debates. 

TWs for all the canon compliant fucking misery that is Geralt’s life. Child abuse, neglect, assault, etc. 

Geralt is incapable of believing good about himself, or expressing himself normally or knowing what to do in social situations. He mimics, he copies, he attempts to replicate, but if the situation changes he isn’t sure what to do. 

Trauma gives us 4 options. Fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. He knows how to fight, but sometimes it leads him to battles he’ll never win. Flight is usually safest. Freeze can also work well, but he doesn’t know how to fawn, no one’s praised him enough or taught him how to give praise or fake affection in turn. Usually, he chooses to freeze until he can assess better. If there’s no blades drawn, it is time to freeze. 

( I am looking at this purely from a child abuse perspective) 

He has no idea what to make of Yennefer. She is rage, and greed, and feelings, and luxury. She teaches him to fight back. She teaches him you can be angry and people will not always leave you. Some children/adults will do anything to please someone in hopes of affection until they feel safe, and they begin to test boundaries. And with Yennefer, he’s allowed. Neither one of them knows how to process emotions in a healthy way, not really. But if she wants to throw a jam jar at the wall -not at him, never at him. She doesn’t want to hurt him. She’s just angry and has to break something. Better the jar than herself. Or him. He learns to stomp and yell right back, to knock things off the dresser or desk. Maybe it’s not a good lesson, but it’s something. 

She teaches him choice in bed. He’s never had choice in bed, he’s never made love. He has had sex. Voluntary, involuntary. Me for her, let the girl go, use me instead. He heals. He always heals. He can kill them if he wants to, but that raises more problems than it solves. Kaer Morhen has no women. He learns very little about making love there, either, feelings are forbidden. However, he learns to keep himself silent and still as his cock is stroked, he learns to not let the bed so much as creak the slightest bit, not the softest change in his breathing. He learns how to use precum as lubricant because there is nothing else, and while he doesn’t learn how to kiss, or fuck, he learns how to touch. There’s no kind of education like that. It’s control, management of pain, seeking approval from people who rarely give it. 

Yennefer gives him approval. She gives him choice, and she teaches him to move his hips. She teaches him it’s alright to breathe through it, to beg for it, to twitch, it’s okay to want something for himself. He can’t reconcile it, can’t adapt well to it. But in bed, with her, he allows himself to be freer. It doesn’t translate for him, into other situations. His learning is contextual. He has trouble applying the lessons she tries to teach him to other social situations. He can fight back with her because she likes him. He can argue with her about books because she starts the conversation for him because he doesn’t know how. He is heinously smart, he can read, write, and speak at least three languages, he can synthesize information so quickly it stuns her. If he’d been chosen as a mage, if he could access the Source, he would set the world on fire. 

She teaches him to say ‘no.’ It’s not something he knew he could do. Not outside of negotiating a contract. Most of his world is lived inside of his own head because he isn’t allowed to offer opinions unless someone asks. Other than contracts. There is a script, there are rules, he can say ‘I won’t kill that’ or ‘that’s not enough coin’ or ‘no.’ Those situations he can talk freely and articulately. 

They experiment in bed, to a point. She can tell when he’s getting cagey and stops. She never makes him say ‘no’, never lets it get that far, because she knows he’ll freeze. When he’s vaguely curious about light bondage she simply tells him to see if he can even stand to put his palms on the headboard and not touch her. He can’t. He can’t stand it if she won’t touch him, either, when she offers to return the favor and see if he likes that edge of control. He doesn’t. She’s had other lovers, but none like him. None as broken and angry as she is. (The book says, it flat out says, they did not know HOW to be kind, but they wanted to be, and so they were, when it describes how they make love.) They try other things, some things he more tolerates than enjoys -the unicorn. But he doesn’t hate it, he just doesn’t prefer it. 

He can’t admit to feelings, he can’t admit to loving her, and so she can’t tell him because he isn’t ready to hear it. He can’t believe any of it, and so she can’t say a word. Telling him would chase him out of her life forever. When he tries to share things with her, when he tries to push himself to describe any part of himself, she listens. She uses many of his failings against him when they fight, but never what he tells her in confidence and struggle and broken words. When he tells her ‘they botched it’ meaning they botched him, he’s worthless, not made right, and horrible, she tells him perhaps she is the same. 

Eventually the fighting is too much, the frustration at themselves is too much. They can’t heal each other. What they need doesn’t line up yet. 

They break apart and he travels again, happy to reunite with Jaskier. Not that he understands that feeling. But something feels ...easier, with the bard around. He tries on occasion to engage in conversations, just sharing a random fact or quote with the bard and Jaskier doesn’t realize what Geralt is doing for weeks until Geralt stops and he finally asks him what his quote of the day is. Geralt visibly perks and Jaskier finally understands what Geralt has been trying to tell him. He finally asks the right question and Geralt talks to him for hours, long after the sun sets, as animated as his training allows him to be, describing how he’s connected this human myth to an elvish historical event that is corroborated by the dwarves, he had to read it in Elvish, and also Dwarfish, but he can’t find a written version of the myth he’s only heard it spoken or sung. 

Jaskier takes him to Oxenfurt and leads him in and out of guest lectures. They sit in the back so Geralt can hide, because that’s what he does. Don’t look people in the eye unless they tell you to. Don’t look up, don’t be big, don’t exist if you can help it. And he hides and scrunches in on himself, but he listens, and the bard lets him pore over libraries and scares off anyone who would complain at a mutant witcher touching precious tomes. Geralt is gentle, and careful, and sweet, and he deserves to read what he wants, he deserves answers to questions about the world he could never find in Kaer Morhen where his only training was how to survive as a witcher. 

Jaskier teaches him how to answer the question asked, not just say what he thinks people want to hear. That’s not what I asked you. I asked what your preference was. He learns that Geralt was very much raised to believe children should be seen and not heard, in terms of himself. He doesn’t speak up, doesn’t offer anything unless asked. Not unless it’s about witchering, then he is allowed. And so he makes sure to ask. Are you hungry? Would you like to stop for the night, too? Does that hurt, it looks like it hurts. And Geralt learns to listen to the words, and he learns if asked, he is allowed to speak for himself. He doesn’t have to do what he thinks Jaskier wants. Unless prompted, around people, he rarely speaks, rarely converses, and just tries not to be terrifying. Keeps his head down, hood up, he doesn’t want to be hurt. He’s sick of being hurt. He’s sick of going hungry, he is sick of being miserable. And he has found if he is invisible, people leave him alone. He doesn’t get stoned, he doesn’t get beaten, he doesn’t get chased out for just wanting a bed to sleep in and a warm meal. If he doesn’t take up space, he can exist. Jaskier speaks for him, people think perhaps he’s a simpleton who the bard travels with, they don’t know the quick mind behind the eyes focused firmly on the ground. 

It constantly breaks Jaskier’s heart. He has never seen Geralt smile. He has never heard him laugh. He has heard him talk with intonation on occasion, and usually only when reciting what he’s been told. He is an incredible mimic for tone and pitch and it astounds the bard. When he asks Were you even listening to me at all?  and Geralt begins reciting everything he had said, with perfect inflection, since Geralt’s last one word response, perfect tone, perfect everything other than he doesn’t change his voice, his gravelly voice will never soar into tenor heights. 

Children, ones who don’t know what he is, love him. Parents who don’t know, don’t see the swords strapped to Roach, they don’t mind the bard’s pet simpleton playing pat-a-cake with their children, they don’t mind them teaching him to make flower crowns. Or watching them draw in the dirt. The children never think he’s stupid, they like him all the more for knowing they aren’t, either. He lets them pet his horse, and boosts them into the saddle. He helps them reach fruit on tree branches, and pulls down prickly berry vines full of blackberries so they can gorge on the sweet fruit. Jaskier loves watching him with children, because he’s less guarded. He starts out small, makes himself so small, so nonthreatening, and when the children realize he’s happy to play with them, he relaxes. The tension leaves him and the villagers ignore him. Any adult stupid enough to want to play with children, to humor them, and listen to their stories can’t be right in the head. The bard’s assurances he won’t touch them or hurt them goes a long way. 

He used to freeze and flinch and shudder whenever Jaskier touched him, because he could not understand. He still doesn’t. Emotions make no sense, touching for affection that isn’t between lovers makes no sense. Jaskier stays with him, so they must be friends. He’d admit it openly if asked. He doesn’t understand he loves the other man. He wouldn’t know that’s what he was feeling even if he was told. He feels nothing, it’s a scooped out shell, there is nothing inside of him other than sometimes anger. That’s why he had to leave Yennefer. She was the sun and he just reflected her warmth, he had nothing of his own to give back. 

Patently untrue, but there’s nothing that would convince him otherwise and Jaskier doesn’t try. Geralt is ridiculously capable and educated, and wonderful and the bard does what he can to praise him when he can because he knows Geralt needs to hear it. No one praised him or loved him as a child. Hugs are still foreign and after years of them his first instinct is still to flinch. He will sleep comfortably draped across the bard, or with the bard curled into him. He doesn’t care about that. He doesn’t have the same personal boundaries other people do. If he’s cold, and Jaskier is there, he sees no reason not to share heat. 

It had given the bard heart failure when they’d been sitting around the fire after eating and Geralt had just started pleasuring himself without understanding why that might not be socially acceptable. He’d offered to help the bard first. Not wanting to give Geralt another reason to be ashamed, or small, or scared, he had declined, and wondered in what world could a boy grow up afraid of being held, but feel perfectly comfortable jerking himself off in the company of others. What had been even odder was the witcher had continued their conversation as though this was normal. Hadn’t lost focus, his breathing had never changed, he hadn’t seemed to take much pleasure from his actions, and Jaskier couldn’t understand why he was doing it. 

It had made his heart hurt in new ways. It’s a perfunctory action, meant to relieve an itch, not something for pleasure’s sake alone. Everything he does has function and reason and logic. 

When they run into people Jaskier knows, and they want to talk to the white wolf, or see him, or bother him, Jaskier tells them to leave him be. He won’t talk to them. His poor witcher gains a bit of a reputation as being a tame monster, trailing his bard on a leash and killing monsters as directed. 

When they’re low on grain for the horses, he goes to busk and see if he can drum up coin. When he comes back to pay the stablemaster, the last thing he expects is for Geralt to be paying with his body, a blank expression on his face as he braces himself against the door of an empty stall. He looks at Jaskier without any kind of shame, any understanding of what’s happening to him because he needs feed for Roach, and she needs a warm place to sleep out of the muck during the rainy seasons. Her hooves need to be dried out, he needs to borrow tools to clean the frogs and check her shoes. He might need the services of a ferrier. He’ll get a bit of coin for this and then some extra. If it isn’t sex with a lover, it’s just a transaction, what should he care? The bard escapes when he realizes only Geralt saw, and pukes his guts up into the gutters. He’d have tried to stop it, but the stablemaster was bigger than he was and he couldn’t take the risk the man would hurt Geralt. 

The horses taken care of, Jaskier uses the coin he’d earned to have a bath drawn up and helps Geralt bathe until all trace of stable is washed away. He tries to ask, and when Geralt openly tells him it’s just better that way, he bites his tongue so hard it bleeds rather than reply or push the issue. He has coin, they’re fine, Geralt won’t need to do that again while they’re together. 

He notices how the witcher gets thinner after, stress and shame eating his insides even if he won’t admit it. He’d been the heaviest Jaskier had ever seen him after living with Yennefer for a few years. Healthy. Shiny hair, bright eyes, enough meat over his bones to hide them. Slowly his spine creeps through his skin and the bard can count the vertebrae. It will pass, and he realizes he’s seen this pattern. This has happened before he just hadn’t seen. It passes, Geralt finds lucrative contracts, and his body fills back out. 

They continue to work on what feelings are. Geralt remains baffled by the fact the bard will not bed him in any capacity, and doesn’t understand why they can’t share a little pleasure. Jaskier knows if he gives in, Geralt will never let it progress beyond more than just skin on skin. He’ll never understand it could be more. He has to wait, he has to keep pushing for the witcher to understand there is more. 

They happen upon a town, and a small girl, perhaps three or four years old, picks flowers by the side of the road. There’s a house visible in the distance, but it’s awfully far for a small child to have wandered. Geralt immediately looks around for a dead body, half expecting to find the child’s mother dead in a ditch. Nothing. When she notices his hair peeking out from under his cloak as he crouches down to talk to her, she pushes the fabric off his head to twirl her fingers into his hair. He barely breathes as he asks her where her ma and pa are. She points at the house and said she wanted the orange flowers. He looks over and sees that while there are what seems like thousands of wildflowers much closer, none are the color she’s currently collecting. The child will be missed soon enough, he supposes as he offers her a seat on his shoulder. Before she accepts, she splays small fingers under his eye and he freezes, waiting for her to scream or reject him. She simply says ‘pretty.’ When he lifts her up, she tangles a hand back into his hair to help her hold on and keep her balance. She stuffs the flowers into her small apron -probably made more to humor her than for any practical purpose, and occasionally pats Geralt’s head and tells him again, his hair is pretty and he’s nice to take her home. 

When screaming reaches his ears, he knows the little girl’s name is Ivana, and he tells Jaskier, “Make noise, her mother is in the fields looking for her.” The bard’s trained lungs will project far better than his will. His lungs are trained to breathe evenly and slowly in all things. He will endure if he keeps his heart slow and his breathing calm. 

“Over here! We’ve found her!” Jaskier calls, his voice ringing stridently over the fields. He’s not sure how she could hear him from so far that only Geralt can hear her frantic calls, but all the same he sees how Geralt tilts his head and nods to himself. 

They speed up, Geralt’s stride long and even as the woman comes pelting across the grass, crushing flowers, and her skirts hiked up over her knees to keep them out of her way. She gasps slightly when she sees Geralt and the brightly dressed bard, not sure what they will do to her or her daughter. She can see the swords on the roan mare. “I haven’t coin, please don’t hurt her,” she says. 

Jaskier feels Geralt shrivel. “We just saw her picking flowers and knew she’d be missing,” he explains. “We don’t want coin. Not for returning a toddler to her mother,” he protests. When she reaches out for her child, and Geralt obliges by leaning to hand her off, the girl shrieks in displeasure. 

Geralt freezes, one arm half coming up to ward the mother off, but unsure. Why wouldn’t she want to go back? It’s Jaskier who saves the situation by laughing. “I see she’s gotten quite attached,” he tells the anxious mother. “Here, Ivana, come down, he’s very tired and he’s not a pony. You brought flowers for your ma, didn’t you? You can’t show her very well from up there,” and holds out his arms. The girl allows Geralt to pass her over, and he swiftly deposits her on the ground where her mother relaxes immediately. She shows the flowers, and offers Geralt one. 

“Are you a witcher?” she asks. 

“Yes,” Geralt says, careful not to open his mouth too much. His teeth are a bit too white, and his canines a bit too sharp. Not fangs, but some people choose to see them that way. They’d grown in sharper when he’d lost his baby teeth, he’d seen plenty of other humans with teeth like his, but against his pale skin and yellow eyes, the effect was more noticeable. More monstrous. 

“There’s a wyvern, my man, when he gets back from ploughing, he can show you. I see Ivana has taken to you. If you’ll watch her while I bundle herbs, I’ll feed you both lunch.” She isn’t afraid of witchers. “We don’t have much coin, but there’s a bounty on the beast, you can turn it in, if you travel up the road a bit. In the mean time, I can offer you a place to sleep, some feed for your horse, and a meal in a few hours once I’ve finished my tasks.” 

Jaskier knows Geralt is well pleased with the idea just from the shift of his shoulders. “Geralt’s a wonderful babysitter,” he smiles. “I can help you with the chores, I’m sure. Just put me to work. My name is Jaskier, that is Geralt, and you are?” 

“Oh gods above, I’m so sorry, I’m Melina.” She reaches out to shake Jaskier’s hand and the bard accepts warmly, but when she tries to do the same for Geralt the bard gives her a look and she drops her hand. Odd. “Ivana, you mind Master Geralt, or I’ll give you such a hiding you won’t sit for weeks, do you hear me?” 

“Yes, Mama,” she promises. “I will show him where to put the horse,” she says proudly and Geralt makes a ‘lead the way’ gesture at her with a little bow that makes her giggle. He takes Roach’s reins from Jaskier and follows the girl child to the barn. 

“He won’t hurt her?” 

“No, he’d die in her defense in a heartbeat.” 

“But he can’t shake hands?” 

“He wouldn’t know that’s what you wanted,” Jaskier tells her. Not sure if that makes it worse or puts her more at ease. “You don’t seem much afraid of him, considering how we started.” 

“Witchers help people,” she smiles faintly. “My pa would have died long before he met my ma if not for a witcher who saved him on the road. Took a bad rake across his face, though, the witcher. My Pa taught us, even if we don’t know much reading or writing, history turns. People used to trust witchers. Then they tried to kill them all. And they’ll trust them again. Any man willing to risk dying to save others can’t be all bad.” 

“That is what I’ve been saying.” He glances up to see the black-clad witcher come back into view with Ivana swinging his hand happily. He can’t hear her, but he knows she is chattering nonstop. 

“Is he... simple?” she asks softly, watching as her daughter teaches Geralt a new clapping game he hasn’t seen before. He seems to be devoting all his energy to the game. 

“No,” Jaskier breathes. “No, he’s brilliant,” his heart aches. “Will they be alright out here, your man won’t come home and try and beat him with a stick?” 

“No, Roddy would never. He’ll come from the back fields as is. My Roderick is a good man. How could he hit your Geralt for playing with our daughter?” 

“People have done worse for far less,” Jaskier says bitterly. He has no idea why he’s sharing with her. Perhaps months on the road of people being truly horrible to Geralt have made him desperate to talk to someone who isn’t. Someone who is kind. 

“I see.” She shows Jaskier the herbs she’s drying, some to sell, some for home remedies. Vegetables to jar and pickle, and hundreds of other small tasks made near impossible by having a small child to mind. “My boys help their father in the fields, so that he can work on other tasks once they can manage the rest.” As the bard gets the knack for how to tie the herbs, she watches him a few seconds. “So what’s wrong with him?” 

“Nothing,” Jaskier protests. “Nothing at all,” he aches for Geralt. “People, people are the ones who are wrong. He does everything he can to not draw attention. The less he talks, the less he moves, the less people notice and the less likely they are to-” His head snaps up when he hears a husky chuckle from outside. “Your man early?” 

“No, he doesn’t laugh like that,” she says. 

“Who the fuck is that then?” he demands, peering from the small window. Ivana is pointing at something dramatically and stamping a foot and he realizes the laugh is Geralt. His heart squeezes and he blinks rapidly. He hadn’t known Geralt could laugh. Not in all the years they’d been travelling together. “Oh,” he gasps, the wind knocked out of him. 

“Let them be, if she starts to have a true tantrum I’ll rescue him. It’s about time for her to nap, she’ll be fussy soon enough.” 

“Eh, he’ll be fine,” Jaskier tells her, rubbing at his eyes with a knuckle. “He’s faced worse than a grumpy toddler before.” 

“Perhaps, Master Jaskier. But he cannot swing his sword to stop her from inconveniencing him.” 

“He would never. Although, he might turn tail and run in here, seeking rescue,” he tries to turn the conversation somewhere else. 

#geraskier #gerlion #yenneralt #eventual geraskefer #yenralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher

[dercolaris]

The next appointment

Hey guys. This story is actually the first that I ever wrote inside the Batman Universe. Again, Harley Quinn & Jonathan, still none-romantic. They’re just good friends or something like this - I don’t know. I hope you will enjoy it. Comments are always welcome!

Song: https://youtu.be/ob0OYmSQukk

"Please be at home. Please be at home. Oh god, please...” Again and again the young woman whispered her haunting mantra to herself, as she climbed the barely recognizable path up to the dilapidated house. Tons of garbage and uncontrolled growth made this task more difficult than necessary. Harleen huffed in complete exhaustion. Her legs were as heavy as lead, her head was about to explode and she could only guess how long her lungs would continue to work. Only a few steps separated her from the neglected parapet with the three wooden chairs and the flickering light in the twilight. Her feet screamed inwardly with each move up the five steps. More stumbling than walking, Harley Quinn staggered towards the black cedar door, stretched her arms wide in front of her and breathed a sigh of relief when she finally felt the rough material under her bloody fingertips. She propped herself up on the door and blindly touched around for the doorbell. The way too acute sound echoed through the dark forest, scared away a few crows, which soared quickly into the sky. The squeaking and swaying of the rusty lampshade above her made her more nervous than usual. A growing fear seized the blond-haired woman. He just had to be home. The seconds passed slowly. He would open in a moment. Certainly. She took a deep breath and rang the bell again. Then again and again, getting faster and faster. When the young woman desperately rang the doorbell and the first tears began to collect in her eyes, she finally heard steps from inside the house. The heavy door only opened a crack. A sunken blue eye fixed the unexpected visitor for a moment, then the door swung completely to one side. The professor looked at her intently, his brow furrowed. From his dishevelled, brown hair, Harleen could guess that, as always, she had disturbed him during very important experiments.

"Again?" The addressed winced at the very dry question. The Clown reminded herself, that this was nothing more than a sober statement and that the former psychiatrist had no intention of condemning her. Harleen looked into his blue, cloudy-looking eyes. The opals dug deep into her vandalized soul. The young woman was getting visibly smaller with every second and managed only a weak nod as an answer. The invisible vice at her temples continued to twist, causing another wave of migraine-like headaches. The brown-haired man watched her for a few more seconds before he actually stepped to the side and gave her permission to enter his domain. "I suppose Pamela didn't have time for you today?" As soon as she walked in, the musty smell filled her nostrils. The house was in dire shape - almost as bad as her own. She giggled a little at the thought. Only then did she devote herself to answering the question shortly: "She's stuck in Arkham right now." The man in front of her stopped abruptly. Harley knew exactly how his face must have grimaced and he must thought about just throwing her back out again. She put her hand carefully on his shoulder and added tearfully: “Please Johnny. You're the only one who can help me." He sighed audibly and replied bitterly: "Didn't you already said that last time? You remember our little conversation two weeks ago, don't you? ”Harley fell instantly silent, slowly regretting her decision to come here in the first place. She knew, that she was actually using him. She also knew, that as a former psychiatrist, such behaviour would not escape his notice. Jonathan had still turned his back on her as he walked slowly towards the dusty staircase and continued to talk: “Come on. I need to clean my workplace to safely treat your wounds.” Had she not been in poor physical shape, Harley would have happily thrown herself around the thin man's neck. Now she just concentrated on following him to the first floor.

On entering his sacred study, even in the twilight, the Clown immediately noticed the grey canisters that were lined up in front of the rusty operating table. The terrifying symbol of a grinning scarecrow were sprayed on everyone of them. A middle-aged man, either passed out or dead, lay on the table, his mouth covered with a bluish slimy foam. A bright flash of light suddenly rushed into her eyes, which blinded her for a few seconds. Blinking slightly, her opals slowly got used to the sudden brightness in the room. A shattering scream penetrated the scary silence of the house. Harley looked at the man on the table and tilted her head slightly to one side. The test subject was obviously still alive, but reacted convulsively and screaming to the changed lighting conditions. The young woman couldn't help but speculating what the older man had injected into the poor fellow. Jonathan had meanwhile got rid of the paper chaos on his actual desk and put on two latex gloves. He picked up a sterile scalpel on the metal side table of the surgery area. The brown-haired man threw a brief, indifferent look on the subject's face, which was distorted by pain and panic. The former psychiatrist placed the sharp blade carefully on his neck and severed the carotid artery with one flowing movement. The screaming broke off in a choked gurgling. “Actually, he really doesn't deserve this quick death. We hadn't even started to test the long-term effects of the poison," mumbled Jonathan quietly, eagerly loosening the leather shackles on the hands and feet of the man and pushing the lifeless body off the cold work surface with huge effort. Scarecrow then began to thoroughly clean the table with water and disinfectant. Harley watched him, clearly trying to stay conscious while waiting for next orders. The blond-haired woman noticed how thin Jonathan had actually become in the last few months. The dark professor had never been one of those people who had a lot on his ribs, but his sunken face and protruding elbow bones were a clear sign that he was dangerously underweight.

He waved her over after finishing cleaning the bloody mess and made it clear, that she should lie down on the table. Groaning softly, the young woman heaved her body onto the shiny metal. Immediately she felt the biting cold penetrate her thin clothing and shuddered a little. Meanwhile, Jonathan had already carried some utensils, including his beloved clipboard. She heard the pen click once and prepared for the now very familiar procedure. "What exactly happened?" Harley sighed and replied meekly: "I disturbed Puddin and he punished me for it. Not a big deal, really." She hoped with almost childlike naivete, that this answer would be enough for him, even if the adult part in her already knew that he would drill deeper. His face appeared above hers as if on command, his eyes darkened by the too bright light source above him. Harley heard his calm voice ask again: "How exactly did you bother him and how did he punish you?" The young woman was still not sure whether Jonathan asked these questions every time out of worry or sadistic joy. The Clown bit her lower lip lightly. Harley was completely at the mercy of the Master of Fear and she hated every second he seemed to savour it. To move the process forward quickly, she began to reply in more detail: “Mr. J. had negotiated a deal with Oswald in the kitchen. I didn't want to disturb him and had seen some cartoons in my room, minding my own business as usual. Puddin came in after a while and shouted, that I shouldn't keep hindering his plans and efforts to take Batman down. It's only my fault. Then ...” She broke off, closed her eyes and hugged her upper arms, visible trembling. The young-woman could hear the pen pause in its writing flow. He was clearly waiting for more details of the abuse. Harley gasped a little and went on: “Then he hit with a crowbar. I don't know how many times. At some point I'll lose track of time if he punishes me.” The scratching of the lead on the paper sunk her right ear. Inwardly, she was preparing to go into even more detail when the surprising click sounded again. His voice replied calmly: "That's enough for now, Harleen."

Harley let out a relieved breath and relaxed as best she could with the pain. She felt, how he used a swab to clean a place for the needle on her arm. A barely noticeable sting could be felt as the sharp metal found its way into her flesh and a slight pressure suggested, that he had injected her with something to relieve the pain. Only after the effects of the painkiller had set in did the brown-haired man start cleaning her wounds and treating them carefully. There was always silence between them during this unwanted and unpleasant sessions. Jonathan had made this rule as the only condition for his help. If he had to patch her up, he wanted at least some peace and quiet and not be constantly confronted with her confused tattle. Harley had quickly giving up on her fake cheerfulness and sometimes made-up madness in his presence. The Clown continued to hold back her tears. The physical pain was gone through the drug, but what came to light in the silence could not be numbed with any drug in the world. When the last wound was sewn, Jonathan took off the now slippery gloves from his slim hands and switched off the extremely bright operating room lights above her. Harley was about to sit up, when he gently pushed her back with one hand on her shoulder. He put a plunger with a milky liquid on the cannula that was still in place, then looked directly into her eyes and spoke softly: “I'll give you something to calm down. Don't think I want to poison you after all this work.” She couldn't help but laugh at this statement. "Even if, Johnny," she replied with a smile, "I couldn't do anything about that anyway, yeah?" He just grunted something and injected the liquid in a practised routine. His fingers finally pulled the access needle from her pale skin.

As he was about to put away the used materials, the young woman sat up carefully and instinctively held her spinning head. It was no longer painful, but it felt light-headed and throbbed uncomfortably with the rhythm of her heartbeat. To distract herself, she watched Jonathan, who, in his obsessive nature, was restoring the original mess in the room. With a look at the lifeless body on the floor, he mumbled almost annoyed: "I'll think of something for him tomorrow." He stepped back to the table and carefully put an arm around her back, slowly helped her to get up. Her messed up cardiovascular system was immediately noticeable. A touch of dizziness overcame the harlequin and she leaned on Jonathan in her helplessness. He tightened his grip as he led her carefully into the adjoining bedroom. The mattress of the bed was cuddly soft, which elicited a pleasant moan from the young woman as she lay down. "It's not so cosy at home in Puddin's bed," she giggled, slightly amused, and looked into the brown-haired man's sunken face. He sat on the edge of the large bed, his eyes half closed. Even after several meetings with the sinister professor, Harley couldn't even begin to read his feelings, let alone recognize how he was feeling at the moment. Jonathan rarely showed what was hidden behind his mask and by that she didn't mean his Scarecrow disguise. In general, the Clown knew little about her saviour. He had never said a word about himself and was as neutral with her as a psychiatrist could be with his patient. By now he knew her story inside out. With his clever questions he had got her to tell about everything that had gone wrong in her life more than once. Unlike Puddin, Jonathan had listened to the young-woman very carefully and even asked more precisely a few times if he was unsure how to interpret something she told him.

Harley grabbed his bony hand, squeezed it almost tenderly, and gave him a serious smile. That brought his attention back to the young woman. She could see the corners of his mouth twitch slightly, as if they were trying to bring themselves to smile. The corners just seemed to have somehow forgotten how to actually do it. He looked so awkward right now, that Harleen couldn't help but laugh at his misery. Jonathan was absolutely brilliant in his work, but as soon as his social skills were in demand on a personal level, the former psychiatrist lost all genius. The harlequin knew of his immense intelligence and his difficulties in communicating with other people without much concern. Small talk and Jonathan Crane didn't fit together. His silence at that moment only confirmed that thought. In order to defuse the apparently unbearable situation for him, the older man cleared his throat quietly before he asked in a calm voice: "Can I do something for you, Harleen?" As usual, she was surprised by the caring side of the otherwise cold Master of Fear. She was about to start thinking of a good answer, when her stomach rumbled with a loud growl. Jonathan made an indefinable sound that Harley interpreted as a distant way of laughing. Finally, he got up with a brief message that he would prepare something to eat for her. The thin man quickly disappeared from the bedroom. She could hear him walking down the stairs and disappearing into the kitchen. A sigh filled the room. For the first time on that nightmarish day she felt kind of safe. In any case, she only knew the feeling of warmth and security from the countless books she had read during her studies. With her parents the search for safeness had been in vain. Back then, all that counted was performance and even better performance in anything the poor girl was doing in life. She felt almost safe at home with Puddin, after all she loved him, but because of his unpredictable outbursts of anger, the young woman had to reckon with death at any time. Even with Pamela, whom she regarded as her best friend, she never completely settled down and felt a residual insecurity. The often violent fights with the botanist did not make it easier for her to relax in Poison Ivy's presence.

It was clearly different in the dilapidated house of Scarecrow. Jonathan had never hurt or threatened her. No matter how annoyed he might be, he let her in at any time and takes care of her until she left the door on her own. Harley turned on her left side. Now that she thought about it in silence, she realized that the brown-haired man had never ordered her out. The young woman was free to go whenever she wanted. Nor did he ever ask for anything in return. The blond-haired woman hugged herself and pulled her knees up slightly. Her attractive body was often asked for in exchange for help, which unfortunately she could not always refuse. Even Pamela asked for sex every now and then for her efforts. In Red's case, of course, the Clown was happy to grant it, but only because the botanist was much more gentle in the intercourse than in other dealings with friends who could not grow leaves. Deep furrows formed on her forehead. She just didn't understand Jonathan in this case. He knew she was using him almost mercilessly and allowed it to do so without any consideration. The brown-haired man even spent his laboriously stolen money to make her stay as pleasant as possible. When she first came to him, he didn't know about her severe food allergies. That night, Scarecrow broke into a deli and brought what he could carry. Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice his return. Only when a tray with a carafe full of water, three broken pieces of bread and a steaming bowl of vegetable soup stood in front of her did she break out of her trance. Harleen noticed a plaster on his fingers that hadn't been there before. He must have cut himself. The Master of Fear did not say a word about the injury and sat down on the bed again. He said calmly: "Please eat before the soup gets cold." Harley grabbed the spoon and a piece of bread and began to sip the soup with relish. “That tastes damn good, Johnny. You have so many talents, it's amazing!", she grinned in a short eating pause. "Unfortunately, Puddin has never cooked for me. I wonder if he even can cook." The former psychiatrist remained silent on the last statement and looked at the mirror on the wall in front of him. The Clown was having a serious question on her tongue, but deliberately held it back. Jonathan hadn't taken a bite in the five hours that she was in the house. The elder man only drank coffee and tea in huge amounts. He ruffled something through his tangled hair. The harlequin stopped in her thoughts when she saw him sitting there. The dark professor looked almost sick and fragile to her. He was seriously competing with her white makeup, and his hunched-forward posture made him smaller than he actually was.

She shook her head to dispel the dark thoughts. Harleen set about finishing her portion. The tiredness also slowly got out of hand and overwhelmed her. When the spoon came to rest and she lays back on the soft pillows, Jonathan put the tray on the bedside table. “You'd like to get some sleep now, right?” he began in a calm voice, “I'd better leave you alone for the night. If you need anything, you can find me in my study. Good night.” Harley felt the weight of the mattress shift and his quiet steps gradually receded. The Clown didn't really think for a moment when she just said what was buzzing around in her head: "Can you stay with me tonight, Johnny?" Her hand quickly covered her mouth. What a stupid question. That was probably the strong sedative in her blood system. She nervously waited for his answer. Harley couldn't imagine how the dark professor would react to her question. She had never come so close to the brown-haired man. The silence stretched uncomfortably in the next minutes. Suddenly, her ears heard the lazy shuffling in the direction of the door. So he was about to ignore her request. Harley smiled sadly and relaxed a little. After all, he hadn't hit her on her stupidity - at least not yet. The wooden door closed softly, but instead of the dull footsteps on the stairs, she heard something moving inside the room. The Clown felt a light weight behind her, followed by an arm that gently wrapped itself around her stomach and pulled her lovingly to an extremely bony chest. Jonathan didn't say a single word and also Harley didn't dared to speak in this unique moment. Security and warmth permeated her, but on a completely different level. Jonathan began to stroke her skin very carefully when he whispered softly in her era: “You don't have to go back to him, Harleen. It's your choice. Have a good night.” The words gently rocked the young woman into a quiet, safe sleep.

Jonathan woke up the next morning and sat up in the bed, ruffling his tangled hair. He was alone. Starting his daily routine, he went down to the kitchen and put on the first of his several pots of coffee. Armed with his badly needed elixir of life, he moved to the living room on the first floor. There he sat at the much too large desk and rummaged in the drawer for a certain file. His fingers quickly found what they were looking for. He pulled out a small, blue folder named 'Harleen Quinzel'. Jonathan opened the file, flipped to the last entry and added a few more lines: “The traumatized patient continues to suffer from a severely reduced self-esteem and looks for non-existent guilt without questioning herself. Offered alternatives to the destructive way of life are either not accepted or cannot be perceived in the current state. I'm expecting the patient for a new appointment in two weeks.” He closed the folder again and put the pen on the table beside it. Jonathan leaned back a little and tilted his head back to counter the increasing tension in his neck. He breathed deeply in and out. His thin fingers traced the outline of the folder as he whispered to himself: "Until our next appointment, Harleen."

#DC #Batman #Jonathan Crane #Harleen Quinzel #Scarecrow #Harley Quinn #Hurt #Comfort #psychiatrist buddies #Translations #Sad but beautiful

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book Three: Pestilence (Ignis x Reader) Chapter Four

The companions, with their weapons at the ready, attacked the jabberwock. (Y/n) stood opposite of Prompto and kept an eye on the boys, casting spell after spell. She dodged the beast's tail when it swung in her direction and froze one of its legs. It tipped over and fell on its side, making in vulnerable.

They struck its underbelly until it recovered with a hiss and charged directly at Prompto. The boy was unable to avoid the attack and waited to feel the pain, but he felt nothing. All he heard was the sound of shattering glass. He saw the barrier protecting him and small branching cracks where the jabberwock's body slammed into it. The blonde sighed and looked past the beast toward Pestilence. "Thanks for the save, (Y/n)!"

She smiled in response and electrocuted the monster with a shockwave of lightning, deflecting its attention from the boy to her. It charged at her as she dispersed the barrier and casted an ice spell. A large ice shard protruded from the floor, impaling the beast through the stomach. Two more emerged from the floor, plunging into the jabberwock's sides and pinning it in place.

The royal retinue performed a cross-chain attack, siphoning the last of the beast's health. It released a deathly howl before the ice shards shattered and its body toppled over. The jabberwock's body vaporized, revealing the Sword of the Tall. Noctis kneeled beside the greatsword and held out his hand. The blade rose into the air with a radiant glow before disappearing into Noctis' chest. The royal arms in his possession encircled his body before shattering into radiant shards of crystal.

"Alright! We won!" Prompto cheered. "Now can we leave?"

"It's gonna be a long trek back," Gladio said.

"Not necessarily," (Y/n) spoke up. She wandered over to a strange mechanism on the floor and stepped on it. In the blink of an eye, she vanished.

"Wha-Where's she go?!" Prompto panicked.

Gladio and Ignis didn't question the strange mechanism and followed the Horseman's lead. They stepped on it and found themselves back at the entrance not too far from Pestilence.

"That was convenient," the shield commented.

"Warping mechanisms were used frequently during the ancient times to travel around. Morosely, the secret behind their manufacturing has forever been lost to the hands of time," the (e/c)-eyed girl said.

Then, Noctis and Prompto appeared next to them and were amazed at where they were transported. When they heard the blonde's stomach growl, all eyes fell on him. He blushed when he saw the grin on (Y/n)'s face.

"Sounds like we better make camp," Gladio smugly grinned.

"There's a haven nearby," Ignis informed his companions.

"Let's get moving before I collapse," Noctis sighed.

The group leave Costlemark Tower and discover it is nighttime. They learn they'd been inside the dungeon for nearly two days. When the cool breeze kissed their skin, that's when they felt the exhaustion setting in. All except for (Y/n).

At Oathe Haven, the boys set up camp. The Horseman begged them to let her help, but all of them had the same response. She sighed, watching them helplessly as they worked in tandem to set up the chairs, tent, and cooking station. Prompto started the fire while Noctis and Gladio pitched the tent. Ignis had set his sights on making dinner and immediately got to work.

Pestilence desperately wanted to occupy her mind and body, deciding to offer her help with cooking. She strolled over to Ignis with her hands behind her back. She leant forward when she reached his side. "I plan on helping in any way I can. May I?"

Ignis couldn't deny her help since he rarely received it from his friends. "I would appreciate the helping hand." He handed her a knife and she thanked him before beginning to slice the vegetables for the stew he was making. While cutting the garula sirloin, he couldn't help but glance in her direction and notice her skills with a knife. "You are quite nimble with your hands, (Y/n)."

She looked up from the potato she was slicing with a smile. "Just like you, I prepare meals back in the Inner Sanctum. My sisters and I do not need to eat, but we do still enjoy meals every now and then. Speaking of home..." She held out her hand and a small bottle manifested in her palm. "Fresh herbs that go delectably with any stew. I grew them myself. I've an herb garden back in the Inner Sanctum and I also grow coffee beans for War's sake. She's quite fond of coffee herself."

(Y/n) placed the vegetables in the pot, popped the lid off the glass vial, and sprinkled some herbs into the stew. Ignis wasn't bothered with her adding the herbs to his recipe. He actually was curious and welcomed the change.

Hearing the others complaining about their growling stomachs, the advisor rolled his eyes as he added the garula meat. When he went to stir the stew, the Horseman stopped him by nudging him away from the stove. "You should be relaxing. I will handle the rest, Ignis."

Gladio saw how (Y/n) grabbed the strategist and escorted him to his seat around the campfire. "What's this-Iggy being kicked out of the kitchen? That's the first."

"To some extent-yes," the white-haired girl responded. "I will handle the rest while he relaxes."

Once Ignis was seated, the Horseman spun on her heels and tended to dinner. The boys stared at her back as she stirred the stew. Prompto leant forward in his chair and scrolled through the numerous of pictures he'd taken throughout their trek through Costlemark Tower. When he came across one of the battle with the jabberwock, he showed it to the others. "Gotta say-this one's pretty good!"

It was a picture of (Y/n) grasping her staff right after the ice shards shattered. The crystal-like shards rained down around her, creating a beautiful image as the dim lights from the machinery around her bounced off the ice shards. The small hint of a smile on the girl's face made it even more alluring.

"That's a keeper," Gladio commented.

"Definitely!" The blonde cheered. He turned off his camera just as Pestilence handed out dinner. The boys thanked her and immediately munched down.

When they all took the first bite, they froze. Prompto swallowed and glanced up at (Y/n), who stood between his chair and Ignis'. "This is Iggy's recipe, right?"

"Yes," she nodded. "With a small twist of my own."

"And what's the small twist?" Noctis asked as he pushed the vegetables around in the broth.

"A combination of herbs I grew myself." (Y/n)'s smile fell. "Does it not taste good?"

"The taste is extraordinary, (Y/n)," Ignis reassures her when he saw her frown.

The Horseman placed a hand on her chest and sighed in relief. "Thank goodness..."

Suddenly, Pestilence's (e/c) eyes widen in horror. She immediately turns around, staring into the darkness beyond the haven. Her eyes dart back and forth in her head as she searches the shadows of the night. She walks to the edge of the haven, eyes continuing to frantically search the area.

Noctis was the first to notice her strange behavior and called out to her. "What's wrong?" Hearing the prince, the others glanced in the direction he was looking and saw the girl acting strangely. She didn't answer and before any of them could stand from their seats, she disappeared in a puff of white smoke.

The boys flew to their feet and called out for the Horseman, but none of them received a response. "W-Where'd she go?" Prompto muttered as they looked around.

"How should we know?" Noctis inquired.

Out of the blue, Ignis felt a warm sensation in his pocket. Glancing down, he could see the orb glowing through the fabric of his pants. He fished it out of his pocket, eyeing the artifact closely. Before batting an eye, (Y/n) appeared right in front of him with a heavy sigh, a small apology, and took a few steps back to give the strategist his space. "I fear I sensed the draugr nearby and took a look. It seems to have fled and I've lost its signature. I apologize for the abrupt departure."

"I'm confused," Noctis said. "Most daemons avoid you, but what about beasts and monsters from your world?"

"Beasts have far less intelligence than daemons and also do not know we work for the daemon king himself. Monsters from the Inner Sanctum, on the other hand, have grown accustomed to our scent and no longer fear my sisters and I." (Y/n) combed a few strands of hair from her face and behind her ear before clearing her throat and changing the subject. "I see that you four are done with dinner. I will wash the dishes."

The Horseman walked around and gathered the bowls and utensils from them before placing them on the table beside the stove. Ignis tried to help, but she quickly placed herself between him and dishes. She only casted a small smile over her shoulder in his direction as she began cleaning.

Reluctantly, Ignis joined his friends inside the tent. Prompto and Noctis were playing on their phones while Gladio has his nose buried in a book. The tactician still held the orb in his hand, watching the silver wisp encased inside bounce against the glass.

Prompto glanced up from his phone and saw the royal advisor admiring the artifact. He scooted closer to Ignis and stared at it, too. "Glad we found it and not those creeps."

"Indeed," the emerald-eyed man responded, his eyes solely focused on the orb.

"What did (Y/n) call him-Silas or something like that?" Noctis spoke up after overhearing them.

"Apparently, he's the leader of thing so called "gang". A few people were talkin' about him in Lestallum. Bastard's been terrorizing most of Lucis for that damn orb," Gladio said, joining in on their conversation.

"I can't believe we've never heard of him or these highwaymen 'til now," Noctis scoffed.

"A troupe of ruffians is simply what they are," Ignis responded.

"Let's just hope they don't plan on becoming a nuisance," Gladio said.

"Might be too late for that," Prompto stated, sliding his phone into his pocket. He yawned and threw his body down against the bottom of the tent. "Don't know about you guys, but I'm callin' it a night." Crawling into a ball, the blonde fell asleep only a few seconds later. Noctis soon joined him followed by Gladio.

Ignis switched off the lamp in the tent and set it aside to prevent anyone from knocking it over while they slept. He moved to where he usually slept and lied down. A few minutes passed and he finally fell asleep.

<--------<<<<<<<

A few hours later, Ignis' eyes flew wide open and his upper body shot off the ground. His body was doused in a cold sweat, chest rising and falling rapidly. He ran a hand through his slightly damp locks before glancing around the tent. Luckily, his abrupt awakening didn't wake the others.

Carefully, Ignis maneuvered through the tent and unzipped it. He stepped outside, noticing the fire had died and the faint rays of the sun could be seen in the sky.

"Nightmare?" A gentle voice asked him, startling him. Ignis looks to his left and sees (Y/n) standing a few feet away with a concerned expression. As he examined her, he noticed she had cleansed her clothes of the blood. He simply nodded, deciding to keep the contents of his nightmare a secret. The Horseman followed him to the chairs gathered around the once brightly lit fire and sat beside him. "I won't pry, but the way you're sweating tells me it was horrible."

"It was," Ignis responds. He placed a gloved hand against his forehead, wiping away some of the sweat. Though he was free from the nightmare, the images were burnt into his mind. The screaming and begging continued to ring in his ears even during his waking moments.

(Y/n) leaned forward in the seat and crossed her legs. "Would you like a warm cup of coffee?"

Ignis nodded, staring at the small fire pit in front of them. "Please."

Pestilence stood up and got to work on his cup of coffee. When she asked what he preferred, she was shocked to discover he wanted the same blend she made for him in Lestallum. "Coming right up."

Ignis reclined back in the chair, staring up at the semi-dark sky. He closed his eyes to see if he could get a few more minutes of sleep, but only the image of (Y/n) begging with tears in hers eyes before plummeting to her death plagued his mind. He opened his eyes when he smelt the familiar scent of coffee.

The Horseman offered him the tin cup, which he accepted with a faint smile. He sipped at the warm beverage, letting the bittersweet taste cascade across all his tastebuds.

(Y/n), once again, claimed the seat next to him and they chatted just like they did in the Leville a couple days ago. Their conversation carried on for hours until Gladio and Prompto woke up a little after seven.

"Morning!" The blonde boy greets the two as he emerges from the tent alongside the shield.

Gladio saw the tired expression on Ignis' face and scowled. "Didn't get enough sleep, Iggy?"

"A horrid nightmare startled me awake," he confesses. "I was unable to fall back asleep after awakening the first time."

"What was the nightmare about? Must've been pretty scary if it kept you from falling back asleep," Prompt eagerly pried.

Ignis glanced at (Y/n) for a brief second before his eyes darted back to the cup of coffee in his hand. "I'd prefer not to speak of it."

"Damn," Gladio said. "That bad, huh?"

"Undeniably horrifying."

The four fell silent as they sat in the four chairs around the fire pit. After a few minutes of suffocating silence, Gladio cleared his throat and looked at Pestilence. "Guess we're headin' to the Rock of Ravatogh next. After that, I want to head back to Lestallum. I can't let Iris go to Caem all by herself after what happened."

"Of course, Gladio. We all wish for Iris' safety," the girl responded. "The trek up the volcano will be less treacherous than our venture through Costlemark. Although steep, I know you all can handle it."

"Better wake Prince Charmless so we can get this show on the road." Gladio stood from the chair and headed over to the tent.

"We're gonna eat breakfast first, right?" Prompto glanced between Ignis and (Y/n). They both nodded, making the gunslinger pump a fist into the air. "Yes!"

#ffxv x reader #ffxv #ignis x reader #ignis scientia #final fantasy xv x reader #final fantasy xv #noctis lucis caelum x reader #prompto argentum #gladiolus amicitia

[duker42]

💜Sleep Buddies💜 Levi x Reader

💜Sleep Buddies💜

‘This all started because of that damn expedition.’ Levi thought as he quietly opened the door. Peering inside, he focused on the bundle of blankets on the bed in front of him. The steady rise and fall of the huddled mass says that Y/N hasn’t woken up. Good. He has absolutely no idea what excuse he could give if she woke up and found him in her room like this at 1AM. But he was a desperate man.

**Flashback**

“Damnit! Where the hell are our horses?” Y/N cried, frustration pouring off of her as she clenched her blades and scanned the surrounding area. Standing beside her on the roof, Levi just grunts. This field trip to catch Titans for Hanji was a mistake. He never should have agreed to it. Now he and Y/N were horseless and miles from the wall, with nothing but flat land between them, rendering the ODM Gear useless.

They had become separated from the rest of the group at this abandoned village when a few abnormal had attacked. And of course four-eyes’ group chased after one, not realizing they had left Levi and Y/N behind or that their horses had run off.

“Sir, we might as well make our way inside one of the houses. The sun is setting, so hopefully we can rest without worrying about Titans.” Y/N prompted. Agreeing with her, Levi made his way into the dwelling with Y/N following behind. Quickly stripping off her gear, she began inspecting the home, looking for anything that would be of use. Heading up the stairs, Levi starts looking through the bedrooms. Of all the beds, only one isn’t in tatters. ‘Oh well, I guess this will have to do’ he thinks as he pulls the mattress off the frame and brings it down the stairs.

Below, Y/N has found a broom and cleared the floor of debris. Murmuring his thanks, he sets the mattress down and looks around. She has found a collection of rags, some soap and has already pumped water into a basin for them to clean up. Her back was turned to him as she checks the cupboards for any canned foods. He strips his jacket and gear to wash the grime away as she brings the pilfered food items and some utensils over to the table.

“There was only one mattress that wasn’t destroyed. You can take it.” Levi states as he finishes wiping water from his face.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Captain. You are probably even more tired than I am. It’s big enough for us to share.” Y/N reasons, opening a can with her knife and moving over to wash a spoon in the basin. Handing the can to Levi, she repeats the actions for herself. “Sorry, I wouldn’t risk starting a fire here, the chimney looked damaged. It will have to be a cold meal.”

Sitting down, he waits for her to finish washing up and to join him before eating. Studying her, he casually comments “It’s going to be cold tonight. I couldn’t find any blankets that weren’t disgusting.”

Shrugging her shoulders, her solution was simple, rational. “I guess we will just have to huddle for warmth then. We can share our body heat and cloaks.”

**Present Time**

‘Best damn night’s sleep I’ve had in years’ Levi grumbles internally, remembering how astonished he was to realize he had slept through the night, wrapped up with Y/N. It had been five days since returning to the walls after waking that morning, and the stoic Captain had not slept since. Exhausted to the point of collapse, Levi hoped to repeat the results of sleeping next to Y/N in that filthy little house. Luck seemed to be on his side, she was facing towards the wall, with room for him to slip in easily beside her.

As he cautiously moved next to her, he could feel his body unwind and relax. Heat radiated off of her, and her unique scent lulled him sleep.

**Time Skip**

Three weeks had passed and Levi’s conscience was starting to gnaw at him. Every night, he had waited until he was sure that Y/N would be asleep, around 1AM, and snuck into her room. A little ashamed at his behavior, he tried to reason with himself that he had gone no farther than wrapping an arm around her waist. He had never tried to take advantage of the sleeping woman, but he knew that he was still wrong for his actions. The problem was...he just slept so damn well beside her. While it was only four hours, due to him wanting to wake up before she did, it was consistent and so far, dreamless.

A knock on his door pulled him out of his thoughts. Granting them entrance, he found himself looking at Y/N, her small smile increasing his inner turmoil as she moves towards him. Setting a tray consisting of tea and a light breakfast in front of him, she justifies the intrusion. “Good morning, Captain. I didn’t see you in the Mess Hall this morning, so I figured you had gotten an early start. I wanted to make sure you had something to eat.”

Murmuring his thanks, he dismissed her, feeling even lower. He resolves to himself that he will not go to her tonight. He has his own bed, or a chair and he will just stick to that.

**Time Skip**

Levi groaned, and changed positions for what seemed like the five hundredth time. 4AM and sleep would just not come.....What was it about Y/N that caused him to sleep so well? Closing his eyes, he tried recalling the feeling of laying next to her. The subtle scent of wind and the flowered soap she uses, the warm softness radiating from her sleeping form, the soft sighs as she moved, the slow and steady rhythm of her breathing. ‘Damnit, it’s not helping me sleep. It just makes me want to go to her room now.’ With a heavy sigh, he gets up, determining there will be no sleep for him. Shuffling to the bathroom, he gets ready for the long day ahead.

Noticeably more irritated than normal with a fierce scowl painting his visage, the Captain cuts a wide path through the soldiers gathered at the training grounds. Making his way over to his squad, his frown deepens at them lounging around. He’s irrationally displeased at them, even though he had not issued any orders yet.

After setting out their training for the day, he watches as Y/N continuously makes small mistakes, unusual for the normally adept girl. She curses bitterly as her slices in the dummy titan do not land as deeply as she would like, and shoots back to the start of the course to start again. The next run resulted in a better cut but a sloppy landing, causing a smart comment to come from Oluo.

“Dear Y/N, practice is supposed to increase your skill. If you keep this up, the recruits will be better at slicing Titans than you!” He condescendingly sneers, acting in that pretentious manner he’s adopted.

Snarling Y/N hotly replies “How about I slice your nape to save us all from that shit hole you call a mouth!”

Increasingly heated words pass between pair, until finally Y/N snaps and lunges at Oluo. Gunther and Eld hold her back as Levi marches over to the group.

“What the hell is wrong with you two? Oluo, go clean the damn stables. Y/N, come with me.” He orders, spinning on his heel and walking away.

After moving away from the rest of the squad, Levi levels a glare at Y/N. “Care to explain why your performance is shit today? And why you are threatening Oluo with death? You normally ignore him.”

Y/N glanced down, embarrassed at her uncharacteristic behavior. “I’m sorry Captain. I let my rotten mood affect my performance. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Eyes widening slightly, Levi presses the point. “Why didn’t you sleep well?”

“I couldn’t really tell you, sir. I slept until about 1 just fine, then I woke up and just couldn’t fall back asleep. But that’s no excuse for my behavior Captain. I apologize.”

‘Shit.....my habit of sneaking in to sleep beside her has started to affect her as well.’ He panics. Levi notices the small dark circles under her eyes, and knows that he is the cause for them.

“Just try not to kill anyone today, Y/N. I’m sure you will sleep better tonight.”

**Time Skip**

After a long day of trying to keep her short temper in check, Y/N is ready to fall out. Getting ready for bed, she hopes that she won’t have the same issue tonight. The night before had felt weird, like something was missing. Almost as if there was supposed to be something beside her in the bed. Shaking off the absurd thought, she crawls under the sheets, moving to her spot against the wall and waited for sleep to take her.

Her eyes open, the dark of the room indicating it was still very late at night. The mattress had shifted slightly, like someone had slipped into the spot next to her. Keeping her breathing normal, she waited, listening for movement. Hearing none, she dismissed the idea that someone was in bed with her as a dream. Snuggling down into her pillow, she shifted her leg and closed her eyes again. She felt an arm slowly glide over her side and around her stomach, holding her loosely. A warm body pressed gently against her back, as if afraid of waking her. Sensing whoever it was meant her no harm, she waited, hearing a small contented sigh coming from the person behind her.

Long minutes pass, and soon enough she heard a quiet snore. Waiting until it became a rhythm, indicating deep sleep, she slowly started moving. Making her movements small and pausing between them so the person wouldn’t wake up, she turned over. After what seemed like forever, she was finally facing her mystery bedmate. Slowly opening her eyes, she was met with the peaceful face of her sleeping Captain. His relaxed features softened, making him look younger. His ebony hair fell in his eyes, covering them. Smiling slightly, she decided she wasn’t going to wake the man. She knew his sleep schedule was erratic at best, so she would save this conversation for daylight. Closing her eyes, she slipped back into her restful slumber.

**Time Skip**

Feeling energized after another night sleeping beside Y/N, Levi sips his tea as he reads the report over the newest recruits arriving next week. The numbers coming the to Scouts were higher than he expected, but the performance reviews left much to be desired. As he worked, devising a training schedule to bring them up to par, there was a knock on the door. Rolling his shoulders to release the tension from sitting too long, he gets up and opens the door to find Y/N.

“Captain, the Commander would like to see you. He asked me to come and get you since you didn’t come down for dinner.”

“I hadn’t realized it was that late. Thank you, Y/N.” Pulling the door closed behind him, they fall into step, making their way towards to the Mess Hall.

Reaching the doors Y/N pauses, turning to the Captain. “Sir, may I ask a favor?” He hums a reply and she continues. “Will you come to my room tonight around 11? I need to speak with you privately about a personal matter.”

Fear and dread crept into Levi’s gut as he nods and walks away.

**Time Skip**

Levi hesitantly knocks on the door to Y/N’s quarters at the requested time. Unsure of what might be discussed, he worried over it during the conversation with Erwin. He figured that if she had woken up during the night to find him in her bed she would have screamed or at the very least, woken him to demand an explanation. So there was nothing to worry about. It was probably just about period cramps or some other female issues that women seems so embarrassed to discuss.

He feels a bit of relief when she opens the door to him with a small welcoming smile. ‘See, nothing to get worked up over, idiot.’ He calms himself down and walks inside. Inspecting the room for the first time in the light, he finds it to be cozy. Well worn books line a small bookshelf and various keepsakes make the standard issue room look inviting.

Y/N watches Levi peruse her personal belongings, his posture relaxed. As he turns back to her, she gestures for him to sit in the lone chair she has.

“So what do you need to talk to me about, Y/N?” He asks, sitting back, throwing an arm across the back of the chair.

Taking a deep breath, she levels her eyes on him as she speaks. “I will just come out with it. I would like for you to come to bed earlier.” She watches as his eyes grow wide, his expressionless mask slipping for a moment as shock flashes across his face. “Last night, I woke up when you came in. I realized why I couldn’t sleep well the night before, apparently I’m used to sleeping beside you. How long has this been happening?”

Levi opens his mouth, but the words refuse to pass. He racks his brain for an explanation, an excuse for his behavior. He pauses, ‘What did she just say? Come to bed earlier? She isn’t mad?’ As the thoughts crash around in his brain, she walks over to him and squats down beside him. Cupping his cheek with her hand, she ignores him flinching at the contact and turns his face to meet hers. Her eyes quietly demand the answer to her question.

“Five days after we got back from the expedition. I hadn’t slept at all during that time, and I was desperate....Y/N....I’m sorry, I know I was wrong....”

She interrupts him. “Why?”

“That night in that filthy abandoned house, on that shitty mattress with our cloaks for blankets, that was the best sleep I had gotten in years. So I decided to test my theory that it was because of you. Stupid, I know, but I was probably batshit from exhaustion, to be honest.” A rosy blush steals across his face as he explains. His brow furrows in confusion as she smiles at him.

“Come to bed at a decent hour, Captain. And don’t wear your uniform. Or would it be easier for you if we slept in your room?”

“Huh?”

“Obviously, at this point, we are dependent on each other for a good night’s sleep. Might as well not fight it. We will be sleep buddies.” She grinned.

“Sleep buddies, huh?”

Mobile MasterList

#aot fanfiction #attack on titan #levi ackerman #levi aot #snk levi #captain levi #levi ackerman x reader #shingeki no kyojin #snk x reader #aot x reader #levi heichou #snk fanfiction #levi x reader

[alexadru]

His hair

Part 2 of this.

xxx

It had only been one day, but Weiss was starting to get used to her new hair style, a braid which Jaune had expertly crafted with his own hands, much to her surprise. While it wasn’t a striking visual change from her regular ponytail, the way it felt was different. A higher center of gravity which had been a slight inconvenience, but something which the boy had also helped her with in the form of a neck massage. Again, he had been surprisingly skillful in that department too. If she were to guess from their talk the other day, both the braiding and massage were skills instilled into him by his sisters throughout the years. She silently wondered to herself what else he was capable of.

Unfortunately, there was little time to explore how deep his domestic skills ran, for they were still on a mission to save the world. Even these brief moments of reprieve in which they were to gather their strength were almost coming to an end. Their final errand before they would set for Atlas proper was a wardrobe upgrade. Something everyone was most looking forward to. She too was excited for the prospect of finding a new outfit. Something that would carry on a message, one that would tell everyone of her growth and maturity. Besides, it had been a while since she bought something herself and wasn’t handed to her by one of her father’s servants. This time the girl would get to shop with everyone.

Even so, as she descended the stairs from their accommodation place in Mantle, a house Winter had managed to procure for them, she could not help but have the blond in mind. Jaune had come a long way from the boy that would trip on his own legs at Beacon. He stood taller, held more presence than before and his resolve to fight for his friends and those he cared for was admirable in her eyes. Weiss would not find it hard to admit that she enjoyed their talk the previous day, he had been great company. As she had enjoyed his service on both her hair and the massage. Speaking of which, she intended to ask for another one after breakfast. Perhaps they would retreat to a private room where they could share thoughts again. That sounded like an appealing prospect.

Her train of thought was interrupted when she saw a commotion in the hall leading to the living room. Her eyes could discern a distraught Nora surrounded by Ren, Ruby and Yang. Sensing the desolate mood, Weiss approached them, intent on finding the cause.

Weiss: What happened here?” She voiced her question, eyes watching each of them, prompting them to answer her. Her partner was the one to respond.

Ruby: “Uh, well, there’s been a bit of an accident, you could say.”

Weiss: “An accident?”

Nora: “I didn’t mean to do it! I mean, I did, but… not like this. I didn’t think he’d react like that.” The girl deflated at her own words, a contrast to her usual self. Next to her, Ren held a hand on her shoulder, her only source of comfort.

Yang: “You did jump him with a shaver and ran it through his hair without any warning. If I were in Jaune’s place, I would have been royally pissed too.”

Those words only made Nora slump even more. Weiss had never seen the girl so deflated.

Ruby: “Yang…” Ruby tried to scold her sister with no success. “Look, Nora, you know Jaune’s not really upset with you. He’s probably still shocked and processing the…uhh, change. Once he’s done looking at himself in the mirror, he’ll come right out. You’ll see.”

Yang: “He locked himself in the bathroom.” Yang added with the subtlety of a bull.

The leader of RWBY looked at her sister again with another frown. Said girl only shrugged. Apparently, she was the unforgiving sort when it came to hair or anyone messing with it, despite not being hers. Maybe she disagreed with Nora’s method that left Jaune with no word in the matter.

Weiss: “How long has he been in there?”

Ren: “Approximatively 20 minutes.”

Ruby: “We tried to talk with him and convince him to come out, but…” Her silence was enough of an answer.

Weiss looked at the door of the room where Jaune had apparently barricaded himself and frowned slightly. It was hard for her to imagine Jaune being self-conscious about his hair, but then again, she had not seen what Nora had done with it. On some level, she could understand Yang being upset with the pink themed girl for deciding to cut Jaune’s hair without his consent. But right now, given the situation, she figured it was best to try and get him to exit.

Weiss: “Let me try to talk with him.”

At her partner’s nod, Weiss walked past her and stood in front of the wooden door. “Jaune? Jaune, can you hear me. It’s Weiss. Can you open the door, please?” She knocked lightly.

Jaune: “W-weiss? Did you need to use the bathroom? I… I’ll be done in a bit. Just another 10 or 15 minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Weiss: “I heard what happened with Nora.” When he didn’t immediately answer she continued. “Listen, no matter how bad you think you look, no one here will say anything about your hair. Would you be willing to come out?”

Jaune: “I can’t... it’s just, no. My hair looks awful.” His whimpers came from the other side.  

Hearing him speak like that made her feel for him. “I’m sure it’s not even half as awful as you think it is.” Weiss tried words of encouragement, despite having never done something like this too often.

Jaune: “You’re right, it’s not bad… it’s worse!”

The approach was not working, Weiss realized. Then she would have to be more direct.

Weiss: “Jaune, open the door, please. You don’t have to come out. I just wish to see your hair for a moment. No one will laugh at you, I promise.” She looked at the rest with a stern look, making them silently promise that they would keep the promise.

Jaune said nothing for a few moments: “Okay, but… only enough for you to see.”

As soon as those words were spoken, the door cracked open and moved slowly, revealing the person inside. Jaune stood in front of her now, having stopped before the door could even open halfway. He only wanted her to see, it seemed. Perhaps he trusted her word enough to know that she would not break it.

Weiss appreciated that. She would stand by her promise and not judge. If anyone behind her would make the briefest of sounds resembling a laugh, then she would turn on them like a wintry storm. For everyone’s sake, the quiet remained and Weiss could finally see the state of his hair. It looked messy, like he had been trying to get cut it on his own, and given the scissors in his hand, he probably had. What stood out the most was the horizontal slash left behind by the blades of the shaver. They cut deep on the right side of his head near the temple. From what she could tell, it had cut the long bang he usually kept on that side along with everything else in the way, leaving the area almost devoid of his blonde tresses. That was a lot of hair to have lost suddenly.

Jaune: “Yeah, pretty awful, huh?” He gave a pathetic smile.

Weiss’ eyes softened at his look. She did not like seeing him down, not after he’d done quite a lot for her recently and started to get along together. With a serious expression, she put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him back inside the bathroom.

Weiss: “Come on. Let’s get you looking presentable.”

Both were inside the room and Weiss made sure to close the door behind her.

Jaune: “Weiss?” He looked at her in confusion.

The girl didn’t answer and instead motioned for him to take a seat on the chair that was in front of the sink and mirror. No doubt he had tried to fix what he could himself, but there was no doubt that he had struggled. Taking a towel, Weiss tucked it around his neck, making sure to cover his clothes. Gingerly, she took the scissors from his hand and grabbed a comb.

Weiss: “Word of warning, I haven’t had much practice with cutting hair, but I’ll do my best to fix this.”

What little practice she had had was when she was younger and attempted to cut her own hair herself, much to the disagreement of her father. Weiss had managed to experiment a few times before being forced to stop and go to a professional, again, courtesy of her father. At least he hadn’t dictated how her hair should be from that day and she could freely ask for her hair to be styled in her signature side ponytail without worry. A small win in her book, but a win, nevertheless.

Jaune: “Weiss… you really don’t have to do this.”

Weiss: “You’ve helped me with my hair. Let me do the same for you. Like I said before, I’m doing this because I want to.” When Jaune didn’t say another word, she began working.

Her moves were slow and inexperienced, but she tried to be as precise and meticulous as she could. As her fingers ran through his golden locks, she couldn’t help but note that his hair wasn’t as rough as she had expected. In a way, that made it easier for her as her fingers pushed to cut another bit of his hair.

As for what she was going to do with it, Weiss was unsure. She did not claim to be an expert in male hairstyles or what the latest trends were, so she settled on cutting his hair in a style that she deemed appropriate. Something she liked and found appealing.

Weiss: “Nora is pretty depressed over this. I’ve never seen her so down before.” She made small talk regarding the situation they were in. “I’m sure she’ll apologize to you once you see her.” And Weiss wished for him to forgive the girl. They were all close friends, her second family.

Jaune: “I know. I’m still upset, but I’ll probably forgive her in a few hours.”

Weiss nodded. That sounded like him, alright. He cared too much for them to be truly upset over something like this.

It took her a good 15 minutes, but Weiss believed she was finished. Discarding the utensils, she regarded the boy next to her making sure to inspect her handiwork with a sharp eye. Weiss had been surprised to discover that his hair was naturally spiky, but she decided that it suited him. Unlike the well-groomed men of Atlas with their tidy hair, Jaune’s hair had an edge to it because of that. It reminded the girl a bit of herself and her own choice in hairstyle. Her lips twisted in a big smile, she was pleased with the result.

Weiss: “Well, are you not going to comment on my work?” She urged him. Weiss really wanted to hear his thoughts.

Jaune: “It looks… okay, I guess.” Jaune responded after a few moments in which he checked himself in the mirror

Weiss: “You guess?” Raising an eyebrow, she waited for him to explain his thoughts.

Jaune: “You did a great work, Weiss. Honest.” He gave her a small smile and his tone suggested that he was genuine with his words. “It’s just different than what I expected. Not really how I would have cut my hair.”

With a small hum, Weiss took a step forward and entered in his range. Not perturbed by his surprise, she grabbed his face with both hands and began to closely look at him. With slow moves, the girl moved his head from left to right, up and down, basically inspecting him from every single angle. Under this much attention, Jaune could not help but blush. The way she looked at him and her soft hands touching his face, those had a huge effect on him.  

Weiss: “Well, I believe that I did you a good service then.” Weiss released him and maintained her proud look. “This is much better than that scraggly mop you previously had.”

Jaune looked to the side: “My hair wasn’t that bad…” He mumbled, defending his choice.

Weiss: “Regardless, I still believe this clean look is an improvement.” Her smile widened minutely as she gave him a… was that a teasing look? Leaning forward, she spoke again: “You actually look handsome for a change.” Weiss had a playful look on her eyes, cheeks dusted in a pretty pink.  

Jaune: “W-what!?” If his cheeks weren’t red before, they were now.    

Weiss: “Make sure to clean up the mess and join us for breakfast. Also, do try to forgive Nora soon. It would be bad if we started our mission while at odds with each other.” Finding satisfaction in his lingering reaction, she turned around and made to exit, though not before stopping right as her hand touched the handle and turning her head to give him a side glance, smile still in place. “One more thing. I would like for you to give me another massage before we leave for our shopping trip. I’ll be waiting for you in my room after breakfast. Don’t keep me waiting.” With those words, she left the room.

Jaune was left to stare at the door for a few seconds, before he released a breath and ran his hand through his freshly cut hair. A chuckle escaped his lips as he turned to look at his reflection in the mirror. “How does she do it?” He asked himself in the mirror. Jaune did not get an answer, but he could feel his strong heartbeat in his chest. Perhaps that was a clue.

#rwby #Jaune Arc #weiss schnee #jaune #weiss #jaune x weiss #jaune arc x weiss schnee #rwby jaune x weiss #rwby jaune arc x weiss schnee #rwby whiteknight #rwby white knight #rwby white-knight #rwby yellowsnow #rwby yellow snow #rwby weissgold #ruby rose #yang xiao long #nora valkyrie #lie ren

[overanxiousoutofmind]

What Only You Can Provide (5&6 pt.1)

This one got a little long and sorta blended the lines between prompts 5&6 so I’ll be posting it in two parts. First is in Adora’s perspective. Prompts: Habits | Fate Content Warning: Reference to Major Injury

           Adora wakes to the sound of the wind against their door and Catra sleeping on her arm. Far from the worst way to wake up, and for all that has changed in recent months she is glad that this has remained the same. As her eyes adjust she can make out only the fuzzy outline of Catra, the slope of her ears and the soft tangle of her hair. She traces the gentle curve of her jaw with her eyes and the freckles on her cheekbones. A gentle smile finds her lips as she follows Catra’s hair around the frame of her face to the errant strands running dark rivers between her closed eyelids. She stares, longer than she needs to, longer she should. She’s found herself doing this a lot, ever since Catra found her with her drawings. She still etches her face some mornings, and though Catra has told her she wouldn’t really mind if Adora wanted to sketch her when she was awake, she hasn’t worked up the nerve. There’s an admission in the act that Adora can’t name but is attached to such an overwhelming fear that the very thought brings to life a chill up her spine. It’s infuriating. Partially because each time she shies away from it, or anything else that could bring forth that feeling. And because she, despite that fear, there is such a deep longing within her that she feels so helpless to ignore. But without a name, she cannot be sure of how to answer it.

Removing her arm from underneath Catra is an agonizing process, both in the difficulty not to wake her and the urge not to disturb something so beautiful as her sleeping face. Her hand is numb once it is free and she can feel the pinpricks of the noise as the blood flows back. From the bed she hears a rolling chirp and Catra’s head lifts from the bed, eyes closed. With her other hands Adora smooths back her hair before scratching at her scalp.

“I’m headed out. Go back to sleep, Catra.” A loud purr is her only response, and Catra arches herself against Adora’s hand for a moment before returning to the bed.

Since the completion of the cabin, her daily routine has changed dramatically. Without a larger project to focus on she threw herself into different tasks, training herself in multiple fields. She covered strength and endurance training in her trips to retrieve firewood, which were just as long of a journey in the snow as they were before. If anything, the retrieval of firewood was more problematic since the first snow fall and nearly all of the trees they’ve taken have come from the northern side. Catra and her became more frequent visitors to the villages surrounding the Whispering Woods in the last few months as a result. And with turn of the year behind them and the promise of three more full months of winter it they are due for a few more trips.

Her martial training has turned to a balance between practicing and inventing moves with the various weapons she can transform the sword into. She pours herself into the staff the most, summoning one with two points that she can wield in the same manner as the batons they used for practice back at the Horde. Catra helps, where she can, and no mater how much stronger Adora gets she cannot hope to master the speed and agility of Catra. Adora has a much harder time practicing with the sword in its natural state. The blade is long and heavy, and though with her strength she can easily wield it in one hand she cannot decide if it feels more comfortable in either style. The Horde had no use for swords, and it is an unknown territory that brings frequent frustration.

She delights most, however, in the practice of drawing. After a life lived in martial practice she is terribly want for a creative outlet. It is relaxing in many ways, and is an easier fulfillment to judge than sword play or her physical strength. The improvement is tangible and though she has to resist the urge to critique herself on her craft she finds a thorough enjoyment in the task. As she turns to drawing more and more in her spare time her subjects grow from Catra’s sleeping form to the area around them. She draws the cabin from several angles and tries to capture the feeling of living within it. The simplicity of their living is difficult to portray in a way that satisfies her, and her attempts ultimately center around the implements she finds them using the most. She has a dozen drawings of their utensils, their bows, and the two chairs they keep by the fire place.

Adora puts on her winter gear at slow pace, taking care not to disturb Catra any further than necessary. In the half of a year since they left the Horde her old uniform and jacket are no longer suitable for her to wear. Her musculature is changed, her shoulders broader for the extra muscle and her arms thicker. Thus, the tight uniform shirt and jacket both are unwearable, seams worn down to bits by her growth spurt, never mind the blood that stained them both when she was gored by a boar’s tusk in their first month. She now wears a combination of clothing they have found in ruined villages and that which they made themselves. The simple, but thick trousers fit her nicely and their dark color matches well with the plaid and flannel designs of the shirts they found. She’s taken to wearing a coat made a mixture of deerskin and the fleece they got from a few trapped sheep deep in the woods. The fit is loose, intentionally so given her recent growth, and the ends of the hem reach down to her mid-thigh and are cut of by a cord tied around her waist. An elegant fashions statement, it is not, but it is warm all the same.

She secures the sword to her pack with a few loops around the cross guard. Though malleable in its other forms, the sword stubbornly refuses alterations to its natural state, which has only made transporting it more troublesome. The blade is sharp enough to cut with the barest touch and no stone, metal, or otherwise has been able to so much as scratch or dull the blade. Their attempts to make a sheath for it have been unwieldly at their best, and a terrible danger to Adora’s fingers at their worst. Adora would rather carry it in any other form, but, for now, she needs the sword.

She opens the heavy curtain they hung around the door frame and steps inside before opening the door to prevent the cold draft from entering the cabin. As it continued to get colder the need to properly seal the cabin from the elements became more and more pressing. Though the wood had been tightly slotted together, the aging and settling of the wood introduced gabs that had to be stopped up, and their door had to be replaced twice as the frame changed shape and it no longer sealed the frame. The curtain had been the latest of their additions, preventing all of the heat in their home from escaping each time they opened the door. A welcome and useful addition, borne of a friendship they made only recently.

Completing the rest of her gear with a knitted cap and thick boots, she opens the door and braces herself. The blast of air cuts a deep chill into her, and she quickly exits and seals the door behind her. The woods around their home is quiet today, besides the wind. Not many creatures could be found stirring so deep in the Whispering Woods these days, and it meant keeping their food stores secure all the more important. Every hunt counted, and every bit that they could save was another day they could stay in the safety of their home.

Today she walks the nearly two-mile journey to Madame Razz’s hut. Finding the old woman was chance; Adora was stalking a deer she’d wounded and followed it for more than a mile out of her way into the eastern woods, an are Catra and Adora have long tried to avoid for its proximity to the Horde. Never mind the visions the woods send her of monsters, great beasts with large bodies that glow blue under their grey carapaces, and of a tall figure standing ominously before massive spikes of crystal. Though she asks after the name of these creatures and the figure she is shown, the woods refuse to answer. They are in the habit of doing so whenever Adora asks questions like those. Whether or not they know the real answer, she can’t be certain. But there is an unmistakable tension that follows the asking that she can feel echo throughout all of the woods.

None of that followed Madame Razz. The woods tell Adora little of the old woman, though it is not a willful denial so much as a lack of knowledge. The trees here are old, yes, but they know the woman to be much, much older and stranger than them. Still, the Whispering Woods asks her to take care of old Madame Razz, as more of a favor to the woods than any tangible reward. While Adora is willing to humor the woods, Catra proves hesitant, at least until Madame Razz begins to teach them useful little things. Their winter clothes, sealant for their cabin’s walls, even the curtain that blocks the breeze. All of these they learn make from Madame Razz and Adora notices a growing respect in the way Catra regards the old woman.

And one day, on her way over to Madame Razz, she is delighted—and a bit disturbed—to hear from the woods that some kind soul had gathered up a couple of squirrels and left them wrapped and beheaded on the old woman’s window sill. It was hard to tell if Madame Razz was thankful or not, though Adora swore she could see a gleam of pride in Catra’s eye when she next saw her.

Before too long she arrives. The old woman’s hut is a strange, squat thing nestled under the roots of a large tree. The walls and top of it are made from thin, porous mushrooms with flat tops just below Adora’s head. The roof is a single purple mushroom top put askance atop the walls and the roots of the large tree behind dig into it from below like ivy. There is only one door, or rather, curtain that leads into the hut and another curtain is hung inside the window frame to its left, swinging freely in the breeze. It must be magic that keeps this place warm, or so Adora reasons. The air on the inside of the hut flows freely outward yet the hut is never, ever too cold on the inside. And when she focuses, closes her eyes and quiets herself she can feel the hum concentrating in a heavy vibrato around the hut and the old woman, singing in concert with the woods itself.

When she arrives, Madame Razz is up and about inside, curtain pulled back while she gathers her basket and broom. With the hood of her large purple robe pulled over her hair paired with her large bifocals she looks like a large purple beetle scurrying about with quick, hurried motions. As Adora nears the hut she calls out, moving her pack so that the sword is visible. Madame Razz’s face lights up immediately from under the hood, and she waves back eagerly.

“Oh hello, Mara! You’re just in time!” She is always just in time. Just in time for tea, just in time to help Madame Razz pick up her cauldron, just in time to drive away the illusive family of skunks that settled in the roots of Madame Razz’s tree. She is also always Mara, a name that means nothing to her, and another subject that the Whispering Woods refuse to comment on.

“Just in time for what, Madame Razz?” She asks, stepping in to the warm, dry hut.

The old woman smiles, shoving a bouquet of soft white flowers into Adora’s arms, “Just in time to help me take these flowers to my friends! They’ve been waiting all year for these to bloom, Mara, you should know this.”

She examines one flower from the bouquet, noting the way the bulb droops down towards the ground. “And why are your friends waiting for these, exactly?”

Madame Razz scoffs, drawing her broom to her chest while she shovels more bouquets into her basket, “Mara, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? They’re more your friends than mine.”

“I’m afraid I have,” she says. The insistence of Madame Razz of her knowing things she does not know has lost its novelty over the last two months, and she’s long since learned its more productive to play along than try and correct the old woman. “A bad habit. Could you remind me?”

Madame Razz thrusts the basket into her arms, eyes wide and grinning, “They’re singers! Good singers, with songs and choruses that could charm the world over. And oh,” she gasps, “when they sang. You could see the stars, oh they are so beautiful. You should bring your girlfriend!”

Adora squints, “Girlfriend?”

“Yes, the one who purrs,” Madame Razz squints back at her, “don’t tell me you forgot about her, too?”

“No!” she waves her hand, “I didn’t forget Catra, no way, I just—well….”

Madame Razz stares.

“…I just. Don’t know what a ‘girlfriend’ is…” Adora flushes, one hand at the back of her neck.

Madame Razz shakes her head, “Oh, Mara, you can’t be this forgetful. At least not until you’re my age!” She grabs her broom and the basket full of bouquets and makes for the door.

“Well, I won’t forget if you tell me!” Adora says, and closes the curtain behind her as she steps out of the hut, “I promise I’ll do my best to remember this time.” She wonders if Mara—if she even existed—had ever made the same promise to Madame Razz.

“That’s what you said about our berry picking! And you never came!” the old woman chides her and the pace she sets into the woods is quick, such that Adora rushes to catch up to her.

“And I apologized!” She had. In their first meeting Madame Razz was irate, and slapped her with her broom for leaving her alone. And sure, she never actually made those plans, but that hadn���t stopped Madame Razz from giving her a stern talking to.

Madame Razz hums in response, “Perhaps you should ask the one who purrs.”

“I’m sure she knows but if you could just tell me anyways?”

The old woman ignores her in favor of inspecting the exposed root of a tree with the end of her broom, brushing away the snow. “Do you remember the way, broom?” she whispers to it, and holds her ear close for a moment.

“Madame Razz? Did you—” she is cut off by a wrinkly hand poking out from beneath her robe.

“Quiet now, Mara. I have to think.” The old woman leans close to her broom, and scans the horizon for a moment. Through the bifocals Adora can see the strain of her eyes against the large lenses as she stares out into the distance, intent upon surveying the landscape. She comes to rest facing the south east, and startles when the root she was inspecting suddenly wraps itself around her broom.

“Let go of broom!” she says, smacking the root. Adora’s hand goes to her sword, but she does not draw it. Between the woods and the old woman, she is unsure of what to do. Never, in all of winter, has she seen the woods act like this towards the old woman. She takes her hand off the sword and puts in on the trunk of a tree, drawing deep. The woods respond with fear, fear for her, for Madame Razz, and the path she was to walk. She tries to soothe their fear, assuring them of her training, of her strength and ability. The woods calm, in time, and the root releases the broom. Madame Razz smacks it once again, grousing.

“And don’t you do that to broom again!” she says, straightening her hood and hugging the broom to her chest.

“What was that about?” Adora asks. Madame Razz sets off again at a brisk pace, shoulders hunched.

“Oh, that’s just the way of the woods. They’ve always been afraid of this place.”

“Which place?” she says, “I’m confused. And you never told me what a girlfriend was.”

Madame Razz smiles, wide and toothy, “Yes, yes, that can wait till later. We’re almost there!”

They walk and the woods become denser and denser around them. Even with leaves stripped their trunks retain their thick and knotted frames and Adora can feel the tension rolling off of them. The difference between these trees and those around their cabin is palpable through the whispers, spoken at once and far too low to hear individually as they become a thin layer of white noise. She walks, mindful of their roots in the snow, and tries to ease the tension that begins to mount within her. A strand of something, nearly imperceptible at first begins to take root in her chest and spreads thickly. It tugs, light at first but getting stronger with each beat of her heart as if it is a pulsing, living thing. Which each step they take, they get closer and closer and she feels the strand pulling her towards something. She holds her hand over it, her fingers shake. It isn’t painful, no more than an uncomfortable tingling that boarders just on the edge. Like static, it fizzles invisibly, sparking against her fingers and then the trees and then Madame Razz but the old woman doesn’t react to its presence.  She only smiles wider and her eyes begin to show just a hint of something at their edges as they draw closer.

When they step out of the trees into the clearing the first thing she sees is the single, massive spire of crystal in the very center of clearing. It towers, not so tall that it could be seen from afar and none of highest branches in the woods touch it. A perfect circle of trees surrounds the spire, the edges reaching the smaller spires around her height that stand just before it. All are covered in a thick layer of dead things, moss and vines that snuck their ways into the grooves and cracks in the crystal faces of the spires. The roots of the nearest trees are turned away from the base of each spire, as if repelled by the presence of the crystal. A moment’s pause and she can see the way the roots are all subtly roiling and writhing at the very edge of the spires.

With not a moment of hesitation Madame Razz enters the clearing and sets her basket down by the closest spire. Adora approaches, the sword drawn in one hand and lays the other basket down by the old woman. She turns, examining all of the spires and their storied faces. On each, she can make out only the beginnings of letters, short phrases here and there. They speak of many things and from the fragments she can only piece together that they all seem to form a story, unique to each pillar, but all working together to tell one complete story.

“What is this place?” she asks aloud.

“It’s yours, Mara!” The old woman says, placing the bouquets on strings and winding them around the spire, “This place was always special to you. You showed it to me before your left, when we made the plans to pick berries!” she cackles, tying off the string in her hands, “but we’ll have to wait until next summer for that.”

“I brought you here?” Ludicrous, yet here she was. And this place felt so, so familiar in ways there were no words that felt adequate to describe. Like a dream forgotten upon waking, and only the sensation remains.

“Of course, no one else would have known how to find it.”

“What do you mean, no one else could find this place?” Madame Razz finishes at the first spire and goes to the next, taking a cord from within her robe and twisting it over and over until its length more than doubled.

“A place like this can hide itself, cleverly, and if you don’t know where to look ,you’ll be walking circles for days. You should know this, Mara. You haven’t hit your head, have you?”

“Not for a while…” Adora mumbles as she takes a step towards the central spire. The script along the sides of the spire by far is the most complex, and the most broken. In columns across each face she can see paragraphs of lines. Written in circular prose are stories whose hearts have been eaten by the passing seasons. She touches the spire, feels the grooves of each word. Most lead up, strictly defined in their column. And others lead at an angle, off set towards the center of the spire before her towards a door made of crystal. It is sealed shut, with a single word etched upon its face.

“Eternia.” She speaks without thought and light fills the word on the crystal. The light travels up, through the words and around the curve of the door and slowly it pulls apart and disappears into the wall. Beyond there is a hallway made of polished crystal in light magenta hues, lit only by the daylight coming in from the door way. She takes a step forward, peeking into the darkness.

The sword at her side begins to glow. The feeling in her chest insistent, alive with an electric pulse. Like a heartbeat that hovers just above her own.

Madame Razz peeks over her shoulder, “Are you going in, Mara?”

She looks back at her. There is a possibility this is a trap. The woods are scared of this place, and they often have good reason for their notions. But this tugging in her chest is joined to all the questions the woods refused to answer, some part of her is sure of it. Surer than anything that she must go in.

“Will you be back for the singing, Mara?” asks the old woman.  

“I plan to.” she says, “just wait for me.”

She enters and the door slams shut at her heels.

#catradoraweek2018 #catradora #adora #catra #she-ra #spop

[heavyonthecost]

fatamoru snippets dump #3

Partly Erasmus/7C, partly Reincarnation spoilers. (Still all Yukipauline, because goddammit this trainwreck of a pairing has eaten my brain.)

(#1, #2)

(content notes: spoilers for Mujou no Erasmus, Seventh Coat, and Reincarnation. Also last one’s kinda violent.)

(Prompt: GRADUALLY WATERMELON, 100 words, based on Mujou no Erasmus. If anyone’s wondering about the spelling of his name, it’s because it’s supposedly short for the Dutch word for ‘little rabbit’ (konintje))

I can handle the texture for just one slice, Nijn thought when Pauline first offered him a slice.

I prefer cantaloupes, he thought when she brought more the next day.

If she wants me to, he thought as he went through a whole plate she brought him.

And now, his father’s cutting up a whole watermelon for them.

“You like watermelons, right, Nijn? You two have been eating a lot of them lately.”

Nijntje isn’t his actual name, and he doesn’t like watermelons, but if she says so, he has to make it so. For his family.

“Yes, I do.”

(Prompt: keeping secrets,400 words, based on Seventh Coat)

In the darkness and silence of her apartment, she sat in front of him, staring straight at him. Just a few days ago, she wouldn’t have thought that she’d be helping a serial killer hide from justice, and in a way none of it felt real, still - the person in front of her is undoubtedly her childhood friend, the same person she’d come to love, and the whole time, a part of her was hoping that he’d reveal that all of it was just a prank, that he hadn’t actually committed all those murders. But every time she tried to make a joke about it, he only stared back at her in silence, never saying that yes, he was lying, leaving her to awkwardly laugh it off while looking anywhere except at him.

So maybe, it was time to stop denying it.

”What did you feel when you killed all those people?”

She could see his eyebrows rising. “Why do you ask?”

“Well…” ‘Because I couldn’t think of anything else to talk about’ didn’t seem like it’d cut it. “You’ve admitted what you’ve been doing to me anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to also know about that, right?”

“It would. People like you aren’t supposed to get it.”

“But I want to understand you.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

And on his face was the same pained expression from the first night she offered to hide him, when she confessed her feelings to him despite what he’d admitted. In a way, it filled her with relief - that he seemed guilty about letting her fall for the fake persona he cultivated surely meant that some part of him was still capable of caring about others.

She dragged her chair forward. She was scared, too, of what his answer would be - of whatever force there is that would drive someone to commit such atrocities. Yet she still felt drawn to him, which she probably shouldn’t, but if it were that easy to make herself stop caring about him, she’d have done it right after he confessed all his wrongdoings.

“I’ve gotten myself this deep in now, we’re basically in this together now.”

“That’s not -”

She jutted forward, her face barely inches from his, not giving him a chance to continue his protests. Her hands were shaking but she had to, wanted to know. “Let’s not hide anything from each other anymore, shall we?”

(Prompt: something fluffy, 500 words, based on Seventh Coat)

“Good morning, Pauline.”

Rubbing her eyes, Pauline surveyed the dimness of her apartment, barely lit by the thin rays of sunlight filtering through the almost fully-closed blinds. Near the dining table was the person greeting her just now, the very reason her apartment was so closed-off. And on the table -

“What are you doing?” She only just managed to suppress her voice from a shout to a whisper.

“I made breakfast.”

“I can see that.” On the table was a plate with a few pieces of pancakes, topped with honey and fruits - she remembered having a little left of those in the fridge. “But didn’t we agree not to do anything unnecessary -”

“I made sure the blinds were open as little as possible. Anyone who hears anything would just think that it’s you.” After a pause, “I thought I should do something for you in return.”

Do something in return. If she had simply been letting him stay at her place as a guest, it’d have been nothing out of the ordinary. She would be able to cheerfully thank him for it, coo at how neatly he had arranged the food, mention how excited she was to be eating his cooking again. Not so much when he was also wanted for multiple counts of murder.

There are other things I’d rather you do for me instead, she thought. She was past doubting this man’s admission of his actions, but maybe he could tell her that he was just an impostor, the real Yukimasa was somewhere out there, still his old slightly aloof but not unkind self that she’d always known, not some cold-blooded killer -

Even as her mind spun up unreasonable wishes, she sat down at the table and grabbed the utensils laid out. At least, she didn’t want to waste the food. Her fork sunk right into the stack, and her knife cut through it just as easily.

She brought a piece to her mouth, chewing through the soft, fluffy texture. It was good. She wanted to savour it, but her mind went back to the hands that had created it, the same hands behind those gruesome images plastered all over the news -

“Pauline?”

She had stabbed the table with her fork, and he had rushed to her side, concern audible in his voice. She wanted to scream, ask him why couldn’t he have spared the same amount of concern for those other people, why couldn’t he have simply not killed them so she could just enjoy being with him like this - and she immediately hated herself for coming up with such selfish reasons for condemning him.

“...I need a moment.”

She continued hanging her head, panting heavily despite only sitting still, until she could hear him shuffling away into her room. She didn’t particularly had any more appetite, but she still cut off misshapen pieces from the pancakes and stuffed her mouth full of those soft, sweet chunks, pretending that was why it was getting hard to breathe.

(Prompt: nightmares, 100 words)

Before, his dreams were the only place  where Yukimasa could fully indulge his desires, but now, even those dreams brought him distress. He wasn’t supposed to kill anyone else, he promised she’d be his first and last -

He jolted up, breathless, and next to him, Pauline also stirred awake.

“Those dreams again?”

His hand brushed her neck, still so slender and fragile, and the caresses changed into a light grip.

“Are you going to kill me now?”

Her voice, soft and calm, brought him back to their idyllic days together, and he replaced his hand with a kiss.

“Not yet.”

(Prompt: unrequited love, 100 words)

Sometimes, Pauline missed the way Yukimasa used to smile gently at her, whispering sweet nothings. But she’d recall that it was all an act - he had never loved her the way she loved him, and likely never would.

She regretted none of her decisions. He no longer hid anything from her, and she no longer turned a blind eye to the truth. She still got to stay by him, more important than anyone else to him, anchoring him to the more benevolent of his desires.

It was a chain that bound her. But it was one she chose for herself.

(Prompt: your id, 600 words. Contains knifing and blood-licking.)

When he came in carrying a knife, she knew it was finally time. Sooner than she expected, perhaps, but she had agreed to this arrangement prepared for it to end at any time. She said nothing as he lifted her shirt and put the knife against her stomach. The sting from the edge cutting in morphed into a sharper pain when he swiped the knife across her skin, and she reflexively let out a short shriek. He drew the knife across her stomach again, this time drawing a groan from her, and she could see a glimpse of that smile she saw through her hazy consciousness on that day he choked her.

It hurt. Of course it did. But she was the one who agreed to be the target of his urges should they become uncontrollable for him. And perhaps she wasn’t supposed to think this way, but it wasn’t a bad feeling, seeing him be able to do what truly pleased him - even if it involved spilling her blood.

She felt the tip of the blade lodged into another patch of skin on her torso and winced as he twisted the blade, gradually screaming as she became unable to hold back her voice. Twisting the knife back to its original position, he raised it up high and she closed her eyes, waiting for it to sink into her flesh. But it never came - instead, it was his lips pressed onto the first cut he created, and she hissed from the sting brought by his tongue running over the wound.

Done lapping up her blood, he wiped off his mouth and looked down at her body. She supposed he wanted to savour every bit of it, taking his time shedding her blood before he finally killed her - it was to be his first and last murder, after all. But he hadn’t retrieved his knife yet, still hovering over her with his breathing as rough as hers. “Pauline,” he said, his face right above hers, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Her eyes widened at the words that she didn’t expect to hear any more since she asked him to stop pretending in front of her. “Aren’t you just excited to see the blood?”

His eyes scanned her wounds again. “It feels different from the last time I beat up someone until they bleed.”

“Maybe you just forgot because it’s been so long since you’ve seen this much of someone else’s blood.”

He bent down and kissed her, the taste of her own blood still faintly in his mouth, and his hand crept across her stomach, sending shivers and jolts of pain all over her body as his fingers traced the wounds.

“I never thought of wanting to do this with anyone I used to beat up.”

She wasn’t sure what to feel - happiness that her feelings were finally requited? Sadness that it couldn’t have happened sooner? Confusion, because why now after all this time? So she just laughed. “What are you doing, falling for me now? Can you really kill me when you’re like that?”

He went silent, his expression as blank as usual. Then, “Wait here.” He got up to leave the room, and when he came back, he held a first aid box in his hands.

“Wait - so you seriously can’t kill me anymore? Are you going to be fine? You know I’m not letting you kill anyone else, right?”

“I’m just delaying it,” he said as he unpacked the contents of the box. “I know I said that I’ll only touch you when it’s time to end everything, but… right now, all I can think of is that if I kill you now, I can’t see you bleeding like this again.”

“Eh...”

Focusing on cleaning her wounds, he said, “If your offer of hurting you in the meanwhile still stands… I’ll take you up on it.”

Through the stinging pain, she managed a wide smile. “You finally took up one of my suggestions!”

He frowned. “Is it something to be so happy about? You really are a strange woman.”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I wouldn’t be in love with such a strange man if I weren’t.”

#the house in fata morgana #mujou no erasmus #seventh coat #yukimasa aida #pauline asama #fanfic

[hannah-deserved-better]

Angel’s Day Out Ch.3

When they arrived at the restaurant, Hannah gazed around at the quiet neighborhood lined with simple brick buildings. Finely dressed men and women wandered the streets around them. Hannah glanced at Castiel as he parked the car and met her gaze.

 “Are you sure we should be clothed so… strangely?” she asked. They’d taken the time to change into clothing that had been approved by the Winchesters. In fact, according to Castiel, their entire excursion had been planned by the brothers.

 “Yes,” Castiel said as he got out of the car and moved around to open the passenger door for her. “I don’t quite understand it either, but Dean informed me that we would not be allowed entry to this restaurant if we were dressed like douchebags, as he called it. He said we had to look sharp.”

 Hannah felt confused. “Sharp?” she repeated. “Like a blade?” She looked down at herself. She wore a slimming black dress with a short hemline, square neckline, and thin spaghetti straps crisscrossing her bare back. Her hair was pulled back from her shoulders, spilling in wavy tresses against her back. She wore a light blue pendant that Sam had said brought out her eyes.

 Castiel offered her his hand and, hesitantly, she took it, and he hoisted her to her feet. “Do I look sharp then? Sam Winchester claimed this was appropriate.” Castiel looked at what she wore, his eyes studying her slim form closely.

 “Yes,” he responded. She felt her cheeks turn a little warm as she took in his appearance. He wore a dark navy blue tuxedo with coat and white dress shirt. His appearance certainly made her vessel flush slightly; she didn’t quite understand this sort of reaction. “You look smashing.”

 Hannah hoped that smashing was a good thing. But when she tried to walk in the uncomfortable high heels Sam told her to wear, she stumbled forward, losing her balance. Castiel was there, quickly catching her by the arms before she collided into him, and held her steady. “Are you alright?” he questioned.

 “These shoes,” she glanced down at her feet, at the black high heels she wore, and how her feet screamed with discomfort at being in them. “I don’t see how they are appropriate.”

 Castiel glanced around at the people moving back and forth around them. He pointed out a woman in a flashy red skirt and six-inch pumps. Hannah felt a little better about her appearance. She felt as though this black gown hardly contained her form, but at least it wasn’t that revealing.

 “Come on,” Castiel grasped her hand and let her lean slightly against him as they walked to the restaurant. Hannah still struggled with the shoes and felt a little embarrassed as she enlisted the look of a few humans standing in the waiting lounge as she and Castiel approached the hostess podium.

 “Welcome to the finest Kansas City Steakhouse in town,” the hostess greeted as she looked the two of them over. “Well aren’t you two a pair of perfect cherubs.” Castiel and Hannah exchanged glances with one another.

 “Yes, we are angels,” Castiel pointed out as a matter of factly. “But I don’t understand how you could have known that simply based on our appearance. You cannot see our true form.”

 “Oh… just a figure of speech, Handsome,” the hostess said, winking coyly at Castiel. “Do you have a reservation?”

 Castiel nodded. “Yes, I have a reservation under Dean Winchester.” The hostess checked her computer and pulled out a few menus.

 “Ah there you are, Mr. Winchester, I’m glad you called ahead, we have your table and your entire menu selection all ready for you.”

 Castiel raised a brow and looked at Hannah who shrugged. He leaned over to her to whisper. “Now I know what Dean was doing in the other room before we left,” he said. Hannah felt a little nervous. She didn’t entirely trust Dean and knowing he’d apparently set this whole event up made her even more anxious about what could be in store for them.

 The two of them followed the hostess through the dimly lit dining room, and Hannah glanced around the restaurant curiously. People stuffed into booths lined the room, talking, taking little note of them. Paintings of prominent Kansas City residents and of scenery decorated the walls. Jazz music played. As they passed by the bar lounge area, Hannah was fascinated with the bottles and glasses lining the wall behind the bar.

 When they approached their booth, it was decorated with a white satin tablecloth, set up with proper plates and utensils, and upon closer inspection, Hannah noted a long-stemmed red rose laying in front of the antique lamp at the far end of the table, just under the large oil painting of the Missouri River hanging on the wall.

 Hannah plucked the rose from the table as she slid into the booth, Castiel sitting down across the table from her. She looked it over curiously, inhaling its pleasant floral scent. When she glanced to Castiel for an explanation, he only shrugged. “Dean,” he said simply.

The hostess left them and was immediately replaced by a pretty brunette waitress whose name tag read: Dina.

 “How are we doing this lovely evening?” Dina asked as she placed water glasses in front of each of them. She glanced at Castiel. “You’re Dean Winchester, correct?”

 “No,” Castiel corrected, he tried to think of an explanation. “He’s uh… my brother. He arranged this meal for us.”

 “Oh well aren’t you two in for a surprise then,” the waitress pulled over a tray and placed champagne ice bucket onto their table. “He’s arranged the full tour of our fine establishment. First, we have some champagne on ice, followed by a couple of dishes to share. Our delicious crab cakes, some parmesan truffle fries, and lobster mac and cheese. Then, we have a dry aged Kansas City rubbed porterhouse on a bed of wild rice with sauteed spinach and a baked potato. And for the lovely lady here, we have a roasted citrus salmon over polenta and creamed spinach and sauteed wild mushrooms. And then for dessert, we have some strawberry sorbet for the both of you.”

 The waitress glanced between the two of them and smirked. “You two are as thin as rails, you sure you can finish all that food?”

 “Yes,” Hannah said confidently, glancing up at the waitress. “We are ang-”

 “We’re very hungry,” Castiel blurted out before she could finish her sentence. The waitress smiled.

 Hannah gasped as the waitress popped the cork, the noise startling her, as did the eruption of fizzing champagne that burst from the bottle. The waitress expertly poured them their glasses and then hurried away.

 Hannah focused her attention on Castiel, who gave her a small smile. “What have you observed of humans so far?” he asked her.

 Hannah glanced down at the rose she held in her hand, running her finger over the stem and the petals, feeling the softness sensations of touch as she thought. “They place a lot of value on these… sensations,” she responded. “Senses. The way we are dressed, how we appear. The sound of the piano… the touch of a rose. These smells around me…”

 “Humans use their senses to process the world around them,” Castiel explained. “How do these senses make you feel, Hannah?”

 Hannah thought about that question. As she did, the waitress brought the first of their food. Crab cakes and fries. She took a fry and ate it cautiously and watched Castiel do the same. As she chewed, she contemplated the tastes. “I like this,” she said. She thought back to how she’d felt as she’d taken in Castiel’s appearance in his suit and the way she’d felt a little flushed when she noticed his eyes on her. She’d felt encouraged by his attention. She liked the way the rose felt, the way her mouth watered at the smell of food, and the crunch and salty taste of the fries and crab cakes.

 “I like the way these senses make my vessel feel,” she told Castiel. As curious as she was about the world around her, she also liked that Castiel was here with her. She realized that his presence was probably the most essential part of the way she felt. She wasn’t quite sure how to tell him this. Somehow, it didn’t quite feel right to voice these thoughts. She didn’t understand how to put words to what she felt. She only knew that she didn’t want the evening to end.

 And it was long-lasting. With each new dish their waitress brought them, she was given a chance to experience something new. New tastes, new smells. And even though this was all new to her, somewhere, deep inside her, Caroline felt them too and assured her that they were right things to feel. After all, they were Caroline’s emotions, her senses, which guided her.

 All through dinner, she kept the rose on her lap, it seemed wrong to part with it somehow. She watched Castiel intensely as he ate his meal. She followed his lead on how to eat certain things, though Caroline nudged her in the right direction too.

 The dinner did have to end eventually, and after Castiel paid for the meal on one of Dean’s fraudulent credit cards, the two of them made their way back to the car and as Hannah sat in the passenger seat, watching as Castiel pumped gas, preparing for their journey west, she suddenly felt closer to him than she thought was possible before. She clutched her rose as he perched on the hood of the car outside, waiting for the gas pump to finish, she felt an overwhelming sensation of anticipation for the next few days. She was excited to explore the world with him, to see what he wanted to show her, to let him guide her through this strange planet.

When he got back into the car, he glanced across the space between them to meet her gaze. “How was that?” he asked, concern for her answer in his eyes as he observed her expression. “The whole evening. Even the uncomfortable shoes.”

“I liked it,” she admitted softly. “Castiel… I hadn’t realized.”

“Realized what?”

“I didn’t see how there could be any wisdom to be gained by humans. So much of the way they act confuses me. They don’t understand what it’s like to be angels, but… I’m starting to realize what you see in them.”

Castiel smiled wholeheartedly, relief in his eyes. “I’m glad,” he said. “And there is much more to come.”

And with that, the two angels headed west.

#Supernatural #Castiel #Hanstiel

[basicallynah]

Difference

Sweet Pea x Reader

Storyline has jumped a little bit so fair warning if you haven’t watched any trailers for the return of Riverdale, read at your own risk.

Part two

The engine of the bike died down as they parked outside Pops. She had been craving one of his burgers all day and a nice chocolate milkshake to wash it down with.

“Thanks” She barely smiled, before making her way towards Pops, heavy footsteps close behind her, stopping at the door to the diner turning to see Sweet Pea following her.

“You don’t have to come in with me” Trying to sound polite. “I’m capable of eating by myself and getting myself home” Tapping Her foot impatiently, arms folded across her chest.

Walking up the steps in front of her, one hand on her shoulder turning her around and his other hand reaching to push the door open, the hand on her shoulder guiding her inside Pops. Coninuting to direct her to a booth in the far corner, sliding in facing towards the door as she took the seat with her back to the door.

“Your usual?” Pops asked, walking to the counter closest to them. “Yes please Pops” Her eyes lightening up. “And for the gentleman?” Pops enquired, his eyes landing on Sweet Pea. “I’ll have a cheese burger with a coffee” Nodding at the man behind the counter.

Silence took over them. The only sounds that could be heard was faint utensils being used in the kitchen and muffled voices a few booths away.

“So what’s the deal with you and Jones?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow, watching as her face scrunched in confusion, he found it cute. “Have you’s dated? Slept together? His bit on the side?” Smirking as her face turned to one of disgust.

“Dude, he’s like my best friend, almost like a brother to me. That’s just weird” She laughed, shrugging it off. “Why do you ask?”.

“You’s two seem pretty close for two people that are just friends?” Shrugging, as one of the waiters made their way over to them.

“Chocolate milkshake, hamburger and fries” Trevor, one of Pops long time staff smiled at her. Making Sweet Pea feel a little uneasy. “And a cheeseburger with a coffee” He nodded at Sweets, placing his order in front of him. “Enjoy guys” Turning on his heel and leaving.

“Growing up we’ve kissed a couple of times but that was because of stupid games like 7 minutes in heaven and spin the bottle” Continuing the conversation, taking a hand full of fries.

“What about you?” She asked, watching as he swallowed a mouthful of burger. “What’s your history?” She was always convinced something had happened with him and Toni but a part of her never wanted to know.

“Nothing serious. A couple of hook ups, make outs, the norm” Taking a sip of his coffee.

“What about Toni?”

“We’re all like family, I could never” He chuckled, relief spreading throughout her whole body.

“So you’re definitely into girls?” She could feel her face flushing in embarrassment as Sweet Pea let out the loudest, heartiest laugh she had ever heard from someone.

“Yeah, I definitely prefer girls” He replies, his laughter finally dying down, her embarrassment easing slightly.

They spent the rest of their meal eating in silence. She felt comfortable around him even though they still barely knew anything about each other. But she also knew if Jughead and FP swore by the serpents then she had no reason to question them either.

“I want to go back to the Wyrm” She spoke, they had both discarded their food and drinks and she didn’t feel like going home right now.

“Jones, left, you remember that right?” He questioned, getting his wallet from his jean pocket.

“Yes Einstein, I remember” Rolling her eyes at him. Chuckling at her as he laid down a few paper bills for their meal, thanking Pops as she left ahead of Sweet Pea.

Returning to the Whyte Wyrm she was expecting the party for FP to still be in full swing but was proven wrong when there was only a few serpents still here, minus FP and Tall Boy, But her two favourites Toni and Fangs were.

“And she returns” Toni, smirked seeing Sweet Pea only inches behind the girl.

“I got my food, I’m a happy duck now” She laughed, taking a seat at the bar, Sweet Pea and Fangs starting up a game of pool.

“You’re a loyal friend” Toni, stated setting down a glass of coke for her.

“I’ve known him since we were 3 years old, I could never turn my back on him, even if he tries to turn his on me” She spoke, feeling her spirits sink slowly. She was feeling happier than she can remember 10 minutes ago.

“Loyalty, it’s a noble thing, some may even say brave but it’s not always the way to do things” Toni’s words replaying in her head as she turned to watch Sweet Pea and Fangs playing pool, mindlessly running her finger along the rim of the glass.

She sat and watched Sweets beat Fangs three times at pool, Fangs only unfortunately beating him twice. She watched as his eyes narrowed on the ball he wanted to hit, his tongue poking out slightly at the corner of his mouth. His dog tags hanging inches above the pool table, the light faintly hitting of his ring that she only just noticed. Watching the muscles in his upper arms and shoulder blades move under his plaid shirt at every shot he took, she felt mesmerised by him, at this moment in time.

“Topaz, who’s couch you taking tonight, mine or Sweet Peas?” Fangs, shouted across to her, Y/N taking her wandering gaze off the man in question.

“I need to drop Princess of the north back home or at Jones” Sweet Pea, spoke his voice getting less audible towards the end, her lip curling up in a snarl at his nickname for her.

“Looks like it’ll be yours then” Toni, confirmed with Fangs. Helping Toni, grab as many empty bottles and glasses as she could before Sweet Pea annouced they were leaving.

Giving Toni, a quick hug goodbye, Fangs waiting to fist bump her, the look of dismay on her face pushing his hand aside as she wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug before jogging after Sweet Pea who was impatiently waiting at the door of the Whyte Wyrm for her.

“Trailer Park or home?” He asked handing her his helmet. He couldn’t bring himself to think of the way she would be sleeping in Jugheads bed, his arm no doubt causally placed over her waist because that’s the sort of thing she allowed with him.

She wanted to see her best friend, make sure he was okay but she also knew that this is where things would get complicated for everyone. She knew FP wasn’t retiring for a reason and it can’t be a good one.

“Home please” She whispered as she wrapped her arms around his waist, the engine roaring to life as he took the road towards the northside for a second time that night.

Watching as things flew by she couldn’t tell if he was driving so fast to finally get away from her or so he didn’t have to be on this side of the tracks for so long, but either way her heart hurt, little knowing that they’ll probably never be anything more than acquaintances if they could even be called that.

“Left up here” She called over the sound of his engine, the familiarity of the streets bringing her back to her normality.

“End of the street and that’s me” It felt like she had just spoken those words but seconds later, they were parked outside her house, all lights were out and she knew she would get the third degree in the morning.

“Thanks” She smiled, removing the helmet, their fingers, faintly brushing one another’s as he took the helmet from her.

“I don’t need either of the Jones’ on my ass if the princess of the north doesn’t get home in one piece” He chuckled, trying to lighten the atmosphere between them.

“Stop calling me that. I’m not a princess and you can’t just assume that because I live on the north side” She yelled in almost a hushed whisper. “When we first moved to Riverdale my parents considered moving to the southside but didn’t feel a trailer was where I should have been raised, they even considered Greendale so don’t go blaming the part of town I live in on me because I didn’t have a choice!” She was seething, her chest heaving ever so slightly. She didn’t want to explode at him the way she did but she was sick of that nickname. Sick of the assumptions because of where she lived.

“Welcome to my world” Giving her a knowing look as he sped off back down the road they just came up.

The next morning she felt awful. She had Sweet Peas words playing in her head most of the night that she barely slept. Here he was judging her for where she lived but he’s been judged his whole life because the southside has been nothing but slated and crapped on since she can even remember. Anything bad that ever happens in Riverdale was the southsides fault. Part of her was hoping this black hood lunatic would be a northsider to finally shut down the accusations about the southside once and for all.

Managing to avoid her parents before school, she was thankful. She was about to do her daily routine, but stopped herself when she found her only plaid shirt, black ripped high waisted jeans and her black ankle boots. She felt silly for feeling slightly rebellious for her outfit choice but she was known for light washed jeans, lilac, baby pink and blue tops and her typical converse but something inside of her had changed. Spending time curling the ends of her hair, making it wavy, just looking in the mirror she looked so different but the smile on her face was brighter than she had ever seen it. Make up wasn’t really something she used, opting for mascara and lip gloss, spraying her favourite perfume and grabbing her books and heading to school. Walking past Betty and Archie’s house, they usually met and the three of them would walk together but she carried on walking.

Finally making it to school she was confused as to why there was motorbikes parked outside and hushed voices amongst every student she walked past.

What she saw shocked her. This wasn’t what she expected when she arrived at school this morning. The only rare thing she thought would happen is an odd glance here and there from students at her sudden change in appearance. Not what was filling up the hallways.

“Good morning students” Mr Weatherbee’s voice came over the tannoy. “As of this morning you’ll see and hear that Southside High has been shut down” Tuning out everything else he had to say, her eyes taking in the four most familiar serpents she knew.

“Welcome to Riverdale High School” Shoving Sweet Pea with her shoulder as she walked past them.

#sweet pea #riverdale imagines #mention of #jughead jones #southside serpents #riverdale high school #drama #friendship #relationship #emotions #part 3?

[ellaofoakhill]

Havel of Deeprock

Ella heard a rap on the shop door. “It’s open!” She called. She heard a click, and the tramp of work-boots.

Havel was an earth fairy with a neck nearly as broad as Ella’s waist. It was a rare fairy that approached four inches; Havel topped five.

“Good morning, Master,” he called as he set down his tools. He’d recently made a backpack to carry them, in addition to the bags he had in each hand. He would soon have more tools than Ella could easily lift.

“So, find anything for us tonight?”

“Well, there are some bits of brass the people left in the shed,” Havel said. He started twiddling his thumbs, a sure sign of nerves. “…along with some steel filings.”

“Hmm…” Ella scratched her chin. “Did you find anything in the mines?” Havel had been on a roll recently, with an entire set of copper pots and cooking utensils finished just last week. The scribing he’d done on the knives was impressive; they could hold an edge almost as well as

Ella’s. He’d earned a break from reconnaissance. And most earth fairies liked spending time underground, anyway.

Havel immediately brightened, and pulled out a beeswax tablet he’d written his notes on. “Well, there’s a garnet down North Fire shaft—”

“Spessartine?”

“Grossular, actually.” Ella gave him a thumbs-up. “And we have three large lumps of gabbro, one down East Wood shaft, and two down West Earth.”

“Ooh!” Ella resisted the urge to rub her hands together. “What’s their content?”

“Mid-grade I think,” Havel said. “I’m fairly certain I did the naming right, but you’ll want to check.”

“Of course,” Ella said, “I’m your teacher.” Havel inclined his head. Ella smiled and gave his arm a gentle slap. “Who’s hardest to extract?”

“Hmm…” Havel tapped his stylus against his broad nose. “Probably the lower gabbro in West Earth. It’s partly encased in bedrock, and wedged between a piece of granite, and a piece of limestone.”

“Still not too bad, then.” Ella started gathering her tools.

“Not like the Azurite Incident,” Havel said. Ella groaned.

The trek to the western mine took them far enough around the great panels that Havel wouldn’t feel their iron.

“How has Meline been, Master?” he asked as they reached the pines along the west edge of the yard.

“Quite well,” Ella said. She’d visited Wild Rose the previous night. Meline had shown her the western pasture up to the border of the wood, and they’d gotten into a lengthy—friendly—debate over how to properly harvest and store moonbeams, deep-black, and tree whispers. Meline favoured the crystal resonance technique, where Ella was more inclined toward the silver jar. It had been a fun exchange of ideas.

“How does she like the knife?” Ella smiled. Havel had quickly taken to Meline, and the two got along famously. Meline described him as the most adorable giant she’d ever seen, and he couldn’t get enough of her rosehip preserves. The knife in question had taken Havel a month to make, with a bronze back and a slot into which Meline could fit any of sixteen blades, depending on what she needed it for. There was even a blade with a corundum edge, with red flecks in the glittering material that made it look like it was braided. Meline had given him a kiss on both cheeks, and Havel had turned redder than a tomato.

“Last she told me, she was making good use of it,” Ella said. In addition to their visits back and forth, they were exchanging letters. Mostly they spoke of current doings, but Meline did reveal bits of her past, too. Like how her father had taught her all he knew about brewing when she was young. How her mother and she had served in the War all those millennia ago. And how the pasture had changed a great deal and hardly at all since she moved there eight hundred years past. Ella felt a warm crinkling in her chest when a letter from Meline arrived.

They passed the last of the panels.  Just beyond them, the opening to West Earth shaft was covered by a thick layer of moss overlaying a limestone lid.

They checked safety equipment—helmets, vests, boots, gloves—before entering the mine. One of the higher side-tunnels had clues that a substantial creature had been living there—Ella suspected Thamnophis, though the evidence was old.

At the top of the shaft was the elevator, a cage made of reinforced bronze. Once they were inside, Ella pulled a lever, and the elevator began to drop as, some thirteen feet down, the counterweight rose.

“So where exactly is our gabbro?” Ella said. She tapped her copper helmet and spoke a word of power. It began to glow. They’d arranged crystals along the walls, which caught and reflected the light up and down the shaft.

Havel pulled out his tablet. “Sub-shaft Vy, spoke shaft Honey Yellow.”

“Bit of a haul, then,” Ella said. They’d have to take tunnel Marsh Green, then down Vy, and almost to the end of Honey Yellow.

“A bit,” Havel said.

Ella pulled the lever back when they reached Marsh Green, and got off the elevator. They’d bypassed hardpan and were into parent material. As they’d excavated, they’d shaped the shaft into an arch and lined it with stone, and Havel had used words of power to fuse the stones together. They repeated the process as they dug, every time they removed stone that wouldn’t serve another purpose. Split into blocks, carry blocks, fit blocks into place, fuse, go find new stone, repeat. Now, Havel was learning how to turn sediment into stone. He’d started with hardpan—which was practically stone already—and as his skill had grown, he’d learned how to fuse progressively coarser and finer pieces.

Sub-shaft Vy was unlined, being relatively new. The earth was stable, though, so the odds of the tunnel collapsing before they lined it were small. They descended, until the walls of the shaft changed to bedrock.

Spoke shaft Honey Yellow was named for the colour of its siltstone walls. Veins of granite, dolomite, gneiss, and other stone ran through it as well. They mined that, too, especially the granite, which had quartz crystals excellent for knives and abrasives. And, apparently, there was even the occasional hunk of gabbro.

Havel led the way along the spoke. He took a left, and then a right, and there it was. Ella unspoke the word on her helmet, and its light faded.

“Hmm,” she stepped close. It was indeed wedged between granite and limestone. She set a hand upon it, and spoke a word.

Ella’s normal vision shifted. The yellow limestone went black, and the granite turned a dull, patchy red-orange. Bits of iron in that, then.

Her attention was mostly on the gabbro. It had many clear spots of bright pink-orange, and white, and a few yellow patches, with clouds and rivulets running off in every direction. Typical gabbro. What surprised Ella was not what she saw, but where. The lights extended far back into the stone, and down, and across, almost as far as Ella could see. This wasn’t a chunk of gabbro. It was an entire layer, extending who knew how far.

She blinked, and unspoke the word. She turned to Havel. He was clearly resisting the urge to twiddle his thumbs.

“We could mine just this,” Ella said, “for six thousand years, and never come close to running out.”

 It didn’t take long to mine enough stone to fill their packs. They checked each piece for quality. Havel would carry the substrate, and Ella would carry the useable ore.

They returned the way they’d come. When they came to the place in Marsh Green sub-shaft where the fused stone ended, they stopped, and unloaded Havel’s backpack. As Ella passed him stones, he spoke words of power, fusing each piece to the stone already laid down. When they finished, they split the ore in Ella’s backpack between them, and continued on their way.

“So what’re we gonna do with the metal once we smelt it?” Havel asked as the elevator took them up West Earth shaft. Planning out a new project always got him excited.

“Well, I don’t have it earmarked for anything,” Ella said. She looked sidelong at him. “Did you have any ideas?”

He flushed, rubbing his neck. “Well, uh, I’ve been meaning to try a scale belt. Or maybe a cloak clasp?”

“Oh?” Ella used her most inquiring tone. Havel flushed deeper. She shook her head as they came to the top of the shaft. “Is it for Meline?”

“Um…”

“Havel,” Ella said, struggling to find the gentlest, clearest way to say what needed to be said, “I cannot fault your taste. But… I don’t think Meline feels the same way.”

The elevator stopped. So did Havel. Ella waited. He mumbled something.

“I’m sorry?”

“I know.” his shoulders were sagging. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Ella laid a hand on his elbow. Saying he was far too young for Meline would only twist the knife harder. “Loving feelings for another can hurt, when they are not returned. And hurting is a sign you are alive, Havel. If you need to fight or run a circuit about the estate, or mayb—” Her feet suddenly not touching the ground, Ella found herself crushed in arms bigger around than her thighs, as Havel’s sobs echoed off the shaft walls in a melancholy din. Wriggling so she could free up an arm, she shh’ed him, patting his shoulder as he cried into hers.

Eventually, the tide ebbed, Havel let Ella down—soggier than she had been—and he succumbed to a fit of hiccoughs. She rubbed his back in sympathy.

“Shall we eat cookies and play Jack of Spears tonight?”

“Mhmm.” Havel sniffled, took out his handkerchief and sounded a blast like a foghorn. “Maybe it’s just (hic) as well I didn’t tell her,” Havel said as he put his handkerchief away. “That would’ve made (hic) things more awkward for all of us.”

“Perhaps,” Ella said, hiding a smile; by any measure, Havel was a mature young man. “I could feign a mild ague, if you’d like some time to compose yourself.”

Havel half-smiled. “(hic) No, thank you, Master. I know how (hic) much Miss Meline likes to come here.”

“That she does.” Ella stepped out of the elevator. It was hardly a walk at all up to the hatch. “Across the pasture and the fence, into the people’s yard. Most fey wouldn’t.”

Havel grunted an affirmative. “She loves you a lot, Master.”

Ella felt like Havel had shattered a pane of glass over her head. The past several months flashed before her eyes. Every laugh, every smile, every knowing look sailing so low over Ella’s head it must’ve brushed her hair, every kiss on her cheek or her hand. All clearer than spring water.

Ella had missed all of them.

“Master?” Havel touched her dry shoulder.

Ella jumped, and wiped her eyes. “I love her too,” she almost whispered.

Havel gave a wet chuckle. “You better.” Ella chuckled, too.

They lifted the lid of the shaft and climbed out. “I think you will be ready to meet the Sage soon,” Ella said as they started back.

There was a sound like a warhorn as Havel blew his nose. “Really, Master?” He sounded happier.

“You have shown yourself to be a fairy of uncommon kindness, and you are a superior student,” Ella said. “I think he would be pleased to meet you.”

Havel didn’t skip back to Oakhill, but he wasn’t sagging either. As they drew close to the tree, he pointed. “Master, there’s a bat fluttering by the stable door.”

Ella quirked an eyebrow. There was indeed a large bat flapping about the base of Oakhill. “I wonder what she wants.” Ella called out, and the bat flew in their direction. It was a red bat, bigger than Ella, though not so big as Havel.

She had a letter in her mouth, which she transferred to one claw when she landed. “Lord Ella of Oakhill, yes?”

“I am.” Ella recognized Meline’s writing on the envelope. There was no wax seal. Odd…

“Lady fairy flagged me down as I was waking up this evening. Offered me four cutworms if I’d fly this to you. Mighty generous, if you ask me!”

Ella took the offered letter, pulled it out of the envelope, and read.

“Master?” Havel said. His tone strongly suggested he found this odd, too.

Ella froze as she read the last line. “Havel.”

“Yes?”

“I need to get to Wild Rose with all speed.” She thanked the bat, hardly noticing her anymore. “We need axes. Bring the armour as well, and the log splitter.”

“The armour?”

“There’s plastic involved.” Havel almost tripped over his feet. “I’m taking Coarser, the lance, and the spikes ahead. Come when you have everything, including provisions.” She took the fairy key from around her neck. “Lock up the hall behind you.”

On another night, Havel might’ve goggled at such responsibility. He shook himself, and snapped a crisp bow. He lumbered for the hall.

Ella put two fingers to her mouth and whistled, piercing and clear. She saw the bat was still there. “I’m to return to the young lady with your message.”

“‘I’m coming,’. Give her that message, and I’ll feed you and yours a cutworm every night for the rest of the summer.”

The bat was already in the air. “Maia Squeak at your service, ma’am!” Ella was already running for the hall. She heard a familiar whinny off to the south, and redoubled her pace.

Meline needed her.

#the fairy tales of ella and meline #tftem #havel of deeprock #chapter 9 #my original work #fantasy #lgbtq+ #fairies #iyashikei #healing #fairy tales #romance #all ages #fey #fae #magic #family #strong female protagonists #backyard fantasy

[empresskatariah]

unfinished thing

"You're sure you want me handling a blade?"

It was too small to suit her taste, but Izzy knew that the right combination of desperation and creativity could turn the utensil in her hand into a deadly weapon. It was just the right size for, as the saying went, a knife in the back.

Silver just snorted, as if the notion of her trying anything was completely laughable. "Yer sure as sin not cuttin' greens with a spoon," he pointed out, gesturing at the pile of untouched vegetables in front of her. "Now, would ye mind gettin' started?"

Izzy's brow furrowed, nearly scrunching into a glower but stopping at a look of ponderous annoyance. She glanced at the task before her, then at the knife clasped firmly in her right hand. Her real hand. But not the hand she had spent all her life using for eating, writing and every other task that demanded finesse.

"I don't really see the point of this," she muttered, reluctantly transferring the knife over to her other hand. It clicked and whirred faintly as it closed around the hilt, a touch she couldn't feel at all. Everything below the shoulder of her left arm wasn't flesh, wasn't living, wasn't human. "You're the captain of this lot. Have them cook their own dinner."

"An' eat their slop? There's only so much I'm willin' t' put meself through, now. Dunno about you, but I prefer my meals t’ be edible."

The disconnect between the casual, matter-of-fact tone he took and the sheer amount of activity was enough to make Izzy stare. He was already slicing and dicing, trimming the gristle off whatever meat was going into the stew, wielding the many implements built into his mechanical arm with practiced speed and grace that made it all appear effortless.

Izzy bit her lip to hold in how deeply, how dearly envious she felt. Not envious of what had happened to him, no, one could never envy that -- but while her own artificial limb felt like an awkward, heavy eyesore, Silver's appeared to be a finely honed utility. An asset, not a burden.

Spurred on by this envy, she tried cutting into one of the plants. Her arm seemed too sluggish, her hand too uncoordinated, to do much more than clumsily saw through the fibers instead of making a clean slice.

When she glanced up to see if this failure had been witnessed, she saw Silver giving one of those unreadable expressions, clearly having observed her blunder.

"What?" she snapped, lapsing into defense and hoping it succeeded in hiding just how rotten she felt on the inside.

See, this is why you shouldn't try to include me. I don't know what you're on about, but I'm not part of your crew and I've no interest in taking part in these useless, tiresome rituals...!

"Never cooked a day in yer life, have ya?"

Izzy bristled at the question. "So what if I haven't?" she retorted. "I can boil eggs and make toast. That's about all I care to do, if you must know."

Instead of mirroring her antagonism, Silver just sighed and ambled over to peruse her work up close. Izzy reflexively took a step back, though she knew she didn't feel threatened at all.

"Holdin' a knife like yer holdin' a sword won't get you very far in this business," he admonished. He held out his hand -- the one with skin and bones, not the one with gears and plating -- and she cautiously gave him the knife.

Gesturing that she should watch, he made a few quick cuts. Izzy noted the angle he was using, the part of the blade that rested on the cutting board while the part closest to the hilt did all the cutting, the approximate force applied... and she emitted a  grudging hmph.

"Why do you care if I can do this or not?" she asked when he returned the knife to her.

The pirate shrugged. "I'll not have you tellin' Jimbo I never did nothin' for ya," he quipped. "Way I figure it, yer lookin' t' polish up the use a' that arm o' yours. That's a feelin' I ain't unfamiliar with. But yer not gonna figure it out unless ya practice."

"Practice by... doing this?" Izzy groused, eyeing the cluttered galley unhappily.

"Not just this. But this's where I got started." Silver turned his back to her, dumping more ingredients into the soup. "Can't run if ye haven't picked up walkin' yet."

Izzy tilted her head slightly, a sudden surge of curiosity welling up inside. It was almost enough to overtake the envy smoldering there.

"What do you mean, got started?"

She half expected him to ignore the question, but when he turned to face her again she knew she was going to get a solid answer.

"Well, y'know..." Another shrug, followed by a halfhearted laugh. "When ye've got one arm an' one leg, s'only so much usefulness  t' go around. Yer either at the mercy o' everyone's pity or dead set on gettin' so good at somethin' ye earn yer own keep."

An uncomfortable feeling twisted Izzy's stomach. Part of her didn't want to hear any of this, but the other part wanted to hear more.

"Started out small, learnin' at a tavern. Got real lucky an' had a patient teacher. Don't think they expected me to be more'n a charity case, but I wasn't just there t' make food. I wanted t' learn how t' use this." He opened and closed his metal hand, smirking. "Turns out doin' the same small, tedious things over n' over again makes for great reflexes. An' the better I got at choppin' things up, the less I needed t' think about what I was doin'."

Izzy looked down at her own boots, wondering how many small, tedious things it would take for her brain to treat her cybernetic arm like an actual limb instead of an unwieldy piece of scrap.

"It all just feels so..." She strained for words, hated how small her voice sounded to her own ears. "So hard."

A month ago, the very thought of showing weakness in front of this man, this pirate, this enemy would have had her scoffing in disgust. But over the course of the last few weeks she had come to realize something revolutionary about herself, and it was this: no matter how much she barked and threatened, it wasn't going to change the fact that she was vulnerable. It couldn't protect her from the reality that six months of recovering from a near-death experience had stolen away her strength and left her floundering.

Here at the bottom there was only one way to go: up. And she knew she couldn't do it alone.

She didn't realize Silver had approached her until she found herself in his shadow, and it spooked her enough to look up sharply while attempting to take another step back – only for her back to hit the counter. Her instincts were still geared toward utmost caution, still expecting foul play at any turn, and the concern that flickered across her former rival's face told her he was expecting her to lash out as well.

Will we ever stop sizing each other up, anticipating that first blow?

“Sorry,” she said quickly, mindful not to hold the knife as if she meant to use it on him. “Here I am whining about everything when I should be pulling myself up by my bootstraps, as it were.”

In truth, she felt a bit guilty for voicing her self-pity after gaining such a rare admission from the pirate. It felt... personal, as if receiving the information was some sort of privilege.

Eager to hide her growing discomfort, she turned and began trying to cut up the vegetables in earnest, doing her best to imitate what she'd been shown. Her movements were sloppy, her slices less efficient, but she didn't stop. Not until it had been reduced to a pile of diced-up shreds.

“Hm.” Silver had been watching her the whole time, unusually quiet, and judged her results with scrutiny. “It'll do.”

“It'll do?” Izzy repeated, feigning offense. “After all that effort I put in?”

“Ah, beggin' yer pardon, thankee for blessin' us all with your bounteous greens,” Silver drawled, making a show of  a slight bow to her.

“You stop that,” Izzy pouted.

#my writing #izzy #treasure planet #dear lord im out of practice

[vrepitsorrynotsorry]

Suuuper Late Black Paladin Week Day 2

I’m both lazy and busy, but I’m currently at the dealership getting an oil change and am using the waiting area time to write. Sorry, @blackpaladinweek!

Title: All in Your Head Theme: Divergent Rating: PG Pairing: Intended Gen, but feel free to interpret subtext as you so choose. Warnings/Spoilers: There’s some mild violence. I also intend no offense regarding mental health issues. Spoils through the end of Season 4. A/N: I have found I really enjoy having Lotor annoy Allura and by extension, pretty much everyone else... This one’s a little late because I waited too long to start writing and got sleepy. (Bad me!)

Shiro awoke in his quarters from a strange dream he couldn’t quite remember. It had something to do with space, and oddly, lions. He hadn’t been assigned a mission since their successful return from Kerberos months ago, so he wasn’t sure what had prompted it.

For a few moments his right arm seemed oddly heavy. He must have slept on it funny because the sensation disappeared quickly.

At the back of his mind, there was a nagging feeling that something was off, but he had things to do. It was probably just that strange dream.

The Garrison had promised him further missions in the future, but at the moment he was guest lecturing at the Academy. He enjoyed being close the Keith and able to see him on a daily basis.  Matt’s younger sister was starting at the Academy as well, and she might be too clever for her own good.

Life wasn’t perhaps as exciting as he’d imagined when he started at the Academy, but he’d flown into deep space and brought his crew back safely. His life was comfortable. What more could he want?

He went for a jog around the campus before heading back to his quarters for a quick shower before lunch at the cafeteria. The special was a stew that filled him with nostalgia for his own days as a student.

It was Wednesday, so Keith’s lunch break didn’t line up with his own, and Shiro sat alone at a small table in the corner. He was so engrossed in his meal, he didn’t notice someone had approached his table.

“Shiro?” a woman’s voice asked, and he looked up into an unfamiliar face. The woman had warm, brown skin and very light hair and eyes. It was a combination striking enough that he was sure he would remember if he had met her before. She was dressed in a stylish but professional outfit rather than a uniform, but she didn’t appear to be much older than some of the students.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“It’s me, Allura.”

Shiro racked his brain for any connection to the name, but nothing sprang to mind. “Have we met before? I’m sorry to say I can’t recall.”

Allura sat down across from him. “Yes, we have met. We’ve worked together for quite some time now.” Shiro started to protest, but she carried on over his objections. “I know that’s hard for you to believe, but it’s true.

“Everything around us right now is an illusion. You’re not on Earth at all.”

Shiro raised an eyebrow. “I’m not?”

“No. You and the other paladins went to investigate an abandoned Galra outpost after Keith and several Blade of Marmora agents didn’t return. It was a trap. It wasn’t abandoned at all! They left behind a telepathic spy who picked everyone off one by one and trapped you in false realities inside your own minds. It didn’t work on me for some reason, and I managed to get the rest of you out of there.

“Matt and Coran found a way to program the training deck on the castle ship to allow a connection to your consciousness so an outsider could penetrate the illusion. I need you to focus, Shiro. I need you to come back to reality.”

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments after she finished speaking. Shiro wasn’t quite sure how to respond. This young lady was either delusional or this was some kind of strange prank. He decided to assume the latter for the moment.

“Has someone put you up to this? I have to tell you, I’m really not finding this amusing.”

She frowned. “This is not a joke, I assure you. I know you must have picked up that something isn’t quite right here. When is the last time anyone here, besides myself, spoke more than a few words to you? Look at the people around us--they’re not even really saying anything to each other and there are a limited number of unique faces because that kind of detail would take too much time for the telepath to arrange.”

It was true that he couldn’t make out any of the conversations at nearby tables, but the acoustics in the dining hall were horrible. Yes, many of the students looked the same, but there were regulations on hairstyles and they were all dressed in uniforms.

“Look,” he explained in a firm but gentle tone, “I’ve only been into deep space once, and that mission went fine. I have no idea who these ‘Galra’ or ‘Blade’ people are. I think perhaps you’re confused. I can bring you to the administration offices-”

She huffed and rolled her eyes, cutting him off with a raised hand. “No, the Kerberos mission did not go ‘fine.’ The telepath picked up on it as a place to diverge the timeline in a realistic way that would eliminate knowledge of what happened after. Please, try to remember! It’s all still there in your mind somewhere.”

She stopped speaking abruptly and cocked her head to the side as though hearing a voice he did not. “No,” she mumbled under her breath, “I don’t think a sudden shock will be helpful. I can reach him if you give me more time. I only need a few more minutes.”

The main doors to the dining hall slid open again and a tall, thin man in an officer’s uniform walked briskly over to them. It was odd that he hadn’t even had to scan the room to find them, he just made a bee line for their table.

“We don’t have the luxury of doing this nicely,” he told Allura as he stood next to her chair. The man was very pale with platinum blond hair. Shiro didn’t recognize him, so he must have been a recent transfer.

“Who let you in?” Allura glowered at the man. “What makes you think you’ll be able to get through to him? You barely know him.”

“Never underestimate the power of shock value,” the man replied, glancing around the room and then heading for the stand where the eating utensils were stocked. He grabbed something Shiro didn’t see and returned to the table.

“Right.” He made eye contact with Shiro. “Hold out your right hand, please.”

Shiro reluctantly slid his hand onto the table, and in the blink of an eye, this new stranger stabbed the back of it. Allura let out a surprised squeak and Shiro himself jumped, but there was no pain.

He looked down at the back of his hand to see that all the tines of the fork the man had used as a weapon were bent away from the back of his completely undamaged hand.

“What just happened?” he murmured. He’d meant it rhetorically.

“Deep down,” the man answered anyway, “you know that your right arm was replaced with a metal one. You know instinctively that a...frak?” He looked at Allura for confirmation of the word.

“Fork,” she corrected him sullenly.

“You know a fork won’t hurt it, and this thing isn’t even real.” The stranger waved the mutilated fork in a little circle and then tossed it over his shoulder. “You’ll notice that nobody in here reacted to a stabbing in their midst, either.”

“You certainly have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you, Lotor?” Allura sniffed in disdain and crossed her arms.

“Look at us again,” Lotor instructed. “And really focus. We both have pointed ears. I’m purple and she’s got little pink marking on her cheeks.”

Instead, Shiro was still staring at the back of his hand. Everything seemed to shimmer for a moment, and then everything came back to him and he was standing in the training deck of the castle ship.

“Is everyone else all right?”

“Well,” Allura began, a little flustered, “we’ve gotten Pidge, Hunk, and Lance out of their illusions. Pidge pratically pulled herself out when she realized how off everything was around her in the fake reality. Hunk was also fairly easy to convince--mostly because the telepath didn’t know how to fake the flavors of food very well, apparently. We sent Hunk in for Lance since they’ve known one another so long. Kolivan was also able to pull his own men back to reality.”

“You haven’t mentioned Keith. Why didn’t you send him in for me?” Shiro asked.

“We thought it would be best in your case to send in someone who clearly didn’t belong in your divergent reality,” Allura told him, refusing to make eye contact. What was she hiding?

“Also,” Lotor added offhandedly, “Keith is still stuck in his illusion and we’ll probably need you to help pull him out.”

Allura socked the Galra prince in the arm. “I was trying to break it to him more gently!”

“Again, we simply don’t have time for that.”

“I’ll do it,” Shiro volunteered. “He’s right. Keith’s been in longer than the rest of us. There’s no time to waste.”

“Just signal if you’d like any assistance,” Lotor offered with a smirk.

“I don’t think I’ll need it, and Keith would probably stab you back, just so you know,” Shiro informed him. Then he walked out of the room so they could set things up to save Keith. He had a job to do.

#black paladin week 2017 #day 2 #takashi shirogane #princess allura #prince lotor #ficlet #season 4 spoilers #vld

[businesscasualprincess]

Relief

Oh look, it’s the kitchen smut I started 2 months before we got it for realsies in canon! I finally finished it!

Rated S for Smut, 1266 words, Also on Ao3

After spending an entire day in an itchy bra, Emma comes home and enlists the help of her devilishly handsome husband for relief.

Why would anybody use such scratchy materials on a garment meant for daily wear? Especially one meant for such a… sensitive area? There should be laws against this sort of thing.

Emma Swan, Sheriff, Savior, former bailbonds person, and badass renowned throughout several realms, was about ready to personally track down and punish whoever it was who designed her new bra. It had seemed like a standard, full-coverage underwire on the website, the breathable mesh back being a major selling point, but by the time she made it to work that morning, it had become her own personal hell. It didn’t have a lot of lace, just a little bit of trim, but what little was there, was clearly made out of sandpaper.

It itched.

It itched so much, Emma was seriously contemplating finishing her work day with no bra on at all, and she probably would have, if she’d had 2 minutes to herself to go change. But Storybrooke had never been good at quiet moments, so Emma found herself still wearing the itchy pink undergarment as she finished settling a dispute between Mr Clark and Leroy at the end of her day. It was hell.

Emma wasn’t the type to use magic as a shortcut, but this was a special circumstance. She poofed directly home without stopping back at the Station for her Bug first.

Henry was staying with Regina that night, so she didn’t even think twice about immediately stripping everything from the waist up, right in the middle of the kitchen. She grabbed a spatula out of the utensil drawer and immediately went to work scratching at her back. That’s how Killian found her a few minutes later.

“Not that I’m complaining, love, but I’m a bit surprised to find you so devested in our galley.” he took the instrument from her hand and started scratching the same area with his hook.

Emma’s moan as the cool metal soothed her irritated flesh was verging on the pornographic. Killian was, of course, her soulmate, true love, and partner in life, and he had many wonderful qualities, but right now, Emma’s favorite was that glorious hook. The chill of the steel eased her over excited nerve endings and the scratch of the point on her skin relieved the irritation that had plagued her the entire day. She relaxed her shoulders and leaned forward, bracing herself on the table.

“I’m burning that bra. I’ve been going crazy all day with the itching.” Emma moaned again as he began to scratch with his right hand as well. “Oh you can keep doing that forever!”

“Oh I think I have something better in mind.” Killian grabbed the tube of aloe lotion Emma kept on the back of the sink for dry skin and squirted some across her back, massaging it in with his hand as he moved her hair aside with his hook. “Let me help you feel better.”

He slipped the tip of his hook into the belt loop of her jeans, tugging her flush against him as his lotion-covered hand soothed down her back and around her sides, following the trail of red skin still visible even now. Killian cupped her breast from behind, gently working the rest of the lotion all the way across her chest.

He kissed along her shoulder blades, taking his time as he trailed towards her mouth. His hook pressed into the front of her denim covered thigh, keeping her pinned to him and dancing dangerously to the apex where she was growing wet and hot.

With the irritation of her skin all but forgotten in the sea of much more enjoyable sensations, Emma turned herself around in Killian’s embrace, slipping her arms around his neck. She directed his lips to hers with a touch on the back if his head, opening her mouth as she dove into the passionate kiss.

“You’re over-dressed, Killian,” Emma murmured, her face barely separated from his as she caught her breath. “Why the hell do you own things with so many buttons?”

“I thought you appreciated a bit of a strip tease, love,” he grabbed her by the ass and hoisted her up onto the kitchen table, fitting himself between her spread legs as he began to slowly undo the buttons on his vest. His eyes never left her face, though hers were transfixed on his nimble fingers one-handedly undoing the buttons with practiced ease.

“Not today.” Emma gripped the top of his shirt and pulled, popping every button as she sought to expose his chest to her hungry eyes. She leaned forward to suck and nibble at his collarbone as she pushed the clothing off of his shoulders and allowed it to drop in a heap on the floor next to her own shirt and bra.

The ferocity with which Emma ripped his clothing had an immediate effect on Killian. He surged forward to capture her lips in a bruising kiss, leaning her further back on the table so that he could pull her jeans swiftly down over her hips, relying on the stretch in the material to make it over the roundness of her ass, rather than waste any more time on buttons. Emma responded in kind, loosening his pants to fall below his hips.

Emma gave his erection a few swift pumps as she freed it from his restrictive clothing, relishing in the firm weight of him in her hand. She shifted her hips forward to allow her nearly dripping center to line up with him.

“I need you inside me, now.”

“Whatever your heart desires, my love.” he captured her lips again as he slid inside of her. They both moaned their pleasure, at the easy connection between them. Killian leaned Emma back on the table again, with his arms braced underneath her to support the angle of her back. Her ankles locked around him, giving her the leverage to draw him in deeper with each rock of their hips.

The pace they set was slow in comparison to the frantic rush to disrobe, but there was power behind every stroke of their bodies, toned muscles becoming slick with sweat as they slid against each other.  His fingernails scratched deliciously against her back as Emma’s hands pulled and tugged at his hair, directing his head to spots she wanted his mouth to worship at her heated flesh.

Emma felt her orgasm building quickly. She eased her direction of Killian’s head, allowing him to once more find her mouth for a deep, dirty kiss, echoing their coupling further down. She slid one of her hands down his chest, following the trail of hair to the spot where they were connected. Emma spread her fingers, putting extra pressure on her clit in time with Killian’s thrusts.

“Are you ready to come for me, Emma?” his voice was ragged and sinful, “Let me feel your body clenching around me, Emma. I love how it feels to be inside you when you come.”

She couldn’t have held back, even if she’d wanted to, which she most certainly did not. Her grip tightened on him as her release flashed through her body, all the tension of her day melting away as intense pleasure coursed through her. Killian followed her soon after, his mouth falling open and his eyes clenched shut as he slowed his pace, bringing them both gently down from their peak.

“I’m starving,” Emma said, as soon as she was breathing normally again. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “What would you say to a little naked pancake dinner party?”

“I’ll get the nutmeg.”

#cs smut #cs ff #captain swan #cs crew #ouat #becky writes ff

[writevswrong]

FANFIC * NESSIAN * PART TWO

Nessian Part Two by L.J. Lafleur

Glasses and goblets clinked, bursting laughter filled my ears. I shook my head to rid the noise, at first it worked but then it only grew louder. A gurgling growl erupted from my stomach, an acidic churn twisted around my insides. Instinctively, my hands braced myself against the bed post. It wasn’t my power, just hunger. The laughter grew louder, knives cutting against vegetables and porcelain. A distant headache formed in the back of my head.  

My stomach growled again, this time louder than I had ever heard before. “Curse you,” I muttered to myself, staring down at my stomach, covered in a jade chiffon dress. My sleeves came down to my wrists, trimmed with embroidered golden leaves. It was my first time wearing a color other than black-since the war. Since everything changed…again.  

I tilted my head trying to remember when I last time ate. It’s not that I didn’t eat anymore, I just didn’t eat with company. I raised my chin, straightening my back and headed towards the dining room. They were all there, all enjoying one another’s company-even Azriel had simpered as he passed a plate of what looked like green beans to Elain.

The room hushed, even Elain silenced herself when I trudged closer. I hadn’t seen some of them for weeks… including Mor, not that I wanted to see her any sooner than necessary.

Rhysand, with an unwavering smile, gestured towards the empty seat saved for me. “Nesta, I’m so pleased you could join us.”

I froze in place when my eyes caught sight of him. The darker than night hair, the devious curve of his lips and his unnaturally beautiful hazel eyes.  

“Did you get bored spending all that time alone?” Cassian asked in a silvery tone, the corner of his lips twitching as he held back all his saved-up insults. He lifted an engraved silver goblet to his full lips.  

“Loneliness is far better company than you,” I retorted, edging to my seat between Azriel and Feyre. I sat down as graciously as I could, feeling all eyes bouncing between me and Cassian.  

“Let the games begin,” Amren announced before sipping her crimson drink.

My eyes shifted towards Amren’s glass. The acid in my stomach burned but I kept my composure.

Amren pulled the glass away from her scarlet lips, “don’t look so startled, it’s only red wine.”

I didn’t acknowledge anyone, not even my sisters, in fear it might bring forth another unwanted memory. The empty plate in front of me magically filled with all the items on the table. While they were taking turns on healthy seconds, I could feel my mouth water as I breathed in scents that didn’t belong in my world, my old one that is. The conversations continued as I picked at my food, attempting to not look too eager.

“Not eating?” Feyre asked in a hushed tone, making sure only she and I could hear. I looked at her and then at Elain, both sitting quietly, neither touching their food as they waited for my reply. I was happy they looked so well, considering the circumstances.  

“No,” I took my knife and fork, cutting into a roasted potato first. I ignored conversation and thankfully, no one asked what I had been up to the last several weeks. My eyes flickered up to him, catching the glowing hazel across from me.

Cassian hadn’t looked away from me since I entered the room, both of us in quiet conversation of stabbing insults. I ignored the opening and shutting of his lips. My hands wrapped tightly around my fork and knife, aiming for the steak. I punctured and sliced the marbled meat. Blood oozed out onto the cream porcelain, staining and drowning the remaining vegetables on my plate.

I closed my eyes as the images of Hybern took away my breath. Blood drip from his neck as I twisted the blade farther-deeper until there was nothing but neck and gushing crimson. My hands shook, heat rising to my fingertips until I set down my utensils.

Rhysand’s voice penetrated my nightmare, my memory, “any word from the queens?”

“Must we discuss business during our first family dinner since the war?” Feyre threw a dirty glare at him.

I tuned them out once again, their banter continued for several minutes as I tried to clear the images of battle from my vision. I gathered my knife and fork again, taking a small breath as I focused cutting the meat. More blood spewed, more blood. My hands tightened around the silverware as I swallowed hard, my once watering mouth drying out like a distant desert from the books I once I read. Slowly I dropped my knife, my slightly shaking hand raising to the water, avoiding the red wine completely.

“Is the food not to your liking, Princess Ness? I worked on tonight’s menu myself.” Cassian shot at me, his hands crossed against his chest as he leaned back to watch me.

I could feel the blood swiftly draining from my face, he caught me. I set down my crystal glass, giving myself time to recover, “perhaps you should stick to battlefields and brothels.” A sliver of silence edged its way across the table, other conversations fading as they watched Cassian and me.

Mor’s hand moved towards Cassian’s knee, a faint blush rising across his cheeks. “Cassian doesn’t need a brothel to find company,” she interjected. Her tone sweetened as she looked from me to Cassian, “isn’t that, right?”

“Good to know he can always find a whore at this table,” I snapped before I could catch myself. My aggression as swift as the blade Elain shoved into Hybern.

“Excuse me?” Mor seethed,  She released her hand from Cassian as she stood up, making the table between them disappear.

“Yes?” I asked tightly, still seated. I hadn’t realized not everything disappeared with the table. My fingers adjusted the knife in my hand.

“Ladies, it’s just Cassian. He isn’t that good looking to start a war over,” Rhysand purred, receiving no comment from Cassian, Mor or myself.

Mor challenged my glare until clicking her tongue against the top of her mouth, a smile curling, “better a whore with a warm bed, then a lonely prude with a cold heart.”

I didn’t expect it to hurt, none of her comments ever hurt this much before. Why would I care what any of them thought of me-especially her? My grip tightened around the intricate mountain designed knife, my knuckles turning white.  

“Alright, stop it.” Cassian’s voice boomed while standing in between us. His back to me as he looked at Mor, I felt his hand reach for the knife in mine. I released it as he tugged on it. “That’s enough, Morrigan.”

“You’re defending her?” She fumed, her eyes turning to slits of wrath.

Cassian slid the knife in the back of his belt, “yes.” He spoke calmly, “neither you nor Ness are the enemy.”

“Don’t call me that,” I spat, infuriated by the name my mother once called me. I couldn’t understand why he insisted on calling me that, why he insisted on torturing me with my past.  

Cassian stepped out of the middle, a snap from Rhysand’s long fingers and the table appeared again. Cassian smiled gallantly, “let’s go back to eating my well-prepared meal, shall we?” pretending that another battle wasn’t about to be had.  

“You didn’t even cook it,” Amren scoffed, receiving an animalistic glare from Cassian.

“Yes, but she didn’t know that,” he pointed to me and then shook his head laughing. Mor and Cassian sunk back into their seats, while the other’s finished consuming what was left on their plates.

“I’ve lost my appetite.” Before anyone could object, I turned on my heels and walked back towards my room. My fingertips were glowing, lighting the hallway around me. I pressed them together, sparks shot upwards and out like waterfalls of fire. “What am I?” I mumbled to myself as I shut my bedroom door with my gaunt elbow. Another press of my fingers and this time flames flickered along my fingers, entangling itself between them before dancing against my palms.

“She’s a bitch,” Mor seethed.

I shot my head up towards the door, they sounded so close. Did they think I wouldn’t hear?

“Mor,” Cassian warned.

“What’s your problem, Cass? Last I checked, you hated her just as much as I did,” her voice only a growl by the end.

“Hate and love-there’s a very fine line,” Amren interrupted them, shrugging her shoulders as they glared at her.

My ears felt like they were on fire but I closed my eyes to focus before their words could escape me.

“You’re wrong,” Cassian’s voice lowered, gruff and unstartled as he pulled my dinner knife from the back of his belt and set it on the table.  

“To which statement?” Amren questioned, the corner of her lips tugged.

“I could never…” Cassian paused to take a sip of his wine, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I could never love someone filled with as much spite and ice as her.” He set the glass back down, swallowing hard as the room fell silent.  

“Snow melts with time, with sun, with fire.” Elain replied quietly before standing up from the table. “Time, sun, fire,” she repeated while leaving the room, her footsteps faded as she made her way towards the garden.

“We’re all family. We made it through this war but we might not in the next.” Azriel spoke with more power than I had ever heard him convey before, his steps going unheard as he disappeared into the waiting shadows. Even the shadows made noises to me, like wind drifting above the sea.

“They’re right,” Feyre shifted in her seat, I could hear the strands of her hair fall from behind her ear. “You all are my sisters, Mor.”

“Sisters?” Mor protested, “the one that abandoned you? That selfishly took your youth? The one who never defended you, never bothered with you until it somehow effected Elain? That my dear, isn’t a sister.”

“Mor, your words can cause more damage than your sword,” Rhysand spoke before Feyre could respond.  

“I’d put my money on Nesta,” Amren contributed.  

The fire, glow-whatever it is-started up again. Their words slicing through me triggered it, the anger and guilt that never disappeared. I watched as fire danced from my palms, wrapping itself around my wrist. I focused on getting rid of the heat, but nothing. Panic ensued, spreading through me, I attempted to touch the doorknob but it heated the metal to a bright carnelian color. “Damn it,” I wiped the sweat from my brow.

I looked throughout my emerald bedroom, water-I had to get water. I hit the bathing door open, adding more force than necessary as it slammed against the wall. Several framed pieces of artwork crashed on the floor, splitting the glass into shards across the marble. A bucket full of water from this morning was still sitting near the tub, my knees crashed against the flooring as I dunked my hands in. A cloud of steam rose through the air, spiraling upwards to block my view.  

The sweat off my brow dissipated as my cheeks heated. “How could I be such a fool?” I asked to the heavens, the mother-whoever we’re supposed to worship now that I’m fae.

My ears twisted with ache as I heard them talking, they were still in the townhouse.

“What’s going on between you two?” Mor’s sweet voice had darkened, her chest puffed out.

“What do you mean?” Cassian questioned, I could hear his wings tucking behind him. The gradual shifting noise they made as he walked beside her.  

“I can see that look in your eyes.” Her voice turned to silk and ash-sweet and deadly.  

“And which look would that be?” He taunted, rustling his wings before tucking them in again.  

Mor rubbed her fingers through her hair, her sultry voice encasing them, “the same one you gave me that night in the Illyrian training camp.”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Too much wine, again?” His wiggling eyebrows stopped as she pulled him to a stop.  

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Cass. There isn’t enough wine to make me blind and oblivious to what I saw that night.”

“Which is?” Cassian quipped.

Mor shoved him softly, “for cauldron sakes, you’re really going to answer my questions with a question?”

“What do you mean?” Cassian chuckled as Mor rolled her eyes.

I couldn’t listen to them any longer, the distant headache was now pounding against my head. Crippling my curiosity-my heart and leaving nothing but a hollow feeling inside me. My vision turned to amber then crimson, a dark red so violent and malicious, I needed to leave, to get out of these enclosing emerald walls.

Their conversation continued, I could feel the sickening honeyed voice of Mor float around me, snapping at my toes but my racing heart blocked it out. I waited several minutes before I headed out, making sure that no one was in the hallway. That Cassian and Mor had left the hallway or maybe the townhome altogether. My feet moved promptly through the city, I couldn’t rid my eyes and ears of their words. It was like every letter held their ground around me, forcing me to relive them over and over.

It wasn’t until my leather flats touched the sea that I realized where I was. Salt water soaking through instantly. How I got here so quickly, I don’t know. I raised my hands, more flickering fire spread to my wrists, circling around me like bangles. The heat within me raised, like I had stepped into a searing hot bath after a night stranded in wet snow.  

I leaned down, letting the hem of my skirts soak into the water. Pressing my palms into the sea of ice, after the steam cleared, I saw my fingertips had formed into razor sharp talons. I lifted them from the water, horrified by my changing hands, “no, no…go away.” I begged as the flames started again. I shoved my hands into the water, steam interrupted my widened stare, “how is this possible?” I muttered to myself, “I thought my power was gone. I was empty.”

“Cooling off? Or skinny dipping? Either way, I think I can be of assistance,” Cassian sneered from behind me.

My back stiffened with invisible armor, my heart thundered as I raised my body from the water to face him. “Cooling off? No, because ice only melts with time, with sun, with fire.” I repeated Elain’s cryptic words as I hid my hands behind my back, feeling the flames simmer down, claws retracting.

Cassian’s eyes didn’t give anything away this time, no recognition, he was nothing but stone. “What happened earlier?” He asked bluntly, filing in next to me. The crunch of pebbles beneath his boots bounced off the walls behind us and back towards the ocean.  

“Nothing.” I pursed my lips, testing my fingertips against one another. No sparks, no dancing flames-I dropped my hands to my side. I forced my eyes to watch the crashing waves, the hem of my skirt soaking upwards towards my ankles.    

“It wasn’t nothing,” he sighed, “I saw you strangle your knife until your knuckles went white. So, tell me. What’s wrong?” Cassian raised his chin towards me, waiting.

“You saw nothing.” I said sharply, my face contorting into hardened steel.

“Fine. Don’t talk about it with me, but make sure you talk to someone.” His wings flapped open, “it’s a bigger wingspan than Rhys,” he said coyly as he noticed my wandering eyes.

“Hm. I could have sworn it was the smallest wing span I saw on the battlefield.” I claimed before picking up the sides of my dress to retreat towards the city. Flashes of him spreading his wings as he played with children in the street, heated my cheeks briefly. Even more so, when I remembered Amren snapping at me to focus.  

Cassian stepped closer, not entirely blocking my way but enough that I wouldn’t be able to move without bumping into him. He wrapped his wings around us, cloaking us in darkness and his scent. Mother of all, his scent enraptured me. His voice making my heart beat erratically as the space between us disappeared, “should we do a comparison to see?”

I licked my lips as I edged on my tip toes, “it might entice me in a way you might like.” I raised my brow while biting my lower lip.

“Really?” His husky voice asked as his knuckle stroked my cheek, a shudder rushing through me. I wanted it, his lips, his touch, his calloused hands running all over me…stop, stop thinking this way.  

My hands touched his chest, feeling his heart pound against me. The heat exchanging between us felt like raging fire, an ancient fire that had never gone out. Mindlessly, my bony hands drifted upwards, first caressing his dark wavy hair and then sneaking to the back of his warm neck. My lips reached up towards him and parted, “no.” I whispered, my knee ramming into him. His onyx wings spread open as he released me, the fading sunlight illuminating his bewildered face.

Cassian’s cursing was louder than the last time. He held himself-his knee down, crushing the small pebbles that made up the beach. “Damn it, Nesta!” he yelled while trying to catch his breath, “damn you,” he seethed.  

I stood strong, my arms crossed in front of me as I scowled down at him, “with time, with sun and with fire-I guess if you figure out the riddle then maybe I’ll stop kicking you there.”

He stood up, leaving barely any space between us, his narrowed eyes burying themselves into me. Cassian’s honeyed voice came out raspy with a heavy breath, “remember, practice is tomorrow morning.” He breathed in deeply through his nose before turning his head slightly like someone called his name, “I’ve never been so excited to kick a female’s ass before.” Cassian’s wings spread open again, before I could respond he shot into the air with a grunt.

“Bastard!” I replied, staring at my damp hem, still unable to look up at the sky.

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