#then quiet one-on-one is too focused on him and scrutinizing and pressuring. not good for working through difficult feelings either

[moinsbienquekaworu]

But what about... The OC......

[new-royston-cursebreakers]

OC Deep Dive Tag

I was tagged by the lovely @eli-writes-sometimes! Check out its post here.

I'll be answering this for Gio from The Curse of New Royston!

--

What common/uncommon fear do they have?

Gio gains a fear of wasps during the events of the story. Local bug enthusiast Cricket refrains from telling him that the Wasp Incident could've actually gone a lot worse. I honestly regret writing writing the Wasp Incident since wasps already have so much bad PR but I can't think of another bug that would fill the need DX

Also some mild scopophobia but its not as bad as the wasp thing

Do they have any pet peeves?

Gio doesn't like being held to a standard that others are not.

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

Tons of books, his little family lapel pin, and, well...his clothes. He doesn't keep anything that his parents wouldn't like that he has, which leaves his room pretty bare-bones.

What do they notice first in a person?

Where their eyes go. Are they looking for his judgement? Scrutinizing him? Do they fear him or detest him? Or, even rarer...do they just look at him like they would a friend?

On a scale from 1-10, how high is their pain tolerance?

Maybe around a 3 or 4. He's kind of a squishy boy

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?

Definitely flight. Though giants aren't very good at flight, so he more often goes into a sort of pseudo-fawn response in which he tries to talk his way out of the situation.

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?

His family history is large, but nowadays, it's a pretty small family. He's an only child. He has two uncles (one not by blood), an aunt, and a cousin. He's not a very big family person, especially not after he finds out about the ghost.

What animal represents them best?

Whale. Large, gentle, social, playful at times, ornery at others, would much rather prefer to be in the water than out despite needing to breathe air.

What is a smell they dislike?

He doesn't like how his church smells. Which is pretty much just old carpet and people smell. He also doesn't like saline or bleach.

Have they broken any bones?

Never, never, never. If he ever broke a bone, it'd be a much worse medical emergency than it would for a normal person. Giants have to be careful.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

...Off-putting. But polite. If they got to know him better they might describe him differently, but he's cold to strangers.

Are they a night owl, or morning bird?

He's lucky if he gets any sleep at all. He prefers the night and its quietness.

What’s a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?

Loves butter, especially on cooked green veggies like brussels sprouts. Likes savory things in general. Hates grape

Do they have any hobbies?

Swimming and reading are the big ones. He's big into classical mythology too

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprise?

Instantly acts like he's been shoved out on stage unwillingly. If his friends surprised him he's tolerate it. Most of his surprises come from his family, who expects to React the Right Way so he focuses in on that and does not have any actual fun at all.

Do they like to wear jewellery?

Not really. Not a lot of jewelry fits his size, and the only pin his parents let him wear pin represents something that he does not like about himself. Once he's out from under them, he'll probably like wearing some simple rings, maybe a masculine necklace once in a while.

Do they have neat or messy handwriting?

Very neat handwriting, both print and cursive. Frequently complimented by his teachers. But after he drowned, it changed and no one really noticed.

What are the two emotions they feel the most?

Tired and dismayed. The insomnia gets to him and he's more often than not in situations that he does not want to be in.

Do they have a favorite fabric?

Silk. Only the real stuff.

What kind of accent do they have?

Typical upper-class New England accent.

--

And I'll be tagging @fiercely-raging-writer, @asher-writes, and @karkkidoeswriting, if you'd like to participate!

[pollyrepents]

where his tenderness resides | thomas shelby

Summary: To others it would seem Tommy’s love comes in the lavish gifts he gives, but the jewelry and clothing and horses mean nothing when you know he takes the care to feel his love.

Warnings: Nothing major. Reference to John’s fate, so a little bit of hurt. Or a lot a bit of hurt, that’s all dependent on you, really.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: I’m absolutely obsessed with the idea of Tommy’s romantic love language being touch and that he only really indulges in it when he knows they won’t been seen. It haunts me, truly. I have a whole tag dedicated to it on my blog. This got kind of sad without meaning to, but that’s just how I write. Enjoy!

He was always careful when he paid attention to you in front of others.

A polite hand on your lower back, guiding you away from unpleasant conversation or steering you into a needed one with potential donors or the wives of lucrative business partners, wanting small talk to take the place of touchy conversations and new business ventures you could strangle him for ruining your evening with. 

His attention was gentle and calloused at the same time, with his hands rubbing up and down your arm in a weak attempt at soothing as soon as you dragged him to a dark corridor for questioning.

“What happened to minimal business tonight?” You rose the glass in your gloved hand to sip your champagne, raising an eyebrow as he opened his mouth to speak, “You’ve snuck off twice and now I’m hearing from Polly there’s powerful people here?”

“Yes, there’s powerful people here for the charity-” His attempt to clarify made you click your tongue.

“There’s blinder business, Thomas.” You pursed your lips and he nodded once, unable to deny anything under your scrutinizing gaze. He focused himself on something outside, trying to pull enough words together to excuse himself from your discussion. “Why is there blinder business here, Tommy? At our charity event for ailing orphans?” You straightened up, eyes unwavering as you tried to meet his.

Tommy turned back to you and his icy blue eyes met yours. “They’re making sure you’re safe, is all.” He lifted a hand to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with a reserved gentleness despite the roughness of his skin. The tone was nothing other than truthful, steady as ever while he spoke. “I can’t have anything happen to you. Extra security for my peace of mind.”

“Or the dress.” You quipped, proving your point by turning your hips slightly to make the fabric swish. “I spent a long time picking this out as I wanted it to pair perfectly with the apology earrings you left me on the dresser.”

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling briefly at the mention of the new pearls, and you didn’t doubt he was pushing his tongue against his teeth as he gathered his words. “Alright. Not a mark on either of you. You or the fucking dress you picked out just for me, Y/N. ” 

“I didn’t pick out anything for you.” You pecked his lips briefly, smiling softly as he moved in for another, whispering between the two of you, “The dress is mine.”

“And what’s under the dress is mine, ay.” He had that tone to him, treading the line of authoritative only you got to hear behind closed doors, the kind that came with pushing his buttons. You felt a smile pass your lips before schooling your features, an imitation of the man who undoubtedly knew you best. You pushed a stray curl behind your ear as you looked him over.

“As long as you keep your minimal business to a minimum,” You tutted and straightened his bowtie, the careful knot your own doing while Tommy had made his initial promise in the sanctuary of your bedroom during the early evening hours. “what’s under the dress if yours.”

His hand was on your lower back again and you relaxed into the touch, a warm smile coming to your face as you examined his. The cold, determined Tommy melted away for a split second, the changes you had learned to savor coming forth easy to spot in the dark of the cold hall. The corner of his eyes pinched slightly, the corner of his lips turning upward for a brief moment. He tilted his chin down, pressing his lips to yours softly.

“Now,” You cleared your throat, gently pushing his hand off of your lower back in exchange for his arm. “Back to minimal business, Tommy.”

There were mornings when his lips never left your skin for more than a few moments, the both of you needing tangible assurance of someone’s love. Yours usually came in the middle of the night when you would tuck yourself against his twitching body, his limbs settling as he felt the pressure of you against his side, the smell of your soap and hair oils pushing through the clay and muck of the reimagined tunnels. Where the mumbling and quiet gasping would ease as you rubbed his chest and whispered to him that he was home, that he was safe, that he was with you in your bed. 

His came in the mornings, seeing through the teasing to assure you that although he was off to a dealing business meeting  or political business in London or factory business in the shit and smog of Small Heath in a moment, he would not stray for too long. His mornings were always early, always that sweet spot in time when you were too drowsy to put up a believable act in front of Tommy and would grumble an answer to any question he had without thinking twice as long as he stopped talking soon enough.

“Is there anything else, Mister Shelby?” The voice recognized as Frances’ was distant, the old woman’s voice more delicate than usual.

“That’ll be it, Frances, thank you.” His low voice came next and made you stir slightly, taking a deep breath and turning over to bury your face in his warmth that lingered on the blankets, begging for sleep to whisk you away again.

The door shut and a moment later the mattress dipped behind you, the smell of burning tobacco and aftershave enveloped your nearly sleeping form. Soft lips pressed against the back of your neck and you tried to remain still, breathing evenly as his lips trailed across your shoulder.

“You’re awake.” The words rumbled against your skin, soft lips moving against your neck as he kissed where he had marked in the earliest morning hours. 

“Mm-mm.” You hummed, pressing your face into the pillow. “Not yet.”

“Frances has brought you breakfast.”

“You made that woman get up before the sun rose?” You mumbled into the pillow, furrowing your eyebrows despite your act. 

“That is what I pay her for.” Tommy reminded. “The sun is up, dearest. Open your eyes, see it for yourself.” 

“Come back to bed, Thomas.” You verged on a whine, reaching a hand back to try and run your fingers through his hair. Your nose wrinkled at the lack of contact on your part as he slipped away. “It’s Sunday. Let Linda and Arthur go to church then handle the business. Just take a day, we can even take Charlie out for a picnic.”

Skillfully and typically he ignored your request for his leisure time. “I’m Thomas now?”  His fingers trailed down the curve of your back and you all but arched into his touch like a spoiled cat.

“You were Thomas last night.” You reminded as you rolled over to face him and stretched out on the mattress. His fingers trailed up and down your side lightly and you flinched away from the ticklish touch, grabbing his wrist in your hand. “Watch it, Thomas.”

The corners of his lips twitched upward and something resembling mischief sparked in his eye and you narrowed your own at him, challenging, “Do you think they’d miss you?”

“I think you would.” He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss between your eyebrows. “How would you explain yourself then, ay?”

“Thomas Shelby was taken care of,” He snorted at your wording as he crossed the room but you persisted anyway. “Thomas Shelby was handled after pushing his lover to the limit so early in the morning after waking her up so rudely.”

He moved to where he had Frances place the tray of food and lifted it, nodding for you to shift yourself among the sheets. You propped yourself up, holding a hand out to stop him as he reached your bedside. Tommy quirked an eyebrow.

“Only if you’re planning on staying.” You raised your eyebrows to mirror him. “If not, I’ll eat at the window. On my own.”

Tommy looked at you momentarily, the smoke from his cigarette swirling upward and around him as he examined you for any sign of relenting. He sighed and nodded, placing the tray over your legs and trying not to show any amusement at your triumphant smile as he came to the empty side of the bed. 

“Your meetings can wait for a bit, Tommy-don’t get into bed with the suit.” You cautioned. “It’ll wrinkle.”

He sighed, patience steady as he listened to you. “Am I expected to feed you the toast as well?” He unbuckled his belt and slipped his gray suit pants off, folding them and placing them on the end of the bed. “Is that what you need me here for?” He slid out of his waist coat, placing it atop his matching pants. His fingers made quick work of the tiny white buttons on his shirt, lying it over his other clothes.

“Well, if you’re offering, how could I say no.” You laughed lightly, bringing your legs up under you as he laid out next to you, leaning back against the headboard. You took a bite of buttered toast, holding the slice to Tommy’s lips as you chewed. His unamused look made you giggle and you pulled the cigarette from between his lips and moved the toast slightly closer still, prompting him to take a small bite.

“Good boy.” You patted his face lightly and ignored the scoff, leaning in to kiss him around the crumbs. “Can I expect you back before midnight?”

He nodded once, pulling another drag from the cigarette and blowing it upwards toward your painted ceiling. “I’ll try for a reasonable hour.” He muttered to himself, lifting his fingers to try to tuck away the fabric where your scarf had slipped from its knot during the night. “No idea how you keep this fucking thing on all the time.”

“Enough magic to give me a headache.” You batted at his fingers, unraveling the knot and letting your curls loose. You massaged your scalp, shaking out the tightened coils. “I’m sure I’m a real vision right now. Looking like I’ve been shocked by a wool touch or something.”

Tommy puffed smoke out through his nose, a hand reaching up to tug at the curls on the nape of your neck. Your shoulders relaxed at his touch “Not a bad sight so early in the morning.”

“If you’re softening me up with the affection and compliments so you can leave, it’s not going to work.” 

His hand fell to the spot where your shoulder met your neck and he pulled you down slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple, mumbling something along the lines of you being insatiable and a menace, but his nonetheless.

It was rare he let you hold him first.

He was mourning.

Different than Arthur, who was weeping aloud and different than Polly who rolled the rosary beads between her fingers more often those days. It was a different mourning, when his persistent mind stopped for a moment and his thoughts droned into white noise and the realization that John was gone-permanently gone, at the fault of his own greed and impulse washed over him the way the panic in the tunnels would. You found him hunched over on his bed in their Watery Lane home, shaking breaths making the hunch of his back rise and fall unsteadily. In the candlelight beside him you could make out his hands-your favorite hands- hands trembling as they gripped at his hair.

“Tommy,” You spoke up carefully, staring at him from the doorway. You reached behind you, closing the door in an attempt to shield him from a passerby’s view. “Tommy, you’ll hurt yourself.” You took slow and measured steps toward him, fearful of creaky floorboards that would alert the other nearby Shelbys, or knocking anything to the ground that would set him off. His trembling form made a knot in your throat tighten and you reached out your hand, startling when Tommy sprung up. Automatically, his hand reached under his pillow and his wet eyes found yours, his normally calm eyes flashing with something wild before he reconnected himself to the present moment.

“It’s just me, Tommy.” Your hand that had flown up to stop him arming himself dropped, cupping his stubbly chin. Your thumb caressed his jaw, trying to push away the tension for a moment. “Couldn’t find you after dinner, I got scared.”

He nodded, pulling away from your touch. He cleared his throat. “So many places to check in the house.”

“I thought you’d be out smoking or at the Garrison.” Your fingers sought out his hair where he had been pulling at it, rubbing your fingertips in soothing circles on his scalp. “Taking your mind off of things.”

“I can’t be drunk if we’re being hunted, Y/N.” His tone was dismissive and reached for his cigarettes and lighter on the bedside table.

“Everyone in the house is armed.” Your hands reached out to touch him again, blocked as he rolled his cigarette between his slightly swollen and raw lips. You assumed he had been biting them, one of his tells that things had bubbled up while he was alone. “We’ve all got guns under our pillows and in our pockets. Even Linda’s got one on her.”

“Fear convinces people better than simple words can.” He rested his elbow on his knee, hunching over. He smoked for a moment, long drags and lingering clouds of smoke swirled around the two of you. You stepped in front of him and reached down to take the cigarette, watching him closely as his fingers went limp. You placed it between your own lips, both hands coming up to cup the back of his head. You listened to his breathing, waiting until the stuttering breaths became fewer and farther between.

“He was your brother.” You traced your finger upward over the shell of his ear, lightly tracing the outline of his forehead. “He was a Shelby.”

“Yeah.” Tommy spoke into your nightdress, his eyes shutting as your finger came to brush against his lashes. “Yeah, I know he was.”

“So you know you can mourn him.”

The next breath was shaky and Tommy’s hands began to tremble again. You took your final drag and snubbed out the cigarette, letting it smoulder in his aged ashtray. 

He pressed his face into your stomach, hands pressing into your lower back as he sought refuge in your being. You tilted your head to the side, taking in his closed eyes and clenched jaw before he turned his head away from the flickering candle light.

“Mourn him, Thomas.” You whispered downwards at his hair, a hand coming up to rub his cheek. Your fingers met wetness just under his eyes and you ignored it, stroking his cheek with your thumb as Tommy held onto you for dear life. “It’s alright.”

His hand began to move against the material of your nightclothes, palms pressing more firmly than before. You settled yourself across his lap, one knee on either side of him on the edge of the bed. You gripped at his shirt, still smelling of the day’s whiskey he had taken and cigarettes he had found a way to take more of recently. His face tucked into your neck and you wrapped your arms around him tightly, letting his forearms squeeze you close around your lower back. He took breath after shaking breath against you, his fingers holding the fabric of your clothes in an iron grip. 

You held him, pressing your face into his hair as he held you as close as possible, hiding above the blankets in the flickering candle light.

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) Epilogue- Home

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 5105

Warnings: Only that Ivar likes to monologue like a super villain.

AN: And we've finally reached the end! Again, thank you to those who stuck around, liked, reblogged, and left such lovely comments 💙

28- New Beginnings

...

The gods had blessed their journey with fair weather.

The mountainous skyline was finally in their line of vision after months of travel. The sun followed them, searing them through their wool lined clothes. Most of the men grumbled, removing the layers of heated fabric and leather to find some relief under the sweltering heat.

The water was bluer than Artemis remembered, the colorful fish swimming beside their ships as if greeting them. Their surroundings were vivid and full of color, far from the gray skies that dominated the sky in Norway. The Mediterranean skies were full of unimaginable life.

She brings her eyes to the shadowy figures atop the cliffside. One by one foreign men mounted on impressive horses lined up on the edge of the rocky hill watching the ships head closer to their captured coast line. She was hoping it was a lie, or that perhaps these men had left back to where they came from. But those were childish thoughts, and she couldn't hide her disappointment. She grips tightly at the wool covering her knees, knuckles turning white from the pressure.

"Andalusian's." Ivar comments beside her, the hood of his cloak hiding the seasick look on his face. He watches her features harden, her eyes holding a reckless darkness to them. He reaches over to cover her hand with his own, successfully loosening the tension between her fingers and laces their fingers together.

She lets out a breath through her nose, muttering something that was most certainly insulting towards those men, but remains silent after that.

"They will come to greet us at shore," He says after a moment, "And they will try to threaten us." Artemis finally turns to look at him, tightening her grip on his rough hand.

"Are you worried?" She wanted so much to tease him, but only succeeded in revealing her own concerns. She was the worried one.

Ivar scoffs.

"I command the most powerful army in the world," He boasts, waving his hand about, "There is nothing to fear." Artemis smiles. She always did admire her husband's courage and ambition.

Under Ivar's command was an impressive fleet, accompanied by his best warriors such as Dafi and Whitehair, alongside Bjorn and his men. The oldest Ragnarson joined their expedition without hesitation, honoring the alliance between Kattegat and Hedeby, as well as honoring his own ambitious heart. He loved the Mediterranean.

Bjorn too had his eyes on the cliffside, commanding his men to have their shields at the ready, and Ivar followed suit with his own warriors.

Artemis struggles to remain calm, closing her eyes as the salty wind caresses her heated cheeks, her ears focusing on the soft grunts of the men steering their ships. For a moment her mind wanders back to Kattegat, to Hvitserk who was ruling over the Kingdom in their absence, and most of all, to their child that was left behind for safety. The image of their little princess appears behind her lids, and she wanted so much in that moment to hold her.

"Baby bird," Ivar calls out to her, releasing the hold she had on his fingers to tug the sleeve of her simplistic tunic, "Our daughter is fine." He reassures her. Even now he always seemed to know what she was thinking. He pulls her closer in an embrace so that she may settle against him, planting a kiss to her brow. "You know Hvitserk is protecting her. He loves her as if she were his own."

"Yes, I know." Was her mumbled reply.

"And I'm sure she is having a wonderful time with Asa and Heracles." Artemis listens, but her eyes go back to the men on the cliff side.

"But she is so young, and if we don't return..."

"Artemis." Ivar reprimands her as if he were reprimanding their own child. He never once thought that his daughter would become orphaned while they went on this journey. It was simply a scenario he refused to mull over. He vowed to return to her, no matter the circumstances.

"I miss her." Was all his wife said, resting her head against his shoulder in comfort.

"I know, I miss her too. We will reunite soon enough, hmm?" He lays his head atop of hers, stroking his fingers over her hair, "I promised you long ago we would journey to your homeland. I did not intend to break that promise." Artemis lets out the smallest hint of a smile, lifting Ivar's large hand to place a kiss on it.

The hours passed slowly, until finally they neared the shore. The ships hadn't quite settled onto the sandy bank, and before Ivar could blink, his wife was already splashing into the water, her bow and quiver in hand. He watches her struggle, the water seeping into the material of her thick breeches weighing her down but still, she pushes forward.

Ivar grunts, swinging his legs over the edge of the small boat before stabbing his crutch into the wet sand. He pulls himself up, moving through the shallow water as quickly as he could manage before the waves could set in. He barks out orders, telling his warriors to be alert in case of attack, their swords and shields on hand. Ivar himself was covered in his weapons, his axe and sword hanging from his waist, as well as his usual daggers hidden within his trousers.

Bjorn settles beside his youngest brother, surveying the familiar area as quickly as he could. The nature surrounding them was just as breathtaking as the first time he had seen it.

"Well?" Bjorn questions him, "What do you think?

"You always did dream of sunnier places," Ivar tells him, "I now understand why." The brothers stayed silent for a moment, enjoying the sound of the waves and the squawking of the seagulls soaring above.

"I took her away from her home and you've managed to bring her back," Bjorn comments. He crosses his arms, licking his dry lips before casting down a look towards his brother.

"She deserves it." Ivar replies, not wanting to disturb his wife's peace. They watched her as she reached down to touch the sand, grabbing a handful of the grainy stuff only to watch it slip through her fingers. Quickly she bends to remove the boots from her bare feet to feel the hot sand between her toes.

With a smile he looks on before whispering to himself,

"Welcome home, my love."

...

Ivar's suspicions were correct. The entourage of men from the cliffside met their own, their horses stomping around in an act of intimidation. That didn't work out too well. Ivar, finally within his chariot, smirks. He leans against the railing, already looking like a predator waiting for its prey. It has been quite some time since he's killed anyone.

"Do not taunt them, Ivar." Artemis mutters a warning as she moves to stand beside his chariot, casting him a look when he scoffs in reply before bringing her attention towards the well dressed leader.

He was a man of a darker complexion with equally dark eyes lined in khol. He immediately recognizes Bjorn, the smallest hints of a sneer forming on his lips. It seemed Bjorn had left an impression in the past, and from the looks of it, not a very good one.

"I see you're back, Bjorn Ironside," He grunts, his accent heavy on the northern tongue, "There is no mistaking those ships." Both Ivar and Artemis look at the man before turning to Bjorn in disbelief. Bjorn was not at all phased with seeing this particular man again.

"A pleasant surprise, Abu Hafs," The oldest Ragnarsson says the man's name as greeting, "The years have been good to you," The man barks out a laugh, tilting his head in amusement.

"I can't say the same for you, Viking." He proceeds to rake his eyes over his companions.

"My brother, King Ivar of Kattegat, and his wife, Queen Artemis." Bjorn answers the silent question. The man makes a low noise of confusion, eyes scrutinizing them. How could they be king and queen looking the way they did? The King was quite tall, but leaned heavily on a crutch. Metal wrapped around his legs like iron serpents. The Queen had on as much leather as a man would, wearing the gear of a warrior. The Arab man blinks, thinking what an odd pair of royalty they were. He did not miss the look they both held in their eyes, though he noticed the King's gaze promised far more danger then he let on.

"It is a pleasure, King Ivar, Queen Artemis," He politely greets them with a tiny bow of his head, and the pair return his sentiments. He then shifts his gaze towards their warriors behind them bearing their weapons. "I don't suppose this is a friendly meeting?"

"We're not here to raid." Artemis responds in her native Greek, far too tired of fake pleasantries and small talk. She approaches the man with careful steps, being mindful of the large horse he was mounted on. The horse whinnies, but does nothing more at her presence. Said man was taken aback, his brows shooting up so high they could have hid under his bright orange head wrap.

"You're Greek?" He asks in disbelief, wondering to himself how he hadn't noticed it before.

"Yes," She answers, "From this very island." Her tone was far from agreeable, it could have been picked up from anyone in hearing distance. The leader narrows his eyes, not appreciating her insinuation. He mutters something in Arabic that she couldn't make out, causing his men to snort in quiet laughter.

"Then what are you all here for, woman?" Artemis scowls, pushing down the strong desire to shoot this man with an arrow. She could already sense what he was about and what he thought of the opposite gender. Crossing her arms, Artemis lifts her chin up to look at him directly despite how much shorter she was.

"I seek a blacksmith in one of the main villages in Chania."

"You've come all this way for a blacksmith?" The man replies to her, finally jumping off his horse. He wasn't very tall, much shorter than anticipated, but still, he towered over her.

Ivar immediately moves his chariot forward in response. He picked up on a few words in their conversation, getting a sense of what was being said, and he did not like the sound of it. He steps off the chariot, masking his discomfort well, and stood behind his wife, ready to defend her if need be.

Bjorn stares between the Arab leader and his sister in law, catching very few words as he did not pick up Greek as well as Ivar had.

"We've come for my father."

"Ahh," Then Arab man quickly sweeps his eyes over her again before coming to a conclusion, "You were taken by these people as a slave."

"With all due respect, that is no concern of yours."

"How cunning you must have been to become queen of a foreign people." Artemis blinks, not sure how she should retaliate without potentially endangering them all. She glares at him, and the Arab man smirks back.

"Should I kill him?" Ivar asks her rather loudly, his fingers lightly dancing on her waist, "I could kill him."

"Ivar." Bjorn warns, but is cut short when Artemis removes a hidden dagger from Ivar's side, bringing the pad of her finger to the tip.

"Or I could do it myself." She says casually, speaking as if the man weren't there. She teasingly points the dagger at the Arab man, waiting for him to react. The Andalusian warriors immediately point their weapons at them, swords and bows just a few feet away. Ivar's men did not hesitate in reciprocating their actions, axes glimmering in the sunlight.

Bjorn stomps over to snatch the dagger from Artemis's hand with a hard yank.

"Enough," The older Ragnarsson says, putting a hand up in a form of surrender, "When did you become as impulsive as my brother?"

Suddenly the Arab man barks out another laugh, clearly amused. He orders his men to lower their weapons before putting his hands to his hips.

"I see you both make for better company than Bjorn ever did," He jokes, watching Bjorn furrow his flaxen brows in displeasure before bringing his attention back to Ivar, "Your wife is very vivacious, King Ivar. An admirable trait."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Ivar bites out a quick response, a smirk settling on his lips as he holds her tight.

"Very well, I will accept you are here in search of someone, a certain blacksmith, but what have you to offer in return for allowing you and your men into my lands?" Artemis scoffs, rolling her eyes at the sheer audacity this man had at calling the island his. Before she could spit out a sarcastic comment, Bjorn interjects.

"We wish to trade," He tells him, "I'm sure you will be satisfied with the items we've brought." The leader hums.

"Go on."

"We bring furs from all over Scandinavia," Ivar continues, "The best pelt's of brown bear from Norway." He motions to Dafi, ordering him and a few men to drag a crate off one of the ships. Once opened, Ivar digs a hand inside, pulling out a shiny pelt of fur belonging to a large brown bear. He runs his thumb over the soft hairs, offering the pelt to the Arab man, who took it from him with eager hands.

They all watch the man inspect the fur, impressed with the fine quality. He nods with a grunt of approval, handing Ivar back the pelt.

"Very well," He says, "I will grant you my hospitality," He mounts his horse, steering the beast round with his men following his lead. Picking up the reigns he turns to glance at them, "I humbly welcome you all to the Emirate of Crete."

...

The Emirate of Crete.

Artemis thinks bitterly, her eyes glaring daggers at the Arab leader's back. She didn't like him, she didn't like his men, and she most certainly didn't like his arrogance.

"I fear your face will remain that way." Ivar jokes, peering up at her with his charming smile. It was his attempt to calm her nerves.

"I don't like him."

"Neither do I, my love," He mutters, "Though he trades with us decent goods."

"Slaves?" She mutters defensively, and Ivar thinks that perhaps Bjorn was right, she was taking after him.

"Some slaves, yes," He responds, "Among other items." Artemis only grunts in response. "Such is the way of the world, Artemis, you know this."

"And they will not be as lucky as I." She says, finally deciding to rip her eyes away from the offending man and towards their surroundings.

Part of her didn't want to be there.

How long had she dreamt of this very moment, only to feel like she wanted to run and hide?

4 years?

4 years of sadness, pain, happiness and peace all in one congested mess of emotions that had her questioning her sanity in such moments.

She remembered that day vividly.

It was as if it all occurred just days ago. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could reimagine it all again, the screams, the blood, the tears.

She chooses to watch Ivar's face taking in the foreign sights. It was a lovely distraction. He'd never been this far from home before. Ivar wouldn't admit it, but he was fascinated to be in such a land so unlike his own, where the sun never seemed to set and the heat was beyond anything he'd felt on his pale skin.

He seemed so childlike, like a curious babe entering the world.

Artemis wanted to appreciate such a moment, the rare sight of her husband being absorbed into his surroundings was adorable. He swore no lands could outshine Kattegat, but judging by his curious eyes, he found something close to it.

Finally, her eyes catch the sight of the monastery. That was when the dam of her emotions broke, and she couldn't hold herself together any longer. She fights with herself, the stubborn tears already pooling at the rim of her eyes, threatening to spill. She sniffles, wiping the falling tears angrily. Her hot tears fall against Ivar, droplets landing on his hand.

He gazes up at her again, seeing how she wiped at her face furiously, skin flushed from fighting her emotions. Ivar frowns, taking up her hand to brush a kiss over her knuckles. He lets her have a moment to herself, deciding to wrap an arm about her waist in simple comfort.

Keeping a tight grip on the reigns, he turns to look at the infamous monestary, made of white stone and now donning a symbol that he knew was not that of the Christian's.

Abu Haf's men led the procession along into the bustling village, the roads small and rocky under the wheels of the chariot. It looked war torn, signs of battle and struggle through every corner. The people gaze at Ivar's men with wide eyes. Many glared, and many others hid in their homes and shops. Just like the Andalusian's, they were not welcomed.

It was a short ride. Bjorn took it upon himself to stay back and watch over the ships with a few of his own warriors under the watchful eye of the Andalusian men.

A few moments later and the procession stops in the main square of the village.

"The blacksmith," Abu Hafs says from atop his horse. He points to the familiar shop, but Artemis already knew the way. She grips Ivar's shoulder tightly in her nervousness. Everything appeared the same, though the stones were a bit eroded since she was there last. Smoke escaped from the chimney above, a clear sign that someone was at work.

"Artemis?" Ivar questions, moving to push a few stray hairs behind her ear. She turns to him with shining eyes, a look of fear settling within the dark pools. She hadn't looked that frightened in such a long time. It broke his heart to see her in such grief.

"Are you ready?"

"No," She whispers, "No, I don't think I am." Her feet seemed rooted to the base of his chariot, and it appeared she wouldn't be moving for a while. Ivar stood with a grunt, quickly placing a kiss to her cheek before stepping off into the direction of the shop.

"Ivar?" She calls out to him frantically, "What are you doing?"

"Going to meet my father in law, is it not obvious?" He turns around to look at her with a smile, "He is part of the family, no?"

"Yes but-"

"You come in whenever you're ready, hmm? Dafi, watch over her." Ivar orders the warrior, giving a quick glance to Abu Hafs, his eyes sending a warning.

Once he pushes the door, he immediately catches sight of an older man. He was of moderate height and quite burly for his age. He worked as every blacksmith would, dipping a sword into a bucket of cold water. The steam rose and cleared before Ivar decided to speak.

"Giannis?"

The older man turns around, immediately stiffening at the sight of him. He stares at Ivar long and hard, raking his eyes over his form before whispering.

"Viking."

Ivar smirks, hobbling in to get a closer look at the man who truly had a strong resemblance to his wife. It was unmistakable.

He searches his mind for the proper words before speaking.

"Your daughter has been waiting for this moment a long time," He tells him, finding a stool to sit on, "And in some ways, I have as well. She speaks fondly of you." It was quite amusing really, to see the man as frozen as a deer moments before its death by an arrow.

The man says nothing, his hand twitching over the pommel of the sword left to cool in the bucket. He scrutinizes the northerner before him and his calm actions. Ivar doesn't bat an eye when the man lifts the sword in a defensive stance, pointing it towards him.

"I want no trouble." The man, Giannis, says, thick brows furrowing when Ivar scoffs, waving his hand about as he usually did.

"I'm not here to cause trouble." The blacksmith was even more confused, slowly lowering the sword cautiously. Isn't causing trouble what Vikings did?

"You know, she is a queen now." Ivar tells him, choosing to observe his surroundings. It was a quaint little forge, supplied with what was necessary, similar to the one back home. He could already imagine Artemis scurrying about in there once upon a time.

The man blinks, quite stunned into silence. Frankly, it appeared as if he were struck in the face. He couldn't fathom what was more odd, a pillaging Northman sitting before him, or the fact that he spoke Greek. Both were equally odd.

"You understand me, yes?" Ivar questions him, eyebrows raised. He leans his arms on his crutch, waiting for the man to answer him. The blacksmith nods, placing the sword atop the table before removing his gloves. He then glances at Ivar's braces and crutch, finally bringing his gaze to look him in the eyes. The same eyes of his wife.

"You like them?" A smile begins to curl at the corners of Ivar's lips, "Your daughter's creation. You taught her well."

"How do you know my daughter?" The man's voice was suddenly like a whip. Any normal person would have flinched, but Ivar was far from normal. Ivar lets out a chuckle, as it became clear to him where Artemis had inherited her temper from.

"She is my wife," Ivar articulates as best he could, enjoying the way the man's face went from panic, to an even greater panic, "And that makes you my father in law."

"What?" The blacksmith sneers.

"As well as a grandfather." Ivar continues his chatter. The man was greatly overwhelmed. He runs a hand through his graying hair, his aged skin seemingly more pronounced as he ponders the situation.

"I don't understand," He says, "My daughter was killed by your people."

"She was captured," Ivar corrects, though not very happy to have said that, "And is very much alive." The older man grunts, picking up the sword and placing it back into the bucket with a force that surprised Ivar.

The blacksmith says nothing, walking toward the far corner of the forge and quickly producing a clay jug along with 2 clay cups. He pours himself wine, quickly gulping it down before filling the other cup and handing it over to Ivar.

"Drink."

Ivar sniffs at the wine out of habit, not much a fan of the fermented grape drink as his wife was, but decides to take a sip.

"It has been nearly 4 years," The man begins, bringing a stool over to sit a few feet from Ivar, "Artemis is dead. I have come to terms with it." He pours himself another cup and downs it with a deep grunt, holding the cup so tightly Ivar thought it might shatter in his grasp. "We haven't seen your people around here in quite a while, so tell me, has a man of the North come to kill me, or pester me, hm?"

"Neither." Was Ivar's simple reply.

"Then what is it you want? Weapons?"

"Just a man wanting to reunite his wife with her family." The older man was skeptical, looking at Ivar with narrowed eyes.

"If what you claim is true then where is she?"

"Right outside."

As if on cue, Artemis bursts into the forge, her chest heaving as if she ran for miles. She swallows thickly, her throat feeling dry from the anxiousness.

Both Ivar and her father turn to look towards the outburst, only to find a nervous young woman wringing her hands together as she slowly steps forward.

She didn't know what to think, what to say, what would he-

Her fathers eyes found hers instantly, and the cup fell from his hand, shattering across the floor in pieces. She takes a step back on instinct, her eyes following the shattered clay pieces that scattered towards her feet.

"I must be dreaming," The blacksmith says, shooting up from the stool, yet makes no movement to approach her, "The devil tests me." Ivar snorts immediately, bringing them both out from their haze.

"This is no work of the devil, I assure you." He tells him.

Father and daughter merely stare, eyes battling each other, waiting to see which one of them was the illusion.

"Father," Artemis's voice cracks, "I thought you were..." She stops herself, choking back a sob. She couldn't speak after that, giving in to the grief of painful separation. It hurt Ivar to see her in such a state. He hated it. He attempts to reach for her but stops himself short when her father finally strides forward, grabbing her into a tight embrace.

"My sweet girl." He struggles to say through his own sorrow, enveloping his daughter in a tight embrace. This was the moment that Artemis had been waiting for, the moment she thought impossible. To feel her father's touch again was almost bittersweet, as her new home was worlds apart from his.

After a few moments her father pulls away from her.

"Let me get a proper look at you," He says, holding her at arm's length, "You've not changed, though your state of dress is certainly different." He gives her a teary smile, hearing the tiny hiccup of a laugh within her sobs. Her delicate face hadn't changed much, but it was obvious to him that she had matured. She was far from the young girl he remembered. Her eyes held many tales from across the seas.

"This Viking says you are a queen, that you are his wife." Her father's tone was gentle as he was known to have a soft nature by those who knew him well. His previous panic with Ivar had subsided and was replaced with a new found curiosity. Artemis nods, wiping her face free of tears.

"His name is Ivar," She begins, "It is true...I am his wife. We rule a kingdom in the far North." She tries to keep her voice leveled, wanting to be strong. She was proud of being wife to her husband. Turning to look back at Ivar he offers her a reassuring smile. He was listening intently, making sure to follow their conversation. She smiles back, feeling much more confident.

"I thought I would never see you again," She admits, turning back towards the older man "And when I was told about the Andalusian's, I assumed nothing but the worst for you." Her father nods, running a hand down his face.

"It has been a challenging few years," He admits, "But we still persevere. We always do." He then turns away from them for a moment to collect his thoughts, a question burning in his mind. He turns back round with a sigh, placing a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I was told you have a child?"

"A daughter, Sól," Artemis smiles at the thought of her little girl, "She is back home with Ivar's brother for safety." Her father hums in response, though he was saddened at his daughter's idea of home.

"Home? Is it not here in Chania?"

"This place is just a memory of what it once was. There is nothing for me here. There is nothing for you here either, father." Her father frowns at her response. It was true. Though the Andalusian's ransacked their island, it was still home.

"Her home is where her family is," Ivar finally interjects, "And her family is in Norway." The older man gives Ivar a stern look.

"Tell me, Viking, do you know the pain of losing a child?" His voice was calm, but behind the cool exterior was a slow boiling rage. Ivar clenches his jaw, his lips forming into a tight line. He gives the man a hard look before bringing his gaze towards his worried wife, and then towards his hands gripping his crutch.

"No," Ivar answers bitterly, "I do not know of such pain. Nor do I ever wish to feel it with my own child."

"I have lost a wife, a son, and for 4 agonizing years I believed I had lost a daughter," The blacksmith explains, grunting as he sits back down upon the stool opposite of Ivar, "Your people have caused damage to many hearts here." Ivar remains silent, fingers tightening over his crutch while he listens to the words of the old man.

"Forgive me for wanting my daughter to return home." He raises his eyes to glance at his daughter, who stood beside the northern as if she were always meant to be there, "But I could already see that remaining here is not part of her plan," He sighs with smile and a shake of his head," Artemis has always been a force to be reckoned with."

"Oh?" Ivar grins, bringing his eyes to his wife. Her cheeks burned red.

"Father-"

"Did she ever tell you of the butcher boy? Scared the poor boy to death when she tried bringing a hammer to his head. Put me in much trouble with the boy's father." Ivar grins hearing the tale, his fingers trailing over Artemis's lower back.

"I would very much like to hear more of these stories." He laughs at his wife's embarrassment, squeezing her tight from round her waist.

Her father beckons his daughter forward, offering his aged hand for her to grasp,"Oh daughter," He stands, embracing her again, "My heart both sings and weeps for you." She hears the pain in his voice, the grief of an old man at wits end.

"You mustn't worry for me. I am well and Ivar takes good care of me."

"He treats you well?"

"Like a queen." She responds, and the father could feel her smiling against his tunic.

"And your daughter?"

"Takes after her mother," Ivar answers, "She is the jewel of Kattegat." The blacksmith smiles, quiet content with the answers received. They stayed silent for a few moments before he lets out another sigh, speaking with slight amusement in his tone.

"Well then," He begins, looking down at Artemis, "I suppose I can't threaten to marry you off to the butcher's boy anymore, hmm?"

Artemis breaks out into a smile more blinding than the Mediterranean sun.

...

@heavenly1927​ @didiintheblog​ @leilabeaux​ @jzr201​ @inforapound​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @rastakami23 @ostra814​ @zumzum96​

[chaos-caffeinated]

The Illegitimate Son

Rating: T; General Angst

Word Length: 4,265 Words 

Chapter: Chapter 4, Part 2/3; The Intervention

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          He shyly knocked before poking his head in to see the counselor, and hero, sitting behind his desk, waiting for him. Hound Dog met his gaze and waved him in, taking note of Aaron’s attempt to make himself more presentable -washed face, swept back hair, straightened uniform- as he sat in the plush seat across from his desk.

          "Aaron, right?" He asked. Aaron only nodded politely in response, his body tense.

          Organizing his thoughts and being careful not to intimidate the young redhead, Hound Dog relaxed his shoulders and softened his scrutinizing glare. Aaron kept twiddling his thumbs, nervously glancing back towards the door he entered through. The tension was palpable, and it came from only one person.

          “Aaron, you aren’t in any sort of trouble.”

          The young male relaxed, a heavy sigh escaping his once pursed lips as he leaned back into the chair, but he still seemed on guard.

          It would be a gradual process, but Hound Dog was patient, he had to be. Partially because his Quirk made him incoherent when he got upset, but also because of his background as a counselor. He knew Aaron would answer in his own time, all he had to do was ask the right questions at the right time.

          “I just want to know how you’re doing. It can be difficult adjusting to a new school, let alone a new country. So, are you well?”

          His body retreated into the chair.

          His frame shrunk slightly.

          His eyes glued to the floor.

          "I am." Aaron blatantly lied, biting the inside of his lip, "I'm just...it's hard to get accustomed to... a new culture."

          This is good, he may be lying, but at least he’s talking. And that is all Hound Dog needs.

          "New culture?”

          “Um… well, not really the culture… uh, heroes? They’re seen…differently, I guess.”

          Hound Dog was silent as he thought of his reply, watching himself. “Aaron, does this difference in perspective have anything to do with this?”

          He pulled out two papers, placing them in front of Aaron and patiently waited.

          Hesitant, Aaron glanced at the fine lines of the papers, the words for him blurry but recognizable. Getting a closer look, his attention was focused on the paper that was written on. It was filled out in its entirety, even the margins had scrawling. Finally, he brought himself to look at the blank paper, his paper, beside it.

          "You left yours blank, yet you wrote your name on it and gave it back. Wouldn't it have been easier if you just kept the paper?" His voice was softer, and he leaned forward.

          Aaron clenched his jaw, he didn't want this right now, he wanted to leave. Looking anywhere besides the counselor in front of him, he shrugged his shoulders and sunk back into his seat.

          "I suppose you want to leave, want to talk about anything else, but Aaron,” Hound Dog took a deep breath, “is that really what you need?”

          Aaron flinched again and glanced at his eyes, he wanted him to be cold and critical, intimidating and unable to speak properly like the other day, his eyes boring straight through him but… they were so soft and filled with genuine worry.

          He didn't like that at all.

          "I’m not feeling well, and I'm sorry I brought it to the campus."

          "Why are you apologizing for something you didn’t do?"

          Aaron's lips quivered and he looked down, his eyes beginning to tear up. "Because... Because U.A. is a prestigious school and... I don't deserve to be here… I only applied because I thought I wouldn’t pass, and the only reason I even had to apply was because my mom got a job here and my brother moved here. I’m a skater, not a hero and I have too many problems and god dammit I shouldn’t be feeling sorry!”

          He shut down; anxiety turned to anger. Aaron hated that he felt sorry for himself. More important people had greater issues, so why should he worry about himself? He didn’t matter, and he shouldn’t.

          Should he?

          "So, you think yourself unworthy?"

          Aaron shook his head, "No I... I feel weird, when I know I’m not the only one that's having trouble and I feel bad for... feeling bad about me."

          That… was not what Hound Dog was expecting, but it was progress and that is what he wanted.

          "So, to sum things up,” he began, organizing Aaron’s jumbled thoughts, "you don’t like feeling sorry for yourself when you ‘should’ be helping someone else?"

          Aaron nodded, but the way he said ‘should’ stirred something inside of him.

          "Do you have someone you trust?"

          He nodded again. "My mom and my brother."

          "Do you talk to them about your troubles and feelings?"

          "No, and that’s the last thing I would ever do. At least…” he trailed off, unable to discern what he was thinking.

          "What do you mean, do they pry into your life or…?”

          "No, I just feel pressured and... and yesterday was what drove me over the edge, I guess. … I'm sorry, you probably have more important things to do and I don’t want you to waste your time on me." Aaron shifted forward, about to stand up and exit before Hound Dog could stop him.

          But he had everything he wanted, and knew what Aaron needed. Though, he did have to stop himself from instinctively growling at the kid when he tried to ditch.

          "Aaron, I assure you that you're not wasting my time. I take my job seriously, when a student needs help, I'm there to provide that help -whether they need someone to talk to, career advice, or simply just to vent- that is what I am here for.”

          Aaron sat back in his seat. He felt, well he couldn’t tell how he felt. This was different than when Aria or Faian said he could talk to them. He thought they said that out of obligation, but…

          “Even the top hero students need someone to talk to. It's why I'm here, to help you students out and, right now, I’m helping you. Even if you just want to scream and get it all out… Though, I do ask you warn me so I can cover my ears.”

          Aaron had the slightest hint of a smile, almost impossible to see if one didn’t know what to look for, but Hound Dog did.

          “With that said, would you like to talk about yesterday?”

          That small smile quickly vanished, and he stayed quiet for a moment, pursing his lips and taking a deep breath before releasing it in a heavy sigh. He shifted in his seat some more, finally muttering “Will anyone know?”

          Hound Dog shook his head. "Nothing ever comes out of this office; of that I can promise.

          Aaron nodded slowly, gathering himself for what he would say. A few minutes passed when tears began to stream down his face. "Uhm... yesterday...” He hesitated, worried, but he had to do this. "Yesterday I found out that my dad is alive and ... very well, actually…"

          "Oh?” Hound Dog was surprised, but the lack of a father figure did explain some things. He urged Aaron on, kindly, of course.

          "I had never met my dad, and he doesn’t know I exist."

          Hound Dog was putting the pieces together, but he wanted Aaron to tell it at his own pace, so he continued to listen.

          "My mom..." Aaron placed his hands on his knees, gripping his slacks tightly. "She had a very different mentality back then, before she met my best friend and later adopted him, and before she took therapy, too.”

          Hound Dog nodded, signaling that he was listening. "What happened?"

          Aaron paused for a moment. "She had this thought, this… fear… that the person she cared for most wouldn’t be able to keep doing what they did forever. So, she decided that she would carry this baby, his baby, and train them, train me until I was exactly like that person… like my father.”

          Aaron’s tears wouldn’t stop, and he had to take a moment to collect himself. Hound Dog offered him some tissues and reminded him that they had all the time in the world.

          He could, and will, wait.

          “I honestly don't remember much of it since I was pretty young, or maybe she felt guilty and hid it but..." He pursed his lips again, shaking his head slowly as he rested his intertwined fingers in his lap. He couldn’t bear to look into Hound Dog’s kind eyes, so he kept his focus below at his chest.

          "It's hard to think about it. That I was the product of some delusion and that I was being groomed for some prophecy that never existed…” Aaron’s words became harsh, his anger rising again. “What if I fulfilled it? What if I became a puppet for my own mother because she was afraid?”

          Hound Dog grew wary of the sharper tone in Aaron’s voice. He knew Aaron needed to let it out, but he had to make sure he didn’t hurt himself in the process.

          “Well, did any part of it come true?”

          Aaron was caught off guard, his demeanor softening. "I-I don't know anymore... that's why I wasn’t sure about going to U.A., but I couldn’t leave Faian behind. It’s why I applied to both the hero and general departments, so I could stay with him.”

          "You really trust him, your brother. Your mother must trust him a lot, too.”

          "They want the best for me, but I don't even know what's best for me. So, yesterday with the assignment, I didn't know what to write down. I know I’m not going to be a skater forever, the only career I thought about was coaching but… I don't want to be a coach. I want to help people, like really help them… I want…” Aaron rested his arms on his thighs as he paused, thinking. "I'm not special, but sometimes I think that I can be like Faian…” that last part slipped out, and he stopped talking.

          "I know he is your brother and in the hero course, but what else can you tell me about him?” Hound Dog asked.

          Aaron was honestly surprised to hear that question. Coming from a ‘middle town’ (Faian liked to be deliberate/specific), most everyone knew everyone, and he and Faian were amongst the most well-known. Though, it made sense that all the way in Japan, he would be unknown.

          "He's my best friend… my brother, has been since kindergarten. Our mom adopted him when he was 8 after… After an accident.” Aaron was a little hesitant talking about Faian, concerned he might share something he was entrusted.

          Hound Dog took note of this and thought it may be a good idea to speak to him, too.

          “Yet, despite everything he’s been through, he’s still just so… awesome. He’s compassionate and intelligent and so powerful, but he’s humble and loves helping people better themselves. He even has his moments, his lows, but he always gets right back up, stronger than ever and just…” Aaron had to stop himself, worried he was going too far, but…

          When he was talking about Faian, he realized how much in common he had with him, more than he previously thought. ‘Two sides of the same coin’ came to mind, but he internally scoffed at the idea.

          "Interesting… Does he share his troubles with you or your mom?”

          "Mm, rarely. He’s strong enough to handle some things alone, but he knows when to reach out.” Aaron realized the irony in that statement, but he continued, hoping Hound Dog would ignore it.

          He didn’t.

          “Our mom once told me she noticed the closeness of the three of us. Like, we don't necessarily have to say something, we just know, sorta like a sixth sense. But Faian is really smart, intelligent, and when I'm with him and my mom I just feel... out of my league? I don’t feel stupid, but I feel like I don’t have to talk, or even be there… Like the two can manage without me. I even feel the same with Shinsou, with how reserved and determined he is.”

          He was surprise by how much more willing Aaron was to talk about his loved ones. Admittedly, it sounded like an inferiority complex to Hound Dog at first, but with the way Aaron spoke with genuine respect and love about his family, he began to think otherwise. He thought that Aaron might be fascinated with them, that he wants to prove that he is just as good. Or perhaps he feels like they aren’t letting him flourish, having such influence on his perceptions. Of course, it was too early for Hound Dog to make any conclusion, but he knew one thing:

          Aaron knows what he wants and how to get there, he just needs a little push, so to speak.

          “Perhaps, then, you want a change of pace? It sounds like you’ve spent so long with one type of person that you could use a fresh view. Some new, more extroverted friends.”

          Aaron thought for a while and shrugs indecisively. "I don't know," his confusion evident, "I just know that... that I'm social. At least, I try to be. I’m always moving about, trying to make small talk with new people and even interacting with my… uhm… my fans…” He whispered that last part, his cheeks dusted pink.

          "Oh? Fans? " Hound Dog asked, amused. "I take it they’re fans of your skating?”

          Aaron's eyebrows raised slightly; would this be how people talked with his mom? Like they were talking to a friend? Just sharing more and more as they grew more comfortable. He had watched her go into her psych mode, the almost genuine smiles and laughs, something that would seem incredibly real to anyone but her own children who see her real smile every day.

          Hound Dog watched Aaron's gaze focus on his desk, and he leaned forward a bit. "Aaron...?"

          "It's just... weird that they're so interested in me, either for my skating, or my looks." He had a proud smile for a second, but quickly dropped it as he continued. "I do really appreciate their support, but sometimes I feel like they don’t really care about me as a person. Like I’m just there for their entertainment."

          Hound Dog rested his hand beneath his chin and smiled, chuckling even. "You're a little skeptical about their motives for supporting you, huh? Sounds like a hero thing. Do you mind if I…?” He pointed at his computer and Aaron looked at it for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows and tilting his head slightly, silently asking for clarification.

          "Well, I'm pretty sure there's something I can find that'll make you understand the real reason you have fans.”

          "Like what?" Aaron was lost completely. How did they get from him being a mess to talking about his fans?

          "You’ll see soon enough but let me ask you something else while I do this. Why did you join ice-skating? You said your mom was going to turn you into a legacy for your father, but your life seems to revolve around ice-skating.”

          Aaron hummed softly, smiling faintly at the thought. "Oh… I was 3, maybe 4? At that time my mom was either working or taking night classes and she paid the neighbor to babysit me. She was an old lady ... Lucia? I think that was her name, I don't remember her much, but I do remember this one night when we were both watching TV.”

          Wistfulness spread across Aaron’s face, his eyes staring off into the distance as he imagined the scene in his head. He didn’t remember much from his toddler years, naturally, but he remembered this.

          “She was changing channels to see what interested us until I saw a flash of something bright and shiny. I asked if she could turn it back and..." His smile grew, his eyes held an enchanting gleam as he reminisced about one of his defining moments. "She was so beautiful, her dancing so wonderful with the way she moved her legs and body… like it was easy to skate. She had a snow Quirk, so every move she made there was snow coming from her hands and drifting behind her, catching the light and making her look ethereal..."

          Hound Dog was listening intently, seemingly done with his search. He watched the young male wave his hands about, as if he was mimicking what he was remembering.

          "She captured my attention, and it was like ... like I wanted to be her. She was smiling and having so much fun, like she was made of confidence..." he trailed off and sighed dreamily. "It was a night I never forgot ... and I was so excited to show off to my mom- I was twirling and dancing about the whole time until she finally returned, a huge smile on her face as she congratulated me, but … knowing what I know now, I’m thinking she was hiding how upset she was..." He slouched back, wiping some tears from his face as he looked up at Hound Dog, finally meeting his gaze ... and realizing just how massive he is.

          "Just look where you are now: A skater for almost a decade; numerous awards; fans all over; and now you’re attending one of the best schools in Japan, regardless of whether you want to be a hero or not. And you think your mom is upset with your choices?”

          "Sometimes I think she…” Aaron couldn’t bring himself to finish his thought.

          "What if I told you that smile she had when you first discovered ice skating was genuine?”

          Aaron was confused all over again, cocking his head and asking the counselor what he meant.

          "Your mom clearly loves you dearly, whether she had you only to fulfill a fantasy or not, she didn’t interfere with your choice to become a skater. If it took her adopting Faian to change, then it only shows just how uncommitted she was to that delusion and how much she wanted you to become your own person.” Hound Dog went back to his computer, bringing up his original search, but he wasn’t done sharing with Aaron.

          “U.A. is a school of opportunities; we prepare students for a variety of careers ranging from heroics to business to design. Parents often try to control their children by choosing the choices they present them. Yes, your mom didn’t start off as a regular parent, much less a good one, but she obviously wants to rectify that and let you be you, whatever you may choose to be. She likely abandoned her plan as soon as she saw those bright blue eyes of yours open for the first time. Do you think she would have gone back to school to support you? Or let someone else take care of you when she wanted a very specific outcome?”

          At this point, Aaron was beginning to doubt everything, again, unsure of what to make of his life. On the one hand, his mother did only have him out of a grand delusion, possibly faking all the times she was happy when he wanted to do anything other than heroics, but on the other… She actually loved him and wanted him to write his own story, doing everything she could to fix her mistake and prioritize him.

          He didn’t know which version seemed more real.

          “She probably would've trained you and it is far too common for parents to force their ideals and beliefs onto their children. And what happens then? Maybe the child will be like they wanted, a puppet they alone control and empower to stroke their own egos, or perhaps that child grows up aloof and imbittered, doing all they can to further distance themselves from their heritage. There will always be a point when the child will question the decisions, the abuse, the hate, but whether they do anything about it is impossible to say.”

          Aaron was shocked at what Hound Dog was saying. He had always thought of himself as a burden, and when he learned about his father and the circumstances regarding his birth, he felt as if everyone would be better off without him. But after everything he’d heard, Aaron couldn’t believe just how wrong he had been, and how right Hound Dog is.

          “You, however… We are all given the power to choose, but rarely can we choose our choices. What's stopping you now is doubt, doubt that you’re good enough, doubt that you matter. That doubt is holding you back and eating away at all that you could be. Your mom changed, your brother loves you, and the only reason you think otherwise is because you don’t talk to them. Now, I’ve found what I was looking for, but I want you to reflect on what I said for a few moments.”

          Aaron was speechless, his mouth agape. Was he truly that afraid? Was he so full of self-doubt that he blinded himself to the truth? But … there was still the matter of Faian. He thought he felt jealous… Jealous not just of his powerful Quirk, but of his technique and knowledge and determination and and and…

          Jealous of how he always brought smiles to the faces of those he helped…

          "Hound Dog ... what about ... Faian?"

          He paused for a moment as he was turning his computer screen. "Faian. What about him?"

          “Am I really jealous of him?”

          "Hm, on a counseling level, yes, I do think you are jealous of him.” Aaron frowned but it quickly changed to intrigue as Hound Dog continued, “But on a personal level, I think you’re jealous of what he represents.”

          "So, it’s not that I’m jealous of him and the things he can do, I’m jealous of the fact that he’s a … s-symbol…” Aaron stumbled around that last part, but before it could be questioned, he hastily asked “But isn’t jealousy wrong?”

          "Hm… Well, that's really up to you. It's okay to be jealous, healthy even, in small doses. It can inspire you to better yourself, to reflect on what you have and what you can do to improve yourself and others, but if you let it control you? If all you want to do is be better than him and prove that you are the one who should be getting the attention, then you risk hurting the ones you love as you go to further extremes to do so.”

          "No, I don't ... I don't want to be better than him... I just want to know what I can… I just want to be able to help and know that I am capable of it.”

          "In order to do that, you’ll need to work on your confidence. If you don’t think you can do something, why should someone else think you can? Here, I think now is the time to show you.” He beckoned Aaron to the turned monitor, pulling up a video.

          The thumbnail was of a kid, smiling and holding up a pair of signed ice-skating shoes. It must have been recorded on a computer webcam, since the kid looked like he was in a bedroom with posters on the wall…

          Posters of ice skaters, and the most common ones featured a young male with blond hair, red in the more recent ones.

          "So, I know I'm not supposed to be on here after my bedtime, but I just wanted to thank Aaron Granchester for saying hi to me at the State Championships!!! He was just like ... like ahh..." The young boy struggled to describe his feelings or what he had seen, but he was shouting in excitement, nearly falling out of his seat as he gushed. "So cool!! The way he skated and moved on the ice! The way he just had fun and smiled and and and just- Everything was so awesome!! Here, we even took a picture with him! I'll be back!" And he scurried off camera.

          As the video played, Aaron teared up, one hand over his mouth in surprise as the other pulled at the hem of his uniform. He sobbed softly, staring into the kid's eyes, recognizing the look he had … for it was the same one he had over a decade ago. He looked down, trying to collect himself in the few seconds the child had ran off.

          The boy returned and held up his mother’s tablet, the one Aaron remembered her holding as her son ran up to ask him for a photo. On its screen was a picture of him kneeling next to the boy, a huge grin on both their faces. "Look! Can you guys see? He's so cool and amazing!! Everyone likes him, well, not everyone and they’re wrong but still! He’s just the best and- Ahhh!!!!” He beamed with joy. "So friggin’ awesome!!"

          "Language, Trance!"

          The boy gasped before shouting back "Sorry mom!" as he looked to the side then back at the camera. "But yeah … I wanna be just like him when I grow up!!! He even gave me his skates and signed them for when I fit in them! I can’t wait to start practicing!!!”

          Hound Dog paused the video, the boy’s massive grin and shining eyes frozen on the screen.

          Aaron knew what he was talking about, he remembered that day. It was the State Championships… and he had just won 1st place.

---

Hope you all enjoy part 2/3 this week! One more to go, then we’ll be bringing back Adamance of a Dragon!

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

More than frivolity

(Hayffie ❤️. — I wrote this fic in the spirit of shared little headcanons and with gratitude for that sweet  @hayffiebird who motivates me to continue writing. — Ellie, your remarkable creations and compassionate presence keep helping me feel that maybe... “It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields... and eating the first of the strawberries with cream.” — I don’t know if hope can transcend the depths of extreme trauma. That transcendence has not yet been my experience, but you’ve been inspiring me lately to not lose sight of the possibility. Thank you, dearie.)

***

Through a whiskey fog, he felt her eyes on him.

Again.

All day she’d been hovering, dictating “musts” and “must nots.” And not just to the tributes.

“...Wear the navy blue coat. No, not THAT one. The one with pinstripes. It makes you look taller. And wear the silver tie that shimmers when it catches the light. It draws attention down from that chin you refuse to have manicured. Just two millimeters shorter is all I’m asking, and you balk as if I’m suggesting you cut off your head. Scuffed shoes?? Absolutely not! After all my efforts to make you presentable, you want to wear THOSE old things?! The black leather wingtips will be perfect. And, for goodness sake, comb your hair. It appears as if some sort of rodent nested in it last night...”

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 71st Hunger Games.

Haymitch sank into the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. The black shoes, the pinstriped coat, and the silver tie were all off now. The kids were in bed, and he was no longer on the clock. He could ignore her.

He took a swallow of whiskey and tried to ignore her.

She smelled faintly like cherry lollipops from the sweet shop back home. She drew her feet up beside her, and her knees shifted toward him. They brushed his thigh for an instant before she inched them away.

She was impossible to ignore.

He took another drink, closed his eyes, and awaited an additional onslaught of directives.

Effie’s clipboard lay abandoned on her lap as she examined the contours of his face. He was probably too drunk to notice her attention. If he noticed, she could say she was planning his attire for the following day. Her truth was that memories of those contours had haunted her the past year. Now he was here again in person, and she was taking in that reality.

Had she ever been turned on before by the spot where a man’s earlobe curves into his jaw? It sounded ridiculous. Nonetheless it was happening inside her. Her perusal shifted to his hairline, and her fingertips followed. What am I doing?

He shivered as her nails touched his scalp. He’d expected nagging — not this. This was the kind of sensation he experienced in dreams that made him wake up ready to fuck somebody. But he always woke up alone. He made sure of that.

Now he wasn’t asleep, and he wasn’t alone, and he was feeling this. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to face her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking about washing your hair.”

Of course. “Always looking for something to fix.”

She continued the caress. “I’m just wondering how it would feel — to do it. Don’t you ever just wonder?”

Yeah, he wondered how it would feel to do it with her. When he woke up ready to fuck someone, lately he always thought about her.

“Will you let me?” she asked.

Hell, yes. ...Wait...  “What?”

“Will you let me wash your hair?”

He didn’t need to look away from her eyes to know the details of her body. He’d been glancing at her all day. Peacock blue eyelashes matched her dress with feathers stitched in strategic places. Her wig was platinum like the rings on Capitol fingers. It was late, and her makeup was worn out. He pictured pink seeping through it if he could make her blush. Her lipstick coated the rim of her teacup. Her lips were almost raw. And kissable. Too kissable.

“Nobody washes my hair but me, sweetheart.” It was the safe answer. But he didn’t tell her to stop touching him, because the longer she kept at it, the better it felt.

Abruptly, she stopped and folded her hands over her clipboard. “It was just a thought.” A fool’s thought. Of course he’d say ‘no.’

He didn’t want her to stop. Shit. He took a swig so long the liquor burned his throat. “You can wash my hair, but I have two conditions. One, I don’t want to smell like perfume or fruit when you’re done. And, two, while you’re washing MY hair, I get to see YOURS. Not *that* thing.” He scrutinized her wig.

He’d seen her hair before, a decade ago, when it was teased and curled and sprayed to perfection. She didn’t have the tools for that here since wigs were the fashion now. So if she agreed, he’d be seeing her plain and wispy and nothing special. The voice of insecurity berated her.

“I don’t know...”

“Then forget it. I’m comfortable right here on the couch.”

He drank, and she watched his throat. She focused on the three open buttons of his shirt, counting them down and back up again. His skin was weathered just the right amount to make her want to crawl out of herself and slip inside with him. She wanted to touch more than the stiff bend of his elbow, which she curled her fingers through when courting potential sponsors.

She wanted more with him than artifice. For the past year, she’d been irritated, embarrassed by her desire. Yet the want itself was more overwhelming than any irritation or embarrassment she felt about it.

Effie set her clipboard on the coffee table and dropped the first hairpin onto it. “I don’t want to ‘forget it’.”

He gaped as she slid the pins out and lifted her wig off. She shook out her hair, bending forward and quickly back up. The maneuver thrust the feathers adorning her chest into prominence, and he wanted to see all of her at once.

She fluffed her hair like a preening bird. The color was deeper than he remembered from that long-ago summer when she was 18 and barely old enough for him to be looking at her the way he did. Her hair was golden now, like late afternoon sun reflecting off the endless fields of wheat they passed as the train traveled alongside District 9... and like the honey he’d spread on a slice of fresh bread that morning.

“I don’t want to forget it either,” he said.

She reached for his whiskey. Their fingers brushed as she took it from him. She gulped a mouthful and choked down the cough that threatened to follow. She capped the bottle and set it on the table beside her clipboard. “If you stop drinking, just for tonight, then you might remember this.”

If he wasn’t drunk on the look of her hair alone, then he would have protested. In that moment, he’d do almost anything she’d ask. That recognition made him nervous.

“Follow me.” She stood up and moved through the dining room on stocking-clad feet.

He followed in socks. The walls had ears, but this act was quiet. Suddenly he wanted to keep it that way. “One more condition,” he said, “No talking.”

“But—“

“You don’t need to use your mouth to wash my hair.”

She pursed her lips. Her silence reflected her acquiescence. In the kitchen, she found a wooden chair used by the avoxes, and she held it out for him to carry. He took it, and she lead him back through the common rooms and down the hallway to her bedroom.

The layout was nearly identical to the room next door where he’d slept every July for 20 years. In all that time, he’d never been in the escort’s room. The space was Effie’s now, filled with delicate things he would have looked at more closely if she hadn’t ushered him straight through to her bathroom. Colorful robes and fluffy white towels hung on the wall. Dozens of shiny, fragrant bottles were lined up on the granite countertop. Haymitch stood there out of his element, holding the chair, unsure about what to do.

Mercifully she took it from him and positioned it with the back against the sink. She folded a towel in half and draped it from the edge of the counter over the back of the chair. As he sat down, he wondered when she’d done this before and with whom. He didn’t know why that mattered to him, but it did.

“You’re going to have to slouch,” she whispered, putting gentle pressure on his shoulder, “That shouldn’t be a problem for YOU.”

Smart-ass. He slunk down until the nape of his neck rested on the folded towel. She reached across him and cradled his head. Her forearm pressed against his cheek, and the scent of cherry candy hit him again. Her skin was soft. Beneath all those peacock feathers and that corset, she was surely the softest thing in this forsaken place.

She turned on the faucet and let it run. Then she let go of him.

“Where are you going?” He should have kept his mouth shut because he sounded like he cared too much about this. Like SHE was doing HIM a favor, rather than the other way around.

“Not far.” Stifling a chuckle, she opened a cabinet and pulled out a plastic tumbler.

Then she was back, even closer than before, and he recognized how much he wanted her there. He was sober enough to know this whole thing was probably a mistake but not sober enough to call it off.

When the water poured over his scalp, it was the dream world again. Warm shivers, ease, pleasure... Oh, god... Effie. He tucked his hands in between the chair and his ass so he wouldn’t do something insane — like touch her.

She threaded her fingers into his hair. Goodness. He is actually letting me do this. She was scarcely breathing, fearing that air alone could burst the bubble, and he would leave.

“Peppermint?” she asked gently.

“Hmmm?”

She reached for a bottle of shampoo and pumped a dollop into her palm.

“If you don’t like something, tell me, and I’ll change it.”

Don’t change anything.

She watched sensations play over his face as she massaged his scalp, mindful of her nails. She wanted this to feel good for him; plus, breaking a nail during the Games would be an extreme inconvenience.

Right now she SHOULD be getting ready for bed. Puffy eyelids would be another inconvenience. She could justify this time with Haymitch as more than frivolity by telling herself that sponsors would be more inclined to make deals with a more polished version of him.

She slid her fingertips along the base of his skull. His lips parted, and a sound between a sigh and a moan escaped his throat. She repeated the motion, curious if he was even aware of his response.

Her pubic bone brushed against his shoulder, and she wanted more. She wanted more of all of this. This wasn’t frivolous for her. It was intense and deliberate, and if she was being honest, impressing sponsors had nothing to do with her intentions.

She filled the large glass again with warm water. When she poured it over his hair, his eyes opened to find her staring.

Please don’t stop doing this.

Please don’t make me stop.

Effie didn’t glance away or prattle. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she pumped more shampoo and repeated everything that she’d done the first time. If he blinked, she didn’t notice.

If she blushed, he didn’t notice. Maybe the worn out makeup was too thick, after all, for him to see through it. Or maybe this was just business for her. Her body might be pressed against him simply because the space was small. She could be washing his hair a second time just because he was a mess.

His gaze dropped to her lips. He remembered the way they caught the corner of his mouth the summer before. He recalled his decision to not kiss her and how cold she’d turned afterward. 

His reasoning still made sense. He still liked her too much. He liked her now even more. She was aggravating and often preposterous... and she felt like the goddamn sun. The warmth of her was all consuming, especially when she was like this — quiet and close and wrapped up in fragrances of peppermint and cherry candy and whiskey fog.

Damn, this is dangerous.

She poured water over his hair once more, and he closed his eyes again. In a moment she’d be gone. If I’m going to touch her, it has to be now. He untucked his hands—

“Stay still,” she whispered, moving away to get a towel from the cabinet, and then returning. As she patted his hair dry, she felt him trace the feathers stitched along the sides of her dress. The warm water she’d been pouring ran through the core of her. His hands came to rest on her hips.

“Not tonight... Not like this,” he’d said the last time his hands were there. The words frustrated her then but didn’t make her want him any less. “Sit up,” she directed. 

He did so without letting go of her. As she dried his hair some more, he leaned his forehead against her stomach. The stays of her corset dug into him, but he didn’t care. Weeks of misery stretched out before him, and whatever this was with her, he needed it.

She set the towel down and held the back of his head. “You’re drunk.”

‘No,’ he shook his head against her. The haze of liquor was clearing. It was HER now in his veins.

“Do you want me to blow-dry your hair?”

“Hell, no,” he mumbled, “I’d probably come out of that thing looking like a poodle.”

“Hmm. No trust!”

When he finally looked up, her eyes were on the mirror.

“I’m a mess,” she murmured with her hands still in his hair.

He laughed. “Finally. Something we agree on.”

“Haymitch! Don’t spoil this.” With the back of a knuckle, she stroked his forehead, tracing the imprints of her corset stays. “Please don’t spoil this tonight.”

“I’ll spoil it tomorrow then.” He smirked.

The corners of her mouth turned up as she sighed.

She’d washed his hair. Twice. Their reason for being together in that space was done, but he kept holding her hips as she strummed a forgotten melody in his hair.

Neither of them was ready to let go.

***

[aewriting]

Loathly - Chapter 2

Here is the second chapter to my “Sir Gawain and the Dame Ragnell” Malex AU!  I have always wanted to post a story with daily updates, and this one is short and contained enough that I think I’m really going to do it, haha!  Enjoy!

Warnings for homophobia, sexism, ageism.

Read all parts here on AO3, if you prefer.

***

Alex and his brothers, by this point, had been on a crusade for almost a year, and had come to no consensus. Naturally, Jesse had been in a vile mood, even worse than usual. With time running out, he’d ridden with Alex and Flint to the far reaches of the Manes territory – close to the Antarian border, with the thought that the responses of the inhabitants of the border zone might be more aligned with an Antarian way of thinking, since it had been King Noah who had posed the riddle, after all.

Some days, Alex wonders why he is trying so hard.  Why not just let Noah kill his father?  Realistically, though, they were all there that day. All in the Antarian woods, all trespassing, all hunting King Noah’s deer.  No telling that he wouldn’t come for all of them if Jesse didn’t deliver the proper answer.  

Focused as he is on contemplating these questions of mortality, he almost doesn’t notice the woman on the trail. “Whoa,” he eases his horse.

The woman is… distinct. Older, much older even than Jesse, and oddly proportioned, with a mess of wiry grey curls. A fine mount, though, and an even finer cloak of richly dyed wool, woven with precious stones. Not… not an attractive woman, but a stately one, nonetheless.  Her eyes, though… her eyes, Alex could say with certainty, are memorable.  Large, amber-colored, expressive. 

She rides up to Jesse.  “Good day, King Manes,” she calls. Jesse’s eyes narrow, and he looks at her disdainfully. Alex knows his father, knows the way he talks about women, treats them. A woman like this, under normal circumstances, would be totally invisible to him. He seems offended, now, that she is forcing an interaction.  Jesse looks like he is about to say as much when she speaks again.

“Like it or not, but your life is in my hands.”

Jesse’s eyes widen.  “Is that a threat?”

The woman chuckles.  “By the gods, no!”

“Then what did you mean by it?” asks Flint, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Word has spread about you. Your quest.  You seek answers. Well,” she revises. “You seek an answer. The answer.”

Jesse stares at her.  “Go on.”

Her lips quirk into a half smile. “None of the answers you’ve received to date can help you,” she says, matter-of-fact.  “But I know the true answer, and I am willing to help you.” She pauses.  “On one condition.”

Jesse rolls his eyes, sighs loudly.  

The woman continues unperturbed. “I seek the protection of the Manes kingdom, and the security that can only come with an alliance with a man of the Manes lineage. Give me one of your sons in marriage, and I shall tell you the correct answer to King Noah’s puzzle.”

Jesse recoils.  “Marriage?”

“Aye,” says the old woman. “Those are my conditions.”

“Sentence one of my sons to a life with you?  Woman, have you seen yourself?”

Her eyes narrow. “I have indeed, and that changes nothing of my offer.”  She pauses, looks Jesse up and down.  “Lord Noah does not know that I have this answer that you have been seeking. He has been proclaiming, far and wide, that he has you beat, that he will soon have your head.  He knows that he has given you an impossible task and is assuming your failure.” She smiles wickedly.  “I can’t imagine that you like to lose, King Manes.”

Jesse regards her carefully. “My youngest.  Alex.  He will do, for you.”

Alex is stock still, shocked.

How dare he.

His father… his father knows about him.  Has known for sure since the Jelnos campaign 4 years ago, has suspected for far longer. He hates, hates Alex’s… preferences.  Perversions.  But he knows about them.  And yet…

Alex had always hoped he would escape marriage.  Jesse has four sons – there are three others for ruling kingdoms, making alliances, continuing the royal bloodline.  Alex had always hoped he could simply do… something else.  While he never dreamed of actually being able to live his life openly, authentically, he at least hoped that his father would not force him into some sham political marriage.

But here he is.

He thinks about it, then, really thinks.  Looks at this woman, whose name he does not even know, and in this moment, considers that this… could actually be better.  Better than marrying some child bride from god knows where, being expected to… to bed her, produce children.  God, the thought turns his stomach, leaves him cold and upset.  With this woman… she is too old to bear children, surely. There would not be that pressure. And if he was married to her, to save his father’s life, perhaps his father would ease up in his scrutiny of him, perhaps the rumors about Alex’s proclivities would finally quiet…  

“Show me this ‘Alex’,” says the woman in a commanding tone. Jesse gestures to Alex, and Alex urges his horse forward.

“My lady,” he says, hating how unsteady his voice sounds.

“What say you to this plan, Sir Alex?” the woman asks.  

Alex draws a deep breath. “I am under the command of my lord and king.  It pleases me to carry out his wishes.”

The woman narrows her eyes. Nods. “Very well,” she says.  “He’ll do. Thank you, King Manes.”

Jesse nods.  ‘What is your name, my lady?”

“I am the Lady Guerin.”

“Lady Guerin,” Jesse repeats, his tone cold.  “I do not like being tricked into bargains, so now I ask that you keep up your end of the deal.  Pray tell, what is it that everyone desires most, above all else?”

She holds up a wrinkled hand. “No, no, not until you must present the answer to King Noah.  What’s to stop from killing me, otherwise?” She smiles, slow and cunning.  “A royal son is a limited resource, and I’m sure many a person would love to marry a man handsome as your son.” Jesse scoffs a bit. The woman narrows her eyes.  “A soldier too, no?”

Alex looks down quickly. She has seen his mangled leg, despite his best attempts to conceal it.

“I understand there is one month left,” says the woman.  “I intend to get to know my betrothed.”

***  

They set up camp outside the woman’s house.  They’re guarding her, really, but they try to make it more pleasant than that.  

His brothers are harsh in their judgment of her.  

“I’ve never seen a hag so foul,” Flint mutters late one night as they sit around the campfire.  “Thank the gods father gave her to Alex,” he says to Gregory.  “Can you even imagine the horror of bedding her?”

Gregory grunts a little, pokes at the fire.

Alex sighs, so deeply. “Flint,” he says, voice low.  “She is to be my wife.  I ask that you please keep your thoughts to yourself.” Flint raises an eyebrow at him but stays quiet. “She… she is saving father’s life.  She’s given us food and shelter here.”

It’s been good food, too. Every day, the old woman cooks for them. Even Flint’s been impressed.  The food is rustic, nothing like the delicacies at the palace, but everything is filling and tasty.  Alex helps her, sometimes, supposes he should at least speak to her if they are truly going to be wed. He has been surprised, pleasantly. The woman is wise, with a wicked sense of humor. He’s nearly concerned for her sometimes, with the sharpness of her wit.  She seems savvy though – won’t deploy her cunning too openly around Jesse, and most of it just sails over his brothers’ heads.  She’s modest, too – almost oddly so, Alex thinks.  Every night, at dusk, she bids her leave and retreats to her small cabin, not to be seen until morning.  He has invited her to sit by the fire in the evenings, to share in song and wine, but she has always refused.  Without the evenings to chat, Alex takes advantage of their time together during the day, assisting with the cooking, the laundry.

“Why marriage?” Alex asks one afternoon, as they chop onions on a makeshift table in the clearing.

The woman looks at him with those amber eyes, studies him. Alex feels vulnerable under her scrutiny.

“You could have just asked for protection.  Why did you press for marriage?”

The woman purses her lips, looks down.  “I have had troubles with King Noah of Antar. For my own safety, I needed to be sure your father would honor our bargain.  I wanted him to commit to something that would be difficult to back out of.” She worries her lip slightly with her teeth, and looks at Alex with great uncertainty. The expression seems so out of place.

“I am sorry to have put you in such a position.  I… I know what I am.  What I look like.  You are sacrificing your future, your chances for a real match.  You’re a young, attractive man and – “

Alex places a hand on her bony wrist, interrupts her. “Please, it’s… it’s fine.  Just…” he trails off.  He feels an urge to tell her, about him. To disclose the limitations that a marriage to him would entail. “I cannot give you what other men could.”

She looks at him sharply.  

“I… I assume it is… past your time,” Alex stammers. “For children.” The woman narrows her eyes. “That is… fortunate.  For I fear, I couldn’t…”

The woman nods knowingly. “I do not please you.”  

Alex looks around, drops his voice.  “No woman could please me.  In that way.”

The woman’s head snaps up. She scrutinizes him, as if searching for something.  “Were you… injured, there?  As with your leg?”

Alex’s eyes widen. “No, no… it’s not that.  It’s…” He goes quiet.  What he’s about to say… there are many in Unidos that would see him hung for his desires, or worse. But this woman… in the short time he has known her, she has proven herself open-minded. Clever and worldly in unexpected ways.  And she lives so close to the Antarian lands, lands where, if the rumors are true, desires like Alex’s are accepted, embraced, even…

“I desire men,” he says, plainly.

The woman looks startled. “Oh.”

“As a husband,” he says, clearing his throat, “should you have need of… needs,” he stammers. “I will not stand in your way, as long as you are discreet. We, we will figure something out for you.  If you wish.” He feels embarrassed, speaking of such things.

“I was not under the impression that such… arrangements would be acceptable in Unidos,” the woman says, carefully.  “Is this a test, Sir Alex?”

“No,” Alex says quickly. “No test.” His shoulders slump.  “Just the truth.  A bitter one.” He bites his lip, a little. “I just… I thought you should know.  Before you commit to a marriage with me.  I apologize if I have offended you.” He looks at the ground.  “Disgusted you.”

The woman grips his hand tighter and, without warning, touches his chin, gently.  Tips his head up to meet her gaze.  “Nothing about you disgusts me.”

Alex is silent, just staring at her.

The woman drops her hand from his face, then, looks away quickly.  “The people of Unidos have strange prejudices that I do not share. Your nature, your… desires, your very being… they offend me not.  Not in the slightest,” she says forcefully.  “But I must ask, why did you agree to a match with me?”

Alex looks at her sadly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak so freely to you.  I don’t, don’t truly know you, your background, who you are…” He shakes his head. “But, by the gods, I want to tell you.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, despite Flint’s absence. “I cannot go against my father. For any reason.  You… you have surely seen the type of man he is.  And I thought, well… there are worse matches. Given your, your age,” he says, delicately, “I had hoped that certain marital duties might not need to be part of our contract.”

The woman holds his gaze with those unfathomable eyes. “Not if you don’t want to.  Never, if you don’t want to, Sir Alex.”

She looks so earnest, in that moment, so open and true. Alex feels, deep in his gut, that he can trust her. He raises their still-clasped hands to his mouth, presses a chaste kiss to the ridge of her knuckles.  

“Thank you,” he whispers.

[jaybeartodd]

Searching Pt. 5: Jason Todd/Reader

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6 Pt.7

Warnings: Violence, Swearing

A/N: Sorry it took so long! Enjoy! Lots of love :) <3

-

The forest floor crunches beneath your feet as you try matching Jason’s exhausting pace. He seems to have shaken off the greater part of whatever disturbed him but you sense some of it still lingering. Not that you can glance up enough to take stock. You’re carefully analyzing each step as to not wipe out on the uneven terrain while your head pounds with each bounce.

Your foot does inevitably catch on a root and you curse as your ankle twists unnaturally. The explicit curses flying from your mouth grab Jason’s attention.

“You okay?” he asks. First words spoken between the two of you since you had left behind the Ghuls. Your mind creeps to the two of them regaining consciousness and restarting their mission to drag you and Jason back to the island. Or murder you. They weren’t very descriptive in their mission statement.

“Yeah, peachy,” you mutter. You take the opportunity to lean against a tree and grasp at your ankle. It’s slightly tender beneath your touch but luckily still mobile.

“You’re bleeding,” Jason states. You shake your head while releasing your ankle.

“No, I just twisted my-” You flinch away as his finger suddenly prods at the back of your head. Your eyes trail up his arm to his face. He stares intensely at the wound gracing the back of your head; his mouth set in a firm line and his swirling blue eyes focused. You count yourself once more grateful for being at the receiving end of his sympathy. Better than the alternative.

“Yeah, I knocked it back in the- er, fight. I’ll live. Barely feel it.” You give him a hardly convincing smile. His fingers don’t leave your hair as he completely ignores your blatant lie.

“Alright, take a seat,” Jason commands. His face has fallen into its authoritative state as he stares expectantly at you. You roll your eyes but secretly feel relieved at the chance to rest. Your head throbbing was only slightly more uncomfortable than your aching feet and exhaustion resting behind your eyes.

He pulls out the first-aid kit as you make yourself comfortable. You feel his fingers trying to push away your hair and expose the gash. The sheer difficulty around it has you reaching behind him to the bag. You pull out scissors and hold them up.

“It’s a mess to deal with. It doesn’t help with the whole concealing identity thing. And now you can’t even dress the wound. Cut it off.” You declare. Some part of you is concerned over the shoddy job it’ll probably be. But the much larger part, the part that wants to survive and has barely been doing so in a cell, wants it gone.

“Are you sure?”

You don’t know if he is doubting his own abilities or your changing mind.

“I’m positive.”

He lets out a heavy breath and begins cutting at the locks. As tendrils fall to the ground, you feel a sense of lightness replacing a weight you’ve carried for so long now. It wasn’t just cutting off an unnecessary weight physically but the uncleanliness associated with being cramped in inhumane conditions. Being  in the cell was dehumanizing. You were treated as nothing more than an animal.

“Are you okay?” Jason’s voice falls low. Its tone suggests a different meaning than the first time he asked. You don’t even notice the few escaped tears rolling down your cheeks until he speaks up.

You swipe at them and nod your head. “Just…” You turn your head and look at him head on. His expression doesn’t move but you watch his eyes track your own thoughts. “Do you think they’ll find us? We just knocked them out…”

“Now who’s the murderous one?” He cracks. You glare at him sternly and he clears his throat. “Yeah, that one was probably inappropriate. What actually are you asking, Doll?”

Your nose scrunches up at the nickname but you choose to gloss over it for now. “I’m worried we made the wrong move, letting them live. And the fact that I even thought that just-”

“Scares you.” His words swim with recognition. “I know the feeling.”

You scrutinize him, wondering again about his past.

“Now turn around.” You blink at the sudden shift but he jerks his head in command. “I need to patch you up.”

You comply and turn back around, feeling a slight sting as he applies the antiseptic. He continues without comment and is soon wrapping the wound with gauze. His fingers wind so delicately in a way that seems just as comfortable as when they are wrapped around the hilt of his sword. The more you learn about Jason, the more confused you become. Everything he does seems to contradict the previous move.

“So, where’d you learn to do this? I can’t picture Raz sitting down trained killers to teach the basics in medical care.”

Silence follows your question, long enough to convince you that he doesn’t plan on answering.

“I learned from someone in my past.” He finally answers. Rather cryptically, you note.

“Do you not remember who?” You half-joke.

“No.” He replies curtly. Your mouth opens and then promptly closes again. “There, you’re all good to go. How’s the ankle?”

His figures looms over you as he offers his hand. You scrunch your nose and let him help you to your feet. Your ankle handles the pressure with little protest and the pain in your head has reduced to an ache.

“The ankle’s fine. And you, sir, are fitting a stereotype like a cast mold.” You brush off your pants and restart your hike, careful to avoid the damned root this time.

Jason snorts behind you. “And what stereotype would that be?”

Sticks break beneath his boots as he matches your stride.

You clear your throat and try your hand at imitating an action narration, “The mysterious assassin with an even more elusive, and possibly suspicious, past. Brooding and often abrasive but always a hero in the end.”

He chuckles. “You think I’m a hero?”

“You saved me didn’t you?” You reply coolly. Your ears fall flat at the expectation of another snappy retort. A glance up at him finds his eyes spaced, rather pensive. Much like you found him before sparing Jackass’ life. Just as you are about to inquire further, your foot finds a loose rock.

Jason’s hands grasp your arm, saving you from a painful fall. “Why don’t you pay attention to what you’re doing over there instead of me, Graceful.”

You want to wipe the dumb smirk right off of his face. Mostly because he’s right.

-

-

“You happen to know how long this track is?” You ask between panted breaths.

The two of you have been following parallel to the train tracks. At first, you were still obscured by the forest trees until you made it to more open fields about an hour ago. The lost obscurity within the open grounds stirred some anxiety but once night fell, you were given peace of mind. And an absolute bitch of a time trying to see. This left the navigation solely to Jason. Apparently, your father had the foresight to equip his mask with night vision. He didn’t think it was very amusing when you asked if he had happened to pack two.

“The city is up ahead in the distance. Can’t you see it?”

You squint your eyes and make out very vague lights miles and miles away.

“Oh, good. It’ll really stick it to the man if I’m dead from exhaustion before the League could ever find me.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the guy wearing a flashy red mask over his face and carrying more weapons than he has hands.”

“You know, talking as someone who’s saved your life many times, you sure are ungrateful.”

Oh, good grief. Your eyes roll back but the dark conceals your irritation. This is has been the tone exchanged between the two of you the entire journey. With always checking your surroundings, walking for an entire day, and nursing lingering injuries from the fight earlier, there is stifling irritability.  And with no one else around, you were each other’s closest targets.

You know it’s not helping anything but holy hell did he get under your skin. Between his vague answers, snarky remarks and neckbreaking pace he refuses to let up on, you were about ready to impale him on one of his stupid swords. But, again, that wouldn’t help anything. Well, not much at least.

“How about we change things up? I propose a game. One where we won’t fight.”

“If you suggest we play I,Spy I’m leaving you here by yourself.”

You clench your fists tightly before releasing them. “I’m not proposing I,Spy. I think we should play 20 questions. Get to know a little more about each other and make the journey feel a little short-“

“No.”

Your face turns red and you open your mouth to retaliate but he cuts you off with another “No.”

“Jason-“

“No.”

You jog on your swollen ankle and plant yourself in front of him. He stares down at you through the mask as you poke a finger at his chest.

“Would you just,” You try catching your breath and starting again. “Listen for once!” He opens his mouth but this time you interrupt him. “If you say no again, I’m going rip off that damn mask and beat you with it.”

“Tempting.” You can just hear the smug grin growing beneath his mask. He moves past your body seething with frustration.

You turn to follow after him but your ankle protests heavily against it. A hiss escapes your lips and you grasp at it. Pulling your oversized pants up, you catch sight of the purple mass where your ankle is supposed to be. Seems like you twisted it a bit further than you had first suspected.

“I thought it had grown a bit too quiet. Why’d you stop?” Jason walks over to you and his eyes narrow on your injury. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Ouch.”

“Can you walk on it?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Flying behind you?”

He zeroes in on the pain dancing across your face, despite your best efforts at hiding it. His fingers thread through his dark hair as he glances around. “Well, we can’t stop.”

“I know, I’ll suck it up- What are you doing?”

Jason has turned around and now squats slightly. A snort escapes your nose at the absurd sight. Is he cracking up?

He presses a button and release the bottom of his mask covering his mouth and chin leaving only the domino mask over his eyes. It swings from the side of his face as he gestures with his head.

“Climb up.” He instructs. Ah-ha.

“No.”

“I thought we banned that word.” Touche. “Listen, Doll, we don’t have a lot of time before Jackass and the assassin you hit over the head with a rock catch up with us.” Again, touche.

You blow out a horse bubble before resigning to your fate. You’ve been through a lot of crazy shit now. What’s letting a ‘deadly’ assassin give you a piggy back ride through a foreign country in comparison to escaping one of the deadliest captors in the world? It’s leverage for said assassin is what it is. But you suppose you can handle Jason’s insufferable smugness.

You hop up and relief immediately floods your ankle at the lack of pressure across it. Jason’s hands hold you tightly to him and you wrap your arms around his neck. At least if he becomes too much you can just squeeze a little too tight.

It takes exactly two seconds before that becomes all too tempting. “I think we should start a point system on how many times we help one another. I believe I’m in the lead with-” He pretends to calculate numbers in his head.

“I think I liked it better when you were a grumpy, less talkative killer,” you grumble. His light laugh is cut short when you press your lips on his scruffy cheek. “Thank you.”

He clears his throat and you stifle your laughter at his sudden flustered state. “Also, you could use a razor for that.” You pat the five o’clock shadow growing across his jaw. He flinches away with a growl. “Ooh does that count as a point for me?”

He ‘accidentally’ jostles you and you clutch him closer before you fall backwards.

-

-

Jason is surprisingly matching the same pace he was before having to lug you around mean you’re approaching the station quickly. He lets you down gently when you’re close enough to the building.

“What’s the game plan?” You whisper as the two of you crouch behind a bush.

“Well, we still need transportation to the airport. The train was our best bet but clearly not an option anymore.” He points towards a few men lingering among the small crowd awaiting their late train.

“You think they’re Raz’s?”

“Look how they hold themselves. Just slightly straighter and with more caution than others around them. And their fingers are always dancing near their belts, ready to draw a weapon.”

You stare at him with two raised brows.

“What?”

“That’s creepy.”

He ignores your comment and you watch his face furrow into deep concentration. He stashed away his mask, thinking the red lights were less than conspicuous, and you’re starting to recognize his little ticks. Like this particular one where he completely switches into recon mode.

“Well, we can’t take the train but maybe some locals will know other ways into the city that won’t consist of us hiking for the next few days.” You venture.

He blinks a few times before nodding. “That’s not a half-bad idea.”

“And that was almost half of a compliment.”

-

-

Jason talks quietly in Mandarin to the owner of a local inn. You figured no one will know the best, and possibly most discrete, transportation into the city than the owner of a seedy motel. The man hands over a key and Jason grabs it before making his way back to you.

“Is it really a good idea to stay in town at the next train stop? Aren’t our friendly neighborhood assassins soon behind us?” you quietly inquire as you hobble up the steps towards your room.

“They’ll take time licking their wounds and egos. One of them was bested by an untrained fugitive. Besides, I had to buy a room to get any information out of him. Might as well make use of it and get some rest.”

You smile a bit at the hint of pride in his voice. You suppose you do feel the least bit of admiration for besting her. Plus, the thought of a bed and possibly a shower suddenly makes your ankle and head ache a little less.

He swings the door open to your room. You wince slightly at the bugs scattering at the sudden activity and the various substances you would never want to see under a blacklight spattering various parts of the wall.

Two small cots are pressed against the wall about a foot apart leaving barely enough room for much else in the cramped space. In many ways, it reminds you of the cell. You hug your arms around yourself at the sudden intrusion into your thoughts.

“Sorry, it’s not exactly Four Seasons,” Jason cracks but you detect actual sympathy in his tone.

“I’ve had worse.” You move past him and settle on one of the beds. The mattress promises little give as the springs squeak beneath your weight.

“How’s the ankle and head?” he asks, taking a seat on his own cot.

“Relieved they’re getting some rest.” You reply, absentmindedly, still staring at the walls. They seem to be moving inwards so you shake yourself. They always looked like that in the cell, you remind yourself, until you close and reopen your eyes.

“Hey, we’re going to be okay. We’ve gotten this far, right?” You glance over at Jason to find him glancing solemnly at you.

The cell is far away from here. And it’s so much lonelier than what Jason’s presence offers.

-

-

Despite springs poking into your back and a rancid smell, you sleep rather well. Once you blink your eyes open, there’s only a dull pain residing in your head and ankle.

You roll over with a groan. “Nothing like a- Jason?”

The man in question is nowhere in sight. Unless he can suddenly turn invisible, you doubt he is hiding anywhere in the cramped space or the bathroom with the door wide open. Warning floods your body at his unexpected departure.

Maybe he just went out for food or supplies or sharpening his dumb swords or...

You shake yourself. There’s no point in freaking out. He’s a grown-ass adult who can take care of himself. And he’ll probably be back...

“Alright, that’s enough,” you announce, slightly crazed. You swing your legs over the bed and try to bring a little life to your limbs. Through the window, you can make out the sun peeking itself over the clouds as the day begins.

After catching a whiff of your own stink, you decide to take a brave stab at the shower. It fits the grotesque aesthetic of the place but you’re willing to stick it out if for only a few minutes of feeling clean again.

Your fingers pull through the short locks on your head and you let out a content sigh as the dirt washes away from your skin. Once the water becomes unbearably cold, you step out. Your worn clothes taunt you from their spot on the floor and you stare down at them with dread.

A thought forms in your head and you tiptoe out cautiously to retrieve the supply bag. You reach in, grab one of Jason’s cleaner shirts and throw it over your head. At least that way you’re only having to deal with your dirty slacks. Hopefully, Jason will think to grab you some clothes while he’s out.

You feel your anxiety pick up once again. Why didn’t he let you know where he was going? And why is it taking him so damn long?

You pace for exactly two minutes before you decide to go looking for him. You slip quietly into the hallway. There are a few people shuffling about groggily in this early stretch of morning.

The plan as of this moment is to make your way downstairs and try to find someone that not only understands English but somehow knows where Jason went. Piece of cake.

The stairs finally come to an end and you find yourself in the lobby from last night. With the sun replacing the shaking fluorescent lights, you are able to get a better look at the place. Its planked floors are chipped and the paint tries peeling itself off the wall. There is a charm in the way some guests lounge in wooden chairs, sipping from cups and eating their breakfast.

Just as you turn for the front desk, you hear deep voices conversing in hushed whispers in that very spot. You turn and find a group of men grilling the owner. The two conversing with him hold a more relaxed yet still intimidating presence. The owner stares at them with wide eyes and sweat gathering along his hairline. The other two, however, hang back and command a much different atmosphere.

Holding themselves straighter and more cautious? Check.

Hands hovering over weapons that are barely hidden? Check.

You gulp and fly behind a pillar. Your mind spirals, trying to figure out a way to find Jason and warn him and oh, yeah, not get captured by Raz’s men. 

Fuck. That bastard said we would be fine here.

The conversation suddenly comes to a halt and you’re all too aware that their next moves will bring them right next to you. You muster whatever bit of calm you can and very carefully make your way back to the stairs.

Out there, you are completely at their mercy. But at least in your room you have the bag of weapons and a rendezvous point for Jason to meet up with you. Despite your best efforts, your mind wanders to a place where Jason is lying dead in the street or already within Raz’s clutches. The images of Jason’s broken body becomes almost unbearable as you climb the last few steps.

When did you become so reliant on him? Not even on a physical level where you need his survival skills. You bet that if it came down to it, you’d be able to keep yourself hidden for at least a little bit. No, it was more about this creeping feeling of complete devastation at the mere thought of him being gone. Out of your life. That sort of reliance isn’t one you’re used to and frankly, something you’re quite terrified of.

Your nerves are all but fried by the time you swing the door to your apartment open only for it to come to a halt against something solid.

You hear an oomph at the impact. Your fists raise high, ready to start swinging when you hear a familiar voice.

“What in the actual hell, Y/N?” Jason scolds while rubbing the back of his head. “You think you could-” He lets out a whoosh of breath as you fling yourself at him. Your arms wrap tightly around his torso.

“You’re alive!” you mumble into his chest. Jason chuckles slightly and pats you on the back.

“Yeah, until you squeeze the life right out of me.”

You apologize and let go. Anger suddenly replaces the relief and you punch his arm, your fist barely noticed against the hard strewn of muscle. His face is scrunched in confusion as he stares down at you.

“Where did you go? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Jason sighs and gestures towards his bed. A few bags filled with various supplies and clothes piled neatly lie on it.

“Oh.” Is the only intelligible response you have.

“Yeah, and I didn’t want to wake you. I’m sorry, I meant to be back before you woke up.”

“Raz’s goons are here!”

He blinks a few times at the sudden shift in conversation before transitioning into defensive mode. He locks your door and starts gathering the supplies.

“Pack that stuff in these two bags and explain.” He pulls out a sword and straps on his mask.

“I went looking for you downstairs when I heard men speaking harshly to the guy who owns this place. Some looked like locals but I’m pretty confident the other two were Raz’s. They were exactly as you described; cautious and trigger happy.”

You halt your packing when he doesn’t say anything. When you look up, you find a funny smile on his face. He shakes himself and shoulders one of the bags.

“Did you hear what they said?”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t in English.”

“Here,” Jason tosses some clothes your way, “Put these on, quickly. It’ll throw them off of our scent in case the owner described us.”

You nod and quickly head to the bathroom only to emerge several seconds later in much better fitting clothes. The boy’s fit still clings awkwardly to your body but you’re grateful that you won’t be tripping over them or your shirt.

“We have to-“ Jason is cut off by an onslaught of bullets ricocheting through your door. Your body hits the ground with a thud as you duck for cover. You manage to glance up through the wreckage to find Jason flipping the bed over to use as a shield.

He gestures for you to crawl over to him.

“Since when does Raz use guns?” You whisper harshly.

“You two don’t honestly think you can run from him forever, do you? Come out now and you’ll be returned alive!” One of the men shouts from the other side of the door.

“He doesn’t, but the mobs he has in his pocket do.” Jason notes with disdain. Mobs? So he has moved on from sending out his recruits to having an entire crime organization out for you?

On one hand, that thought should terrify you. But it also means he is getting a little desperate.

Jason grunts and jerks his head back towards the window. You look between it and him with bright eyes. “No, no fucking way.”

“Y/N!”

“We are three stories up, Jay! Three!”

“Well, if you want to go through the men with guns, by all means,” he gestures towards the door with annoyance.

You scurry towards the window in defeat and raise it just as the men begin kicking down the door. Your breath stills as you squeeze through onto the small ledge. Vertigo hits strongly as the world seems to narrow in on those three stories.

“Uh, Jason.” You squeak. He jumps in after you and before you know it, his arm is around your waist and the two of you are sailing through the air. You can barely think past the absolute terror to scream. Planks of wood give beneath you as you hit the roof of the neighboring decrepit building. The air leaves your lungs with a whoosh as dust swims through the air around you.

“Jason,” you groan in pain as you try standing. The atmosphere is so thick with dust you can’t even see the hand in front of your face. “Jason?” You try, coughing through the debris. 

No answer.

Your heart pounds loudly in your ears as you feel the panic begin to rise in your gut. But you swallow it down and focus. Jason definitely fell with you but maybe he landed further away. And maybe you can’t hear him past the ringing in your ears. Or maybe...

“Jason!” you yell with more fervor as you blindly crawl across the wreckage. The curtain of dust slowly begins to descend and your surroundings are revealed. The roof all but caved in after the two of you and lays in shambles on the ground beneath you. Amongst the rubble, you make out a boot sticking up awkwardly. You scramble towards it, ignoring your old and newfound pains.

The foot connects to a leg mostly obscured by wooden shards. But there is no mistaking who is underneath it. Your hand bats at the wreckage with desperation. Once you’ve uncovered him, you inhale sharply and unhook his mask. His face is slack and his body is unresponsive.

“Jason?” You half-whisper at his unconscious form. Your fear grows tenfold at the sight of a growing red stain across his abdomen.

-

Permanent Tags: @korindrs @cuddlysteven @sarcasmismyfirstlove @mad-hatter-has-nothing-on-me @russian-potatoes @prancingdestiel @amnahs9695 @cattwomannn @ashleey-oakes @stardustwxnder @floraidha @littleasexualtree @hyp-oh-critical @jetblackrevival @milkywayheartcupcake @thelaststation-james @natasha-potato-lover @frida-marie13 @jaybirdxarsenal @dsakita @chibimajo @ihatebagels @comicbooklover @im-lebanese-ya-7mar @uncledeanzel   @boosyboo9206 @sanjayyyy-13 @jason-todd-squad

Story Tags: @webcraft4eveh

[kyleoreillysknee]

Adam Page X Reader - Thank You

I had to make the cowboy happy after All Out.

Note: Cowboy AU

Warnings: Gunshot wounds, very vague improper descriptions of medical care

Word Count: 2,289

Tagging: @robwiethoff 

It seemed like only seconds ago when the world had quieted. Everything from the wind to the birds to the grass held its breath before the sky opened up and wept. Torrential sheets of rain canvassed the plains and made the horizon disappear behind a hazy grey wall. Which made the tickling urge from the base of your skull to stand on your porch all the more puzzling. The only thing out there was something unfortunate and you had no need for an unfortunate soul on your doorstep. Yet somehow you couldn’t look away from inspecting the waves of cloud’s tears, searching for something you didn’t know the shape of. Sure enough, the moment you considered retreating inside, and simply ignoring the strange nagging sensation, a form emerged from the mist.

A man on a horse lethargically lurched up the path to your door, clearly needing some effort to stay upright in the saddle. His head lifted and it seemed as if the moment he could make out the shape of your house his body decided to give out and buckle under the pressure of the rain. You called out while watching him slide down the side of his horse and get unceremoniously dumped into the mud. Sense be damned, you ran into the storm and became instantly soaked. Upon approaching the collapsed stranger, you were surprised to find him struggling with one arm to lift himself to no avail.

The mud clung thickly to your legs as you kneeled to try and scoop around his chest and hoist him standing. His weight swaying on trembling limbs nearly sent you both toppling back into the mud but fortunately his horse moved to support your back so you just had the wind knocked out of you from the impact of an armful of man. Your sharp gasp must have stirred something in him as his head snapped up from limply hanging, leaving you helplessly wading in a crystalline blue that grew foggy with pain every passing second. A puff of hot breath scattered across your cheeks like a wave from a fire before his forehead dropped to rest against your shoulder. There was no room for pondering propriety as you struggled to drag the stranger the rest of the way to your house. Thankfully his horse had the sense to stay close so you could prop the man up against the side of it to get a moment to regain some strength when needed.

Eventually, you managed to get both your soiled and soggy bodies over the threshold and let him flop onto your sofa without a care for the state of the upholstery afterward. He let out a low, long groan that abruptly cut off with a wince that had you on high alert and scrutinizing every inch of him for more practical reasons. When your hand ghosted over his side he let out a sharp hiss and tensed with his entire body. Taking a deep breath, you gingerly peeled away the black leather of his vest to reveal his entire side seeping crimson from a now obvious hole below his ribs. The stranger dared to attempt to swat your hands away and a spike of anger born from worry shot up your spine, granting you enough courage to grab him by the face and make him look at you.

“I’m not too fond of strange men nearly dropping dead on my property but considering you’re almost waving the reaper down I’ll let you stay and you’ll let me fuss.” Your tone left no room for an argument and the stranger held enough wits to recognize such and give a nod. With that you began rushing around your house in search of supplies and returned to find him fighting with his eyelids. Needing him to stay awake, you frantically searched your thoughts for some idea of how to keep him from slipping into sleep.

“Alright nearly dead stranger, you got a name?” You asked while guiding him to sit up, letting him use your arms to steady himself.

“Adam,” He spoke softly, voice hoarse and thick from a combination of disuse and pain.

“Well Adam, you don’t gotta tell me how you got in this shape but I do need to know what shape you’re in,” You began pushing his vest down his shoulders and thankfully he got the hint and shrugged it off before attempting to unbutton his shirt.

“Just the one shot, went through,” a huff left him as he struggled with the tiny buttons thanks to his shaking fingers, “M hungry too. Haven’t eaten in a couple a days.”

“After you stop bleeding on my furniture I’ll feed you,” you promised while taking over the task of stripping him half-naked for purely practical reasons.

He shook his head, which was surprising, “once you’re done fussing I’ll leave. Don’t want to be any trouble.”

You couldn’t help but scoff, letting your fingertips drag across his stomach again for purely practical reasons before speaking up, “a little late for that. Good for you I’m not the type of person to just kick someone who needs help out into the rain. You’re staying at least until the storm passes.” A small and rueful smile crept across his features that highlighted how handsome he was under all that mud and you were struck with the thought that Adam was an unexpected kind of trouble on top of being hurt.

“I’m in no place to refuse some charity, I suppose,” he grimaced as you began cleaning the skin around his wound. The conversation died as you focused on treating the gunshot and he kept his pained noises to deep breaths and the occasional strained grunt. Once both sides were sufficiently clean and gauzes placed, you began the process of wrapping the bandages, this time letting your fingertips drag across certain segments of skin for less than practical purposes. Adam didn’t seem to notice as his head lolled to the side and his breathing evened out after you finished poking and prodding at the raw and sensitive injured skin. You gently guided him to settle on his side once you secured the bandages and found yourself wiping away some of the mud from his face with a cloth and warm water.

As you revealed more of his features the fact that Adam was Trouble became more and more apparent and you had to give a little sigh. Of course, the world would find it apt to dump a helpless and handsome man at your literal doorstep. He shifted to nuzzle further into the cushions and a ripple of curls fell across his face, without thought you reached up and tucked them back in place behind his head. When your hand retreated, you found yourself swimming in a sharp blue as rich as the midsummer sky and your breath caught in the back of your throat from the intensity of his focused stare that ebbed into warm pools.

“Thank you,” Adam mumbled, barely above a whisper as his eyelids fell and remained closed.

“You’re welcome,” You replied in the same hushed tone before moving to stand and search for a blanket to cover him in, missing the faint, gentle smile that appeared on his face for only a moment.

The next morning you groggily stumbled out of your room to find Adam cussing out your stove only to become sheepish once he became aware of your presence, “wanted to properly thank you with some breakfast but ‘fraid I only know how to cook on an open fire.”

Your sleep-addled brain could only focus on the fact that Adam was still without a shirt and now with the morning sun streaming through the windows you could actually see the shadows cast by his rather sculpted chest. His arms were thick with corded muscles and his shoulders broad and dusted with a smattering of moles. It took a couple seconds and a series of rapid blinks for you to fully register that you were blatantly ogling the man. With a small shake of your head, you tried to rub the lingering weight of dreams from your eyes and shuffled closer to the stove.

“I promised to cook for you anyway. Go sit and rest.” You spoke through a yawn, purposefully avoiding looking at him any more, not wanting to see or know if he caught your moment of weakness.

“Let me at least help,” Adam said stubbornly as he moved to be in your way, seemingly not caring about the effect his body had on your mental state, “I can manage cracking eggs.”

“Fine,” you sighed, dancing around him with a purposefully wide berth in order to start the stove. As you both worked on making breakfast, Adam seemed doggedly insistent on getting as close as possible without touching you, occasionally letting his hands brush against yours as if on purpose. After the 5th time of this, you peeked up at him, suspicious of the actions too deliberate to be mere coincidence and you found him giving you a playfully sly sideways glance wearing a wry smirk. Your eyebrows nearly smacked your hairline as it became clear that he was indeed doing this on purpose and heat rose up your neck to rest on your cheeks. Unsure of how to proceed your movements became rigid as your brain struggled to think even a second ahead. Sensing this, Adam took a step back and just as stubbornly kept his hands away from yours.

Immediately you missed the fleeting sensation of his warmth and took the next opportunity to brush your hands once again. This made Adam pause and you risked peering up at him to find him leveling you with an even, open stare that held a specter of hope. Pressing your lips together, you felt them falter against a smile and watched as a bright grin stretched across his face. Cooking resumed and now Adam took every excuse to maintain some part of him touching you. His hands flying around from resting against yours to trailing his fingers down from your shoulder to your elbow or just settling his palm against your hip and absently tracing patterns with his fingers into the fabric of your sleep shirt.

The pattern of contact remained even as you moved to the table to begin eating, his knee adamant about constantly touching your leg. You shared the meal in silence, occasionally catching each other trying to gaze at the other and both dropping your eyes to smile at your plates. Once finished, Adam reached across the table to take one of your hands in his, fingers easily slipping between yours and lifting your hand to his lips to press a chaste kiss to the back, just below your knuckles.

“Thank you,” He earnestly spoke as he eased his grip and let your hand fall back to the table. His clear gaze felt heavy and you both took the long moment to openly stare at each other until the tenderness began to feel suffocating. Your throat tightened as his eyes slowly floated to your lips and you found yourself wetting them in anticipation. A flash of hunger sparked in his bright blue eyes and it seemed to shock him out of his trance. He immediately straightened in his chair, breathing deeply as if he had just stopped running.

“The storm passed. I should go.” He muttered distantly, his eyes flying everywhere around the room but you. It stung but you understood. Whatever mess blew him to your doorstep was still outside. You gave a small nod, fighting against everything to not let the disappointment show on your face. A mournful silence fell over you both as he dressed in his bloodstained shirt and damaged vest. You busied yourself with placing the dishes from breakfast into the sink with a reluctant sense of finality.

It was only when he had opened the door and taken a step past the threshold that you broke, “Adam, wait,” it came out like spun glass, shaking and nearly cracking from holding the weight of itself. That fragile sense of control he had wrestled within himself snapped and Adam surged forward, incensed. His hands found their place cupping your face, calluses dragging electric lines across your cheeks, his breath rolling a wave of warmth over your skin and his eyes drowning you in an ocean of emotion as he searched your stare for something. He seemed to have found it once you gave him a soft smile and reached up to tuck one of his golden curls back behind his ear. His lips crashed against yours and without him holding you like the most precious thing in the world you would’ve floated away. You could taste the edge of desperation that ebbed into gentle bliss as you took a half step to press against him, eager to have him close. One of his hands lazily traced down to rest against the side of your neck but before he could deepen the kiss he caught himself and pulled back in order to rest his forehead against yours.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” He admitted with a breathless smile, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t mind if you did it again,” You whispered, practically aching to have him close again. He bit down on his grin, eyes alight and sparkling with joy as he pressed a fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose before turning to kick your front door shut. The sheer eagerness and sense of urgency he had made you burst into laughter, which made it rather difficult for him to kiss you again but he somehow managed.

[rubysworld-world-stuff]

Sleepless Nights

Summary: Having visions about what’s going to happen on a mission is not easy to deal with. Good thing the visions only come when sleeping. There is an easy solution to this.

Pairing: implied Steve x Reader

Word Count: 5259

A/N: I got a little carried away with this one. Feedback is always appreciated :)

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. I closed my eyes focusing on the smell coming from the machine in front of me. The scent of freshly brewed coffee invaded my nostrils and already warmed me from the inside out. I reopened my eyes leaning my elbows on the counter top while still holding a tight grip on my over-dimensional coffee mug. This way my gaze was on the same level as the sacred device.

I watched the black drops of the holy beverage drip into the coffeepot, slowly filling it up. As I kept my focus on this event, the reason and the worries that were keeping me awake throughout even the ungodly hours of the night were being pushed to the furthest corner of my mind.

However, despite the light burning as bright as the sun itself and the reviving smell of coffee, my eyes started to flutter shut. The ticking of the grandfather clock Tony had insisted on keeping was on beat with the drops of the dark juice falling into the steady growing puddle on the bottom of the pot.

Tick. Drip. Tock. Drop. Tick. Drip. Tock. Drop.

All of a sudden I shot up, shocked about my own carelessness. In the process, I took a surprised step back from the counter paying no regard to the forgotten mug in my hands. I let go of the mug sending it flying to the floor. It broke into pieces as it hit the tiles of the kitchen, making a shattering sound that echoed through the whole compound.

I froze. My gaze went towards the archway at the opposite side of the kitchen marking the entrance. Holding my breath I listened.

There was only the sound of the grandfather clock from the living room and the steady hum of the coffee machine. It looked like everybody was still fast asleep. After a minute or so, I let my breath escape and focused back on the mess I had made.

Eyeing the shattered pieces of porcelain, a frown appeared between my eyebrows and a whine left my mouth. This had been my favorite cup.

I let out a heavy sigh. After this little show of self-pity, I went over to the cupboard underneath the sink and took out a brush and a dustpan and started sweeping the tragic remains of one of my closest friends. At least I had something to do; there was no danger of falling asleep while working.

When I finished cleaning up, I put the tools aside and reached for a new mug inside the cabinet. I was sure Bruce wouldn’t mind if I was taking his for now.

As I came to stand beside the coffee machine once again, the pot now half-way filled to the top and the delicious smell wafting through the kitchen, I noticed a movement from the corner of my eye.

Turning quickly in order to defend myself if it came to a fight, I barely picked up on the shattering sound as the second cup that night was sent flying by my hands.

“(Y/N)?”

Steve was standing in the archway, his voice gravelly. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand evidently getting the sleep out of them. He must have just woken up. Probably by the noise I had unintentionally been making.

Upon seeing my friend and colleague, another breath of relief passed my lips. I relaxed against the counter behind me as one hand went up to my chest right above the ferocious beating of my heart. If the breaking of my favorite mug had not woken me up before, the sudden appearance of the blond super soldier sure did the job.

While I looked at him with slightly less widened eyes, I could see the confusion in his gaze about what I was still doing up this late. I could also see the light twitch at the corner of his lips as a smile tried to form on his face, most likely in regard of my disheveled form.

I held his eyes for a moment – or did he hold mine? – until my brain caught up with what had happened. Hadn’t there been a noise of some sort, other than my heavy breathing?

Once more my eyes widened as realization hit me. I looked down. Sure enough in front of my feet was the green mug that had once belonged to Bruce Banner.

“Oh, man.”

I heard Steve chuckling at my whiny tone as I scooped down to pick up the broken pieces.

“Wait, (Y/N). Be careful with that. Here, let me help.”

His voice was filled with concern. I heard the sound of his bare feet against the tile floor as he walked over.

“No, it’s alright. I got this. You aren’t wearing any shoes… or socks for that matter.”

But Steve ignored my objections. Instead he came over with the brush and dustpan that were still laying on the counter top by the trash can. He put them down next to me and carefully reached over to take the shards I had already collected off of my hands.

I grabbed the tools once more – by now I was a real professional with a brush – and started sweeping – once again. Meanwhile, Steve threw away the bigger shards.

“Bruce is going to kill me,” I said underneath my breath. It was supposed to be inaudible, for my ears only, but Captain America had many talents, enhanced hearing being one of them.

“Why would Bruce kill you,” the amusement clear in his voice.

“Because I just destroyed his cup.” I sighed.

I swiped up the last of the mug and stood, throwing away the evidence that it had ever existed.

When I put the tools back into their place underneath the kitchen sink, I could feel Steve’s eyes on me. After I was done, I stood up straight and turned around to face my friend.

Steve was leaning with his back against the other end of the kitchen counter. He had his arms crossed in front of his broad chest that was covered by a blue T-shirt that seemed a couple of sizes too small. I swallowed hard. Then I let my eyes travel all the way up to his face.

It was framed by tousled blond hair, a stark contrast to his usually styled appearance. His blue eyes were as calm as the sea on a sunny day, but his stare was not less intense, however. There was a crease between his eyebrows. It was the one he always got when he was trying to figure something out. I had the sudden urge to reach out my hand and touche it to the crease on his forehead to smooth it out.

“Why were you using Bruce’s mug?”

His question pulled me out of my trance. I had to blink a few times to find my way back to the here and now. The crease between his eyebrows grew more prominent as he awaited my answer.

I opened my mouth, but closed it after a few seconds as I realized I hadn’t caught the meaning of the words.

“Hm?”

The sound was a little too high pitched for my liking and it made me cringe. I watched as the lopsided grin I liked so much appeared on his lips. However, this time as he started to speak, I forced myself to not be distracted and listen.

“I asked, why you were using Bruce’s mug.”

I shrugged once trying to play it cool, hoping he would let it go. Unfortunately, he raised an eyebrow questioningly, clearly not content with my wordless reply.

I lowered my gaze to stare at my feet clad in sparkling turquoise fuzzy socks.

“I broke mine earlier,” I mumbled in hopes Steve wouldn’t have heard.

But again, Captain America had super-hearing… Ergo, so did Steve.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise before knitting together in consideration. I could feel his scrutinizing look on me and I couldn’t refrain from squirming slightly. At one point I couldn’t suppress the urge to look up any longer.

His eyes were trained on my face. I could swear I saw the up and downs of waves reflecting in them. I swallowed, my mouth dry.

“Why did you break your mug?” His voice was calm and quiet.

Without taking my eyes off of his, I shrugged again. It was the only reply I was willing to give.

Steve’s expression changed and I could make out even more concern, if possible, shadowing his usually sunny features. Looking into those empathetic eyes, I wanted nothing more than to spill the truth. But would me feeling alleviated be worth burdening Steve with even more worries? As the leader of this team, I decided he had enough to worry about.

When it became evident I wouldn’t start to speak anytime soon, Steve slowly came towards me, stopping only when he was less than a foot away. Upon his close proximity, my heartbeat picked up its rhythm as if trying to escape my chest. I would have prayed he wouldn’t hear it, hadn’t I been distracted by his scent – a mixture of soap and leather – invading my nostrils.

His smell in addition to the fact that my eyes were now focused on his broad chest made me feel dazed. All my thoughts had been turned into thin air.

Out of nowhere I felt a large, calloused hand cupping my chin with so much gentleness that it seemed like a harsh contrast to the roughness one might expect from a soldier with super strength. There was a soft pressure making me look up just to be met with the bluest eyes I had ever seen speckled with tiny green spots.

The universe they held enveloped me whole. I was reminded of a day at the beach filled with sunshine, as I splashed around in the sea with my younger brother. A shiver ran down my spine and a calmness I had experienced the last time on that very day took hold of me.

It only lasted a second. Paradoxically, that calmness was what made me feel on edge. All my muscles were tense.

“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

Steve’s voice was almost inaudible and my eyes flicked down to his lips. I was still aware of his intense gaze on me. I bit my bottom lip not only to keep me from talking, but to keep it from quivering.

The way Steve was interacting with me, his calm and gentle manner somehow sent my emotions into turmoil. Tears were threatening to spill down my cheeks, a sob was stuck in my throat making it impossible for me to breathe properly. It cost me all my strength to keep myself hidden from the member of my team so close to me.

It was silent for an eternity. The only sounds were my accelerated heartbeat and the soothing humming of the coffee machine. Even Steve was holding his breath not wanting to miss any of my words should I decide to open up to him.

Heartbeats later, Steve let out his breath in way of a sigh. He let go of my chin. However, he didn’t step away. A breeze of cold air made me shiver, nonetheless.

“I think coffee doesn’t help with sleeping problems,” Steve joked attempting to lighten the mood.

I inhaled a shaky breath, releasing the lump that had been stuck in my throat. A tear slipped past my guard and I hurried to wipe it away, hoping Steve hadn’t seen.

“That’s-” I cleared my throat. “That’s kinda the point.”

My eyes widened. I was surprised my voice worked. Actually, I was surprised I said anything at all. I surely didn’t mean to.

I risked to sneak a peak at Steve to gouge his reaction. His eyes once again on me, a slight smile appeared on his lips. It didn’t quite reach his eyes and I knew he was just trying to be kind by not pushing me further to explain.

“Right then.”

The blond super soldier walked over to the cabinet and took out two mugs. He filled them with coffee before setting them on the kitchen island. He sat down on one of the stools and took a sip.

I watched closely, trying to see what he was about to do next. But he just kept sitting at the counter contently nursing his drink.

After a little while I tentatively walked over sitting myself down on the stool next to his. I stared at the cup in front of me.

It was the one I had made Steve the first Christmas after having joined the Avengers. He had been the one to welcome me and shown me around. We had hit it off instantly and spent quite some time talking to each other about everything and nothing. It was easy talking to Steve. During one of our conversations he had told me about his favorite piece of art and I had tried to recreate it, painting it on a mug. I had been insecure about my gift when the day actually arrived, but Steve loved it and gladly replaced the mug he had used before – the one with the star on a blue background, a very considerate gift from Tony – with this new one.

Surprised I looked over at him, checking which cup he was using. My suspicions were confirmed as I recognized it. He was drinking out of his hated mug – Tony’s gift – that now belonged to Bucky.

I couldn’t help but stare as my brain reeled trying to figure out what this might mean.

“Is something wrong? God, do I have something on my face,” Steve inquired, putting down his cup and wiping at his mouth.

Shaking my head I quickly averted my eyes and took my own cup in my hands to hide my burning face. I guided the mug toward my lips, the smell of freshly brewed coffee making me close my eyes in satisfaction. The smell always seemed to calm my nerves.

However, before I could take a sip I moved the mug away from my face just to place it back on the counter. I took a deep breath all the while silently cursing myself for what I was about to do. Then I released it in one forceful exhale.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Steve putting down his own cup. His focus was only on me now.

“I’m scared.” The words came out in a whisper. I didn’t dare speak any louder. The words were too heavy.

I counted ten ticks of the grandfather clock before Steve matched my voice.

“Scared of what?”

“Of sleeping.”

Ten more ticks.

“It’s because of your visions.”

It wasn’t a question but I nodded my confirmation, nevertheless.

“They are stronger before a mission,” I started to explain. “It always feels like I’m really there in that moment... But that’s not the worst.”

This time, after ten ticks, Steve stayed silent, letting me decided when to keep going in my own time. It was as if he could sense when I needed someone to push me and when I would get to it on my own.

I swallowed once, gathering the courage to continue.

“I’m scared that some day it won’t just be the destruction of buildings I see. That it won’t be just injuries, which is always bad enough… I’m scared to see-” A sob broke me off. The lump from earlier was back in my throat.

Steve moved at the noise, turning on his stool to fully face me. An expression of pain was set in his face as he was hurting while seeing me like this. He reached out his hand, lightly putting it on mine intending to show me he was there with me and I could share my pain; showing me that I didn’t have to go through it alone.

Without thinking about it, I grabbed his hand holding on to it as if it was the only thing tethering me to reality. The action came to me like a reflex. Steve returned the squeeze of my hand, giving me strength to continue.

“I’m scared I’ll see one of you die.”

I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. They cascaded freely from my eyes.  

Two seconds after the words finally freed themselves from my sealed lips, two strong arms circled around my form, enveloping me in a tight, warm hug.

My arms went around Steve of their own accord; my fingers clawing at his shirt. Steve held me close against his chest as my body was shaking from sobs that forced their way out. Tears were streaming down my face, snot running out of my nose. I knew the sight wasn’t pretty like in the movies, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t. All the emotions inside of me wouldn’t stay captive any longer. They demanded to be released.

I didn’t know for how long I had been crying when the dam eventually sealed. The only thing I knew was: Steve had been holding onto me the entire time; he was still there.

The two of us stayed like this, I safe in his arms, for a moment longer while I tried to catch my breath and compose myself at least a little.

As I moved away, Steve not letting me go farther than half an arms length so he could still have me close, I wiped off the wet paths that the tears had left on my face.

When my sight wasn’t blurry anymore, I noticed the drenched patch of Steve’s shirt clinging to his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s okay,” Steve interrupted my apology, wiping it away as if it was an unimportant speck of dust.

One of his hands let go of my waist as he reached up to wipe at the last remaining tear stains on my face with his thumb. In that moment I was thankful that my face was already red, swollen and blotchy.

His thumb lingered on my cheek before he cupped it with his large hand. The gesture was so sweet and comforting, I couldn’t stop myself from leaning into the touch.

“I understand that you would rather stay awake than seeing those kinds of scenes play out before your eyes.”

I recoiled at his words as they reminded me of why I was here now, in Steve arms. But Steve had a firm grip on my waist. He wouldn’t let me run away. Not again. Not ever. Especially not like this.

“I get it.” Steve held my gaze with his so I wouldn’t avert my eyes. He needed me to hear this. He needed me to understand.

“I can’t even imagine how it must feel like to experience visions like that. But,” he sighed, “you have to sleep. Especially before a mission. Without enough sleep you might loose your focus and that’s when... those things happen. I wish there would be a way around this, but there isn’t. But I can promise you that, as long as I am here, nothing is going to happen to anyone on this team. You hear me?”

I stared at him. Although his words were supposed to comfort me, which they mostly did, my heart still felt heavy.

“And what about you? Who is going to protect you when you are busy protecting the others?”

I was scared of this answer, this scenario, but I had to ask the question anyway. Uncertainty was even worse than knowing. If you didn’t know what was going to happen, you wouldn’t know how to stop it from happening.

Surprisingly, a smile pulled on one corner of Steve’s lips giving me the lopsided grin I loved so much.

“I’ve got you for that, don’t I?”

It wasn’t relief that flooded my body at his reply. It was something else warming and calming me just as much. A weight was not lifted off of my soul completely, but rather part of it was placed somewhere else. I didn’t have to carry this secret, this burden, around alone any longer.

However, Steve might have alleviated my fear of my visions becoming reality, but the fear of still having them wasn’t so easy to get rid off.

“I’m still scared of sleeping. The visions will still come.”

It was like starting telling Steve about my fears made my confessions now come out easier. I trusted him. I always had. But I knew something had shifted. Especially, as Steve uttered his next words.

“But you won’t have to face them alone.”

He said it as if it was a secret only the two of us would share.

He got up. I watched, curious to see what he was going to do.

After taking the milk out of the refrigerator and dividing it into two cups, he put them into the microwave. While the milk was warming up, Steve poured away the coffee, cleaned the two mugs we had been using as well as the coffee pot and got rid of any evidence that the two of us had been there during the night at all.  

He worked in silence. I didn’t mind, it was comfortable. His presence had, for some reason I didn’t understand myself, a calming effect on me.

Just one second before the microwave chimed, Steve hit the stop button and took out the drinks. Before he left the kitchen, he poured some honey in each cup and announced it as the beverage his mother had sworn on for sleeping problems. I followed him out of the kitchen staying a bit behind to see where he was leading us.

Instead of turning into the living room or getting off the elevator on his floor, he was heading towards my room. In front of the closed door he turned to look at me expectantly. Confused about all his actions up until then, I just looked back with one eyebrow raised. Suddenly, Steve turned a deep red.

“I just thought your bedroom would be a good place to sit and talk and drink the milk. I mean better than the kitchen, you know,” he started stumbling over his words. “I mean, in case any one would wander into the kitchen because they are looking for some water or something. Here we would be away from any prying eyes.”

The crimson color was spreading from his neck all the way up into his face and to the roots of his hair. I was certain, if it had been possible, his hair would have turned red, too.

“I mean not that we would be doing anything… I mean besides talking and drinking warm milk. I don’t mean-”

He interrupted himself at that point. Defeated and clearly embarrassed he let his head hang down. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I had heard the word ‘shoot’ leave his mouth. My mouth was twitching as I tried to keep the amusement hidden from view. I was still confused about what exactly he had intended to explain with that spate of words.

A second later, it hit me. I felt so stupid and I had to close my eyes for a moment to get over my own stupidity. Then I rushed to open the door.

“Oh, sure, of course. I’m sorry. Really sorry. Here you go. Please, come in.”

My face was glowing from heat. Surely, Steve and I could have made a contest out of ‘who was the deeper red’. It would have been close.

“Are you sure?”

I could see that Steve had grown uncertain and hesitant by my reaction or rather lack thereof.  I threw him an encouraging smile.

“Of course.”

Steve took a deep breath before entering and I wondered what that was about. I dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. I had enough on my plate. The last thing I wanted to do was figuring out why Steve was like he was and did what he did. It was just a Steve-thing.

Once inside with the door closed, he put the cup down on my nightstand. Then he looked around the room aimlessly. The tension was palpable. There was an awkwardness between us I didn’t know where it came from. Spending time with Steve had always been easy-going. There was never a conversation forced between the two of us. Being with Steve was comfortable. This was the opposite.

I didn’t know how I could disperse the tension between us, so I did the first best thing that came to mind. I sat down on my bed settling into the cushions.

When I was settled, I patted on the empty space next to me signaling Steve to sit down and get comfortable himself.

After a moment of hesitation he eventually sat down. However, I could see his tense muscles, even through his layers of clothing. It seemed like he was prepared to fight someone at any minute.

I rolled my eyes. This whole weirdness of the situation was starting to annoy me.

“You know, it might be more comfortable to lean into the pillows behind you instead of sitting up straight. Nobody’s going to attack you in here, you know.”

I tried to make my words sound like a joke while simultaneously showing Steve that he didn’t have to be weirded out by whatever it was that was weirding him out.

He got the message. Tentatively he leaned further back, moving closer to me as to not awkwardly lay and sit at the same time. It took him a few moments, but after a while he began to relax more and more.

When I was satisfied with Steve’s mostly relaxed posture, I grabbed the two cups from my nightstand and handed one to Steve. After, I encircled my cup with my hands and took a sip. The sweet drink warmed my insides and I felt the tension leaving my body altogether.

We sat like that in silence, each one of us listening to their own thoughts. Never had I felt so at peace with someone else. Usually, sitting silently with someone was stressing me out. I would always feel like I had to fill the emptiness between us with meaningless words, but this was different. It was a whole new experience. It was comfortable and cozy.

After ten minutes, Steve broke the silence.

“If you could travel anywhere, where would you want to go?”

At first I was dumbfounded by the apparently random question coming out of nowhere. Then I understood what he was trying to do. I appreciated him attempting to distract me and not make me talk or think about my visions. So I played along.

“Oh, I would love to see…”

We fell into a nice conversation then, alternating between asking each other random questions. The easiness came back step by step and soon enough it seemed impossible that we might have had an awkward moment between us.

Within the conversation I saw a new side to Steve and learned something about the person he really was instead of the person everyone always tried to make him out to be. I also felt myself opening up to him, even though it might not have been evident in regard to the topics of our conversation.

When I had finished my milk with honey, I put the mug back down on my nightstand. Then, still chatting with Steve, I scooted closer to his warmth. On instinct, Steve reached an arm around my body, pulling me so close, my head was resting on his chest. Soon enough the steady heartbeat under my ear, his velvety voice encompassing me, and his even breaths lulled me to sleep.

When I awoke a couple of hours later, panting, sweating, Steve was there to calm and reassure me. He would listen to my vision and I would tell him. For the first time, I didn’t have to deal with it on my own. For the first time, someone was willing to listen to gruesome details that were haunting me even during daytime - especially during daytime. For the first time, I had help carrying this burden. So eventually, I fell back asleep. The last thing I felt was the touch of Steve’s fingers playing with my hair.

In the morning, Steve was still there holding me in his arms as he continued sleeping peacefully for a few more minutes. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his calm features. Never had I felt so well rested before a mission, although four hours of sleep was not ideal yet. Baby steps.

When Steve’s eyes started to flutter and his blue eyes shimmered through his long dark lashes, my breath caught in my throat. I wasn’t sure whether it was the view in front of me or the nervousness taking hold of me.

“Good morning.” His voice was a gravel whisper just like last night in the kitchen.

I had expected it to be awkward between us, but the way he said ‘good morning’ – without a hint of unease – erased that fear instantly.

“Morning,” I replied smiling. Steve returned that smile with his own, which made the sun rise over the ocean he held in his eyes.

We stayed like this, silently gazing at each other, cuddled up in the blankets until we were both fully awake. However, at one point we had to leave the comfort of my room to get ready for the mission. But not without coffee first.

As the two of us entered the kitchen everyone was already up and making themselves breakfast. Bruce was standing confused in front of the cabinet wondering as to why his mug was gone.

“I could have sworn it had been there yesterday. (Y/N), have you seen my coffee mug,” he asked as I walked in.

I felt my face growing hot and my eyes widen a little. I didn’t want to explain why I had been awake in the middle of the night destroying first my mug and then Bruce’s. But before I could find the courage to speak up, Steve jumped in.

“That’s my fault. I was making some warm milk because I couldn’t sleep, and when I reached for my cup in the cabinet, I accidentally bumped against yours and it fell and shattered. I’m really sorry, Bruce, I promise I’ll get you a new one.”

Bruce scowled a little but nodded in understanding. Steve washed the cup he had used the night before and handed it to his friend so he could get the coffee that would make him useful.

Afterwards, Steve gave me his favorite cup to keep using for my beloved black elixir leaving him mug-less. I wanted to protest, but Steve just shook his head and went to make himself some cereal. Gratefully, I walked over to pour myself some coffee.

Never before had a smile as bright as the one illuminating my features at that moment played on my face at the advent of a mission.  If our team mates were surprised by this, they kept it to themselves.

As I sat down at the counter, I glanced at Steve watching him chat with Bucky. I felt like the smile on my face wouldn’t disappear any time soon.

Outside of the battlefield I might not have any idea what my future held. But if the previous night had been any clue, for once I was excited for what lay ahead.

[dallanebbia]

blooming (3/6);

fandom: bnha pairing: kacchako; bakugou katsuki x uraraka ochako word count: 6353 warnings: mentions of violence inspiration: [link] synopsis: 

Ochako doesn’t understand much about the world outside the limits of her village, but she does know this: She loves her family, and at the end of the day, she’ll do anything to keep them safe – even if it means sacrificing herself to do it.

When she runs away to join the army in her father’s place, the only thing she leaves behind is an untouched cup of tea, and a whispered apology nobody is awake to hear.(or, in which an attempt is made to write a kacchako mulan au)

parts: [1] [2] [3] || AO3: [link]

Life continues on, a cycle of dreaming and sparring and sleeping, over and over – until time seems to slip away.

It feels odd, but Ochako has always found it satisfying when things so easily fall into a routine. The day to day monotony is something she’s accustomed to – she’s used to waking before dawn to work in the fields, something soothing about the repetition of movement – but what’s different is the relief that settles into her bones, soothing itself into her skin deeper and deeper as the days pass.

The difference is that she can run and smile and breathe in a way she never could at home. It’s that she’s respected, seen as reliable and capable and strong – worth more than the value of her body or her potential as a bride. It’s the fact that she’s finally tasted freedom, finally understood what she’s spent her whole life missing, and it makes her heart feel warm and full.

She belongs here, more comfortable amongst virtual strangers than she ever did in her village, and it’s telling. She misses home – aches, whenever she thinks of her mother and father – but she can’t bring herself to feel guilty. At the end of all this, even if she doesn’t make it back, Ochako knows she will never regret taking her father’s place.

It would’ve been easy to stay – to spend her entire life knowing only the tiny world of her village, unhappy and miserable. She would’ve never known how it feels to be broken and remade, pushing beyond her own limits and proving that she’s more than what her gender says she should be. She would have ended up married off to be someone’s quiet, submissive, dutiful wife – and thinking back on it now, the very idea of it fills her with dread.

Part of her wonders if this is why she gravitates towards Bakugou. Ochako is used to men like Monoma – men who believe in their own self-importance and disregard anyone they deem inferior, their wives included. The other recruits at camp – Koda, with his quiet, patient humility; Tokoyami, with his dark and dry humor; even Kirishima, with his effortless, sunshine-bright personality – are good and kind, men who most women would happily marry, but even as she gets to know everyone, something always brings her back to the blonde-haired captain.  

She has never met someone like Bakugou, a raw mix of aggressive intensity and fierce determination and unwavering conviction - someone who has so much faith in her, who pushes her to the edge and still dares to ask her for more. It goes beyond the way he makes her ache with longing – it’s about the way he looks at her, respect and pride and challenge all rolled into one, and as much as Ochako dreams about his touch, her heart soars whenever she finds herself standing across from him in the sparring ring, a promise and a dare lurking behind his sharp gaze.

It’s easy, being swept up into Bakugou’s strange, dangerous charisma. With Monoma gone, everyone watches as the captain slowly relaxes, his shoulders easing without the threat of eyes constantly scrutinizing his every move. He seems almost … softer, for lack of a better word – his scowls lose their harsh edge, his usual insults lack the same bite, and his newfound attitude has the entire camp in a jovial mood. The recruits start asking Bakugou to join them at mealtimes, or to participate in whatever hair-brained bonding activity Kaminari dreams up, and Ochako can see the way he tries to hold back a smile when he thinks nobody sees.  

At first, she doesn’t even realize that she’s staring until he looks back at her with a quirked eyebrow, and she has to avert her eyes in embarrassment. But then – sometimes, she catches herself tracking him as he spars with other people, memorizing the way he flows sinuously between blows. Sometimes, she watches him smirk at her frustrated face when she can’t pin him in a spar, and wonders what it’d be like to tell him the truth, hoping that he’d let her stay. Bakugou seems to blossom away from Monoma's overbearing shadow, unfurling ever so slowly, and she can't help but savor every little fragment he lays bare for the world to see.

No matter what she does, Ochako's eyes are drawn back in his direction, like a flower straining towards the sun.

At one point, Bakugou gruffly tells them to stop calling him by his title and to use his name instead. Some, like Kirishima and Kaminari, jump on the opportunity; others, like Ojiro, respectfully decline and continue to call him “captain.” She can’t decide what to do – it’s a terrible idea, especially when she considers her traitorous, fluttering heart, but the temptation is too much to resist. She wants to feel the shape of his name in her mouth, tasting the sounds on her tongue, even if it's not in the context that she dreams of.

It takes her days to work up the courage. When she finally manages to do it - a bright smile, paired with a heartfelt "thanks, Bakugou!" - all he does is blink at her for an unbearably long moment before turning away with a muttered, “tch.”

It stings for some reason, more than it should – and as it lingers for the rest of the day, she stubbornly pretends like she doesn't know why until she's alone in her tent that night.

Hurt settles heavy in her throat, the cloying pressure of rejection and disappointment pooling in her chest, and it feels like the world’s worst practical joke as Ochako realizes that she’s managed to develop feelings for the one man she absolutely cannot have.

It’s a wake-up call, reality stabbing into the irrational, tiny ball of girlish hope that she'd carefully buried deep into her heart, and as she lies on her sleeping mat, all she can feel is shame. Here she is, pining and sighing about something that she knows can never happen – letting herself get caught up in distractions and daydreams when there are far more important things at stake. She isn’t here for romance, and she isn’t here for love - Ochako is here for her parents, and she needs to get her head on straight before it's too late.

The next day, she wakes up with the lingering guilt as a reminder, and gives up her slot for her usual extra sparring session with Bakugou. The swords in her tent isn’t worth much collecting dust, and Ochako needs something to ground her - it’s time that she gets serious about learning how to use her father’s nodachi.

__

Days later, she’s practicing with a weighted bokken when she spots Bakugou pause next to the small training area, a deep scowl carved into his expression as he stops to watch. Ochako determinedly avoids the piercing red gaze boring into her cheek, focusing on keeping her movements steady even as her arms ache – the weight of the training sword is heavy to the point of being nearly too much, but she refuses to give up. 

She deliberately blocks out the tiny voice in her head, one that sounds a lot like Bakugou, telling her that she's being a stubborn idiot.

It takes a herculean amount of effort to move through the last rep of the kata sequence she’s practicing, her entire body trembling with exertion, and after pausing in the final stance, she lets the wooden sword drop limp at her side.

“How’d it look?” she pants, wiping at her dripping forehead with her sleeve. Off to the side, Kirishima grins at her with a thumbs up, a gesture that she quickly recognizes as one he uses when he’s trying to be reassuring.

“Way better, Uraraka!” he says earnestly. “You looked real manly, with that scary face you’ve got going on!” He mimics a serious grimace, and she sighs heavily.

“Thanks, Kirishima,” she says tiredly, offering him a small smile. “Are my strikes improving?” He falters for a moment before his shoulders slump.

“Ah – I wasn’t lying when I said you were better.” He rubs the back of his head. “But… if I’m being honest, bro? It looks like you’re using most of your strength on keeping your arms in position instead of putting power behind your movements. And… you don’t really swing? If that makes sense? You just kinda let the sword fall into position, especially during downward slashes.”

“So basically, I’m still terrible.”

Kirishima winces, then says, “Uh, well – yeah. Kinda.”

“Great.” Ochako exhales roughly, placing the bokken back on the weaponry rack, and bites back the urge to lash out at the redhead. It wouldn’t be fair to get mad at Kirishima for something that isn’t in his control, especially after he graciously agreed to show her the exercises in the first place.

She slumps heavily against one of the trees littered around the clearing and closes her eyes, sensing the redhead settling next to her, and the cool shade makes her feel a little better. "Maybe this was a dumb idea," she mutters.

"Hey, don't say that!" She lets her eyes flutter open, and Kirishima is studying her with a frown. "I'm serious when I said you're getting better, bro. You could barely lift one of these things when we first started training, and now look at where you are! You'll get there, you just gotta keep up the hard work." 

Ochako can't help but return his earnest smile. "Thanks Kirishima. That means a lot."

" I'm just calling it how I see it," he says, beaming. A comfortable silence falls over them, Ochako savoring the quiet, but after a moment, Kirishima clears his throat. “Um, Uraraka – if you don't mind me asking... why’re you so interested in using a nodachi anyways?”

“What do you mean?”

“I … well, don’t take this the wrong way? But usually, it’s easier to use one if you’re… taller,” he says awkwardly, shuffling his feet, before his head whips up in wide-eyed mortification. “NOT to say you can’t do it! Like I said, you're totally already improving a ton, and I’m sure you’d be awesome at it, but – I mean, you’re scary good with a tanto already, and you're good with a staff too, so it’s not like you really need a weapon with reach, so…I’m confused, I guess.”

Ochako frowns, but doesn't say anything as Kirishima continues to stumble over his words.

“… Ugh, it sounds creepy now that I’m saying it, but I just wanna… understand? If that makes sense? I mean, we’ve been here for so long and I noticed you’re always kinda by yourself, and we’re all supposed to be comrades, so I figure…” His voice trails off, face flushing in embarrassment. “You know what – never mind, totally ignore the last five minutes. My ma always told me I’m too nosy for my own good and – ”

“Kirishima.” She waits for him to stop talking, and then punches him good-naturedly in the shoulder. “You’re fine. I was the one who asked you for help, so…”

Ochako purses her mouth, stretching her aching arms as she looks through the tree canopy up at the sky – it’s cloudy, a little overcast, and there’s a distinct smell in the air she recognizes as one that always comes before rain. “It’s kind of a long story, but… my father was the one who got drafted,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “He’s not an officer or anything, but he got some kind of military award in a war from when I was a child. I guess the shogun assumed he’d be fine with fighting again.”

“Oh,” Kirishima says quietly. “Is he not … ?”

“Mmhm.” She lets her arms drop to her sides. “He has a bad leg – an old wound that never really healed right. He can barely walk without a cane, and they still wanted him to come out here? I… I couldn’t just let him go, even though he wanted to fight, so I came in his place.”

There's a distinct note of understanding in his tone as he says, quietly, “You’re doing this for your dad, huh?”

“I want to honor him, and my mother,” she says simply, and goes to pick up the bokken once more. “I’m the only child of my family, and I… I helped where I could, but my father – he’s always put his duty first, over his own life sometimes. And I feel like if I’m here in his place, I should at least uphold his values for him and honor his sacrifices."

Ochako shrugs, feeling a little sheepish, but she figures she might as finish after saying so much already. "Learning how to use his sword seems like the least I can do, even if I’m not all that great at it. I know I’m probably never going to be able to use it in a fight, but it can always be a backup, right?”

There's a loud, wet sniffing sound, and she turns to see Kirishima staring at her with tears brimming in his eyes. “That’s so manly, Uraraka,” he says, choking a little, and all she can do is yelp when the redhead sweeps her up into a spine-cracking hug. “I’m so glad that you asked me to help you!”

“Urk – ” Ochako gasps against the solid wall of Kirishima’s chest, her face squished flat. “Erm, no problem, do you think you can – ”

"Oi, shitheads! This is a training camp, not a fucking sentou!" Bakugou’s voice cuts sharp in the air, and Ochako feels Kirishima mutter, “oh, shit.” She’s promptly dropped to the ground, left to stumble as she tries to find her footing, and out of the corner of her eye she can see Bakugou stalking towards them, mouth twisted into a snarl. “Fuck around somewhere else, nobody needs to see that bullshit."

“Ah, sorry, Bakugou!” Kirishima apologizes cheerfully, a grin on his face, and Ochako stiffens when Bakugou’s gaze slides from the redhead to her. “Just taking a quick break – Uraraka asked for some pointers, so I’m just helping him out, y’know?”

“Tch.” There’s something dark written into the lines of his expression when his gaze flickers towards her, his mouth tightening when he spots the wooden bokken in her hand. “You’re still wasting your time on that shit?”

Ochako bristles at the scorn in his tone. “It’s not shit,” she says, her voice hard – she doesn’t know why he looks so angry, but she’s tired and achy and doesn’t have the patience to deal with his rudeness. “Did you need something, captain?”

Bakugou stills, staring at her for a moment, and then his nostrils flare. “If you’re so fucking set on using a nodachi, at least do yourself a favor and ask a fucking expert.”

"I don’t need an expert," she says, emphasizing each word, and leans forward challengingly. “Besides, last time I checked, someone - ”

Kirishima takes a step back, eyes nervously darting between Bakugou’s face and hers. “Uh, guys – ”

“ - Shitty Hair, out of all – ”

“ – you wouldn’t bother – ”

“ – didn’t even fucking ask – ”

“OI!” Kirishima whistles sharply, arms folded disapprovingly across his chest as he stares at both of them. “You both need to calm down. Yelling at each other isn’t manly at all!”

“Hah?” Bakugou growls, taking a menacing step forward. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

He’s a few inches shorter than the redhead, a little leaner too – but Kirishima actually squeaks, and then immediately shrinks under the force of Bakugou’s glare. “I mean – I just remembered, I promised I’d spar with – uh, Sero! Yeah, um – I’m – I’m just …gonnagonowbye!”

All Ochako can do is gape as Kirishima flashes her an apologetic wince over his shoulder before literally running out of the training area, and rounds on Bakugou as soon as the redhead is out of sight. “What is your problem?”

“You seriously cancelled on me for this?!” Bakugou demands, red eyes boring into hers as he looms over her, and she can’t understand why he’s being so belligerent. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Why are you getting angry at me?” She flushes, not sure if the heat in her cheeks is from exertion or anger or embarrassment at how close he’s standing to her. “I needed someone to show me some katas – ”

“Again - you decided to ask Shitty Hair?”

“Who else was I supposed to ask?” she blurts out, and he stops short, staring back at her like he can’t quite believe what she just said. Ochako knows that she’s crossing the blurred line drawn in the sand – she knows that despite Bakugou’s casual carelessness about ranks and titles, she’s being deliberately insubordinate to someone who has the power to make her life miserable, but the words are already falling out of her mouth before she can swallow them back. “You’ve made it pretty clear how you feel about this - every time I asked, all you say is that I’m wasting my time... so I went to someone who was actually willing to help me.”

Bakugou is silent for a few moments, and then exhales with a slow hiss. There’s still frustration present in his eyes, but his tone is less aggressive as he says, “I’ve seen that nodachi of yours, Round Face – it’s literally as tall as you are. You seriously think using a sword like that is fucking practical?”

Ochako grits her teeth, ignoring the way her ears turn hot. “See, this is why I – ”

“Nuh uh, shut up and listen to me.” Bakugou grabs the bokken from her hand, hefting it with an ease that makes her green with envy. “Nobody with any sense uses a nodachi for actual combat – it’s too cumbersome to carry around, not to mention that even fully grown men need two fucking hands to use it. I had to learn the damn thing as part of my training, but it’s a fucking formality. Everyone knows that the extra reach isn’t worth two hands when you get the same effect out of a katana or wakizashi.”

Ochako glowered back at him, refusing to back down. “But my father – ”

Bakugou doesn’t bother to let her finish. “I can bet you that the last time your old man used that damn sword was at least ten years ago, Round Face,” he cuts her off, ignoring her sputtering, and continues, “Nodachi haven’t been seriously used in combat since the last war – anyone who had one would’ve, at the fucking minimum, gotten the blades cut down to katana length by now. Nobody with any goddamn sense would try waving around a sword as big as the one you have – something that big is ornamental or purely for religious use, not for actual combat.”

She’s stunned silent, her mind frantically processing Bakugou’s words. What he’s saying makes sense – and the last time her father had actually been called to serve had been fifteen years ago, when she was little more than a child – but her pride burns at the thought of being wrong about the entire situation. “You say that, but then what about Kirishima, or Shoji? You taught them both – ”

“They’re twice your fucking size, Round Face!” Bakugou bellows, looking like he wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. “You- fuck, Shitty Hair and Squid Arms can wave a nodachi around with one fucking hand like it’s a goddamn kunai, while you can barely hold a training sword up long enough to get through a fucking kata. You wanna learn the kaiken, or the yari, or the kusarigama? I’ll get you good enough to whip anyone’s fucking ass, but I ain’t wasting my time or yours on something that you’re not even gonna be able to use to keep your dumb self alive.”

The longer he speaks, the more Ochako realizes that he’s right – when he finally spits out the last words, she doesn’t know what to say. There’s a hollow feeling in her chest, a realization that settles heavily in her heart as the words sink in, and she feels a little like a ship drifting at sea. “Then why didn’t you just say that? Instead of just yelling at me about wasting time?”

He falters, looking suddenly unsure, and grumbles, “I… I didn’t realize I had to fucking spell it out for you.” The blonde runs a restless hand through his hair. “You’re not a complete idiot. You were supposed to figure it out eventually.”

She rolls her eyes at the backhanded compliment. “One, I’m not a mind reader. Two, my parents are farmers. How am I supposed to know anything about weapons?”

Bakugou levels a deadpan look in her direction. “You’re telling me that you don’t have the common sense to realize that you shouldn’t use a sword you can barely lift above your head?”

“…” She can’t say anything in her defense because he’s right – she’d admitted as much to Kirishima earlier, out loud even. Ochako averts her eyes at his expectant expression, frustration and humiliation swirling in her belly as she stares at her feet.

“Oi.” A fist brushes against the side of her head, gentle yet forceful enough to make her look up. Bakugou still looks mad, but there’s something understanding in his eyes as he says, “Look – I heard your little heart to heart with Shitty Hair, and I get it. You wanna do right by your old man, but honor and duty ain’t worth shit if you end up dead. You’re out here, fighting for him – that’s as honorable as it gets. Don’t sabotage yourself by being a stubborn idiot.”

He claps her reassuringly on the shoulder, heat bleeding through the thin cloth of her training top for a moment before Bakugou draws his hand back. “Drop the hero worship you’ve got going on and get your shit together. Got it?”

“… Yeah.” She shifts her weight bashfully, her earlier embarrassment slowly giving way to a warmth that spreads through her body at the gruff yet comforting words. “Could… could you help me pick something then, captain?”

For some reason, he scowls at that. “Tch, save that shit for when it matters, Round Face. Just call me Bakugou.” Butterflies erupt in her stomach against her will, and despite every rational voice screaming in her brain, Ochako hopes that she’s not imagining the pink tint to his ears when he looks determinedly at a spot over her head. “You’d be fucking badass with a naginata.”

She freezes, the fluttering in the stomach suddenly replaced with panic as she feels the blood rush out of her face. Ochako is a farmer’s daughter, but she’s heard enough to know that polearms are only used by women, particularly female samurai. She can’t tell if Bakugou is trying to hint that he knows her secret, or if it’s just a coincidence, but it takes everything in her to hide her terror as she stammers, “A – a naginata? Isn’t t-that a woman’s weapon?”

Bakugou pauses, staring her as she tries not to fidget under his gaze, and it feels like hours have passed when he finally opens his mouth.

“A weapon’s a weapon – doesn’t matter what’s between a person’s legs, if they know how to use it then you’re dead either way,” he says, still eyeing her as he returns the wooden training sword back into its place. “My hag of a mother beat that lesson into me when I was a bratty little kid, and she’s one of the best fighters I know. If you actually believe in that traditionalist bullshit, I’ll make her to come down here and teach you that lesson herself – she isn’t as fucking nice as I am.”

Another person who could possibly figure out her secret? Nope, no thank you.

“A-ah – no, I’m good.” Her stomach unclenches, the blind fear slowly dissipating into a careful suspicion. She watches as Bakugou grabs a tall wood staff, curved and flat at the end, and tests the weight of it in his palm.

“Naginatajutsu builds on all the same basics of a staff.” Bakugou backs up, demonstrating a series of movements that she recalls learning weeks earlier. “You’re taking the defense of a bo and adding the stabbing and slicing potential of a kodachi onto it. A lot of what you know from the staff applies, but your offense depends on attacking while deflecting or redirecting blows.”

He tosses the staff at her, and as Ochako catches it, she can’t help but notice that it’s just as heavy as the nodachi bokken – only this time the weight, is comfortably balanced in her hands. She takes a few practice swings, the half-hearted actions quickly sliding into familiar stances as she twirls and twists. “Oh. Oh, this feels – ”

“Fucking knew it,” Bakugou mutters smugly. Ochako falls out of the kata, smiling down at the polearm as she relaxes. “Same time as our usual spars, Round Face – you’re going to be a fucking force of nature when I’m done with you.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” she says teasingly, and when she looks up, he’s watching her with an almost fond smirk curling at his mouth. The look on his face makes her stomach jump, her heartbeat faltering for a moment, and she tucks the memory of his expression away to remember for another day. No, Ochako. “I – thank you, Bakugou.”

“Just don’t fucking bail on me, Round Face.” He rolls his eyes, turning away and making his way out of the training area. She hums in agreement, and watches as Bakugou quickly disappears around a copse of trees, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

A force of nature.

Ochako grins – she likes the sound of that.

__

As expected, Bakugou turns out to be absolutely, 100% right.

Ochako takes to the naginata like a duck to water, picking up the footwork and stances with an ease that feels almost scary. After only a week and a half of instruction, Bakugou puts her into the sparring ring, and proceeds to send her smug, satisfied looks each time she disarms or defeats another recruit. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so exhilarating to win, so all Ochako does is roll her eyes in response.

She makes sure to immediately tell Kirishima about her change of heart, and he’s understanding about it, encouraging even – but it’s an offhand comment he makes later that leaves her flustered.

“You must’ve impressed him a lot, Uraraka,” he says after a particularly long spar. She lost, but considering Kirishima’s ability to tank anything short of a literal stab to the gut, she’s taking it as a win. “From what I can tell, Bakugou’s pretty invested in your training.”

Ochako’s eyebrows rise at that, feeling unsettled. She knows Kirishima is too kind for him to be implying anything, but for some reason it makes her a little uncomfortable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, he’s been hard on all of us, y’know? But he’s been pretty much riding your ass into the ground since day one.” Kirishima doesn’t seem to notice her uneasiness as he continues on thoughtfully, head cocked to one side. “He probably saw some hidden potential in you! How manly is that?”

Ochako only smiles nervously, doing everything in her power to ignore the unintentional innuendo, and quickly changes the subject. Still, Kirishima’s words stay with her for days after, leaving her wondering.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t have a chance to ask Bakugou about it, because Monoma finally returns to the camp, and things take a quick turn for the worse.

Bakugou’s temper returns with a vengeance alongside the nobleman’s snippety comments, and everything contines to go downhill from there. The only positive of the situation is that Ochako isn’t dead last anymore, her improvement no longer leaving her in a position to be singled out, but in a way, it’s worse. Monoma resorts to sullenly glaring at everyone who dares to cross his path, but more often than not, ends up making borderline malicious comments meant to both criticize and undermine Bakugou’s position at camp.

The cheerful, casual atmosphere of the past month quickly disintegrates like smoke in the wind. A tenseness settles over the camp, and everyone starts tiptoeing around carefully, trying to avoid triggering the short fuse that is Bakugou’s sanity. Ochako hates it – she can’t stand the oppressive silences, the stiffness and her growing anxiety, but most of all, she hates that Bakugou looks more and more exhausted as the days pass, his features fixed permanently into a furious, bitter scowl. He’s shifting back to the man she met when she first arrived, closed off and angry and uncompromising, and the only time she sees the tension ease from his shoulders is during her naginata lessons.

“If… if you need someone to talk to,” Ochako says quietly, one night as they are walking back to the tents together, “I’m happy to listen.”

“M’fine.” Bakugou looks tired, scrubbing at his face as he sighs. “Worry about yourself; I can deal with the bastard.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though.” She stops, letting the frustration seep into her voice. “Bakugou, I – we all can see what Monoma’s doing. Can’t we report him, or file a complaint?”

“Believe me, if that had any chance in hell of doing shit, he wouldn’t have been here in the first place.” He snorts. “He’s got the favor of the shogun, Round Face. We just have to tough it out.”

She hums. “Do I need to climb another dead tree and play fetch?”

That earns her a genuine bark of laughter and a half-smirk, the stress falling away from his face for a moment. “Fuck, I wish.”

Her heart flutters at the glimpse of the Bakugou from the past month – the Bakugou who’d worked past her stubbornness and talked sense into her, who’d had enough faith in her to bet on her strength… the Bakugou who, despite her best efforts, she still has feelings for. Something lightens in her chest, her lips curling into a smile, but her thoughts are suddenly cut off by a familiar, low growl.

“Can’t even get a fucking moment of peace,” he mutters, glaring, and Ochako follows his gaze, her heart sinking. Standing in front of Bakugou’s tent is Monoma, eyeing their approach condescendingly with an official-looking scroll in his hand, and at her side, Bakugou sighs. “Get outta here, Round Face. Y’don’t need to stick around for this bullshit.”

She can’t even offer a response before Bakugou strides forward, shoulders set and a dark glower on his face as he calls out to Monoma. Dismayed, she watches as the two of them disappear into Bakugou’s tent, light blooming as a candle is lit inside, and she reluctantly moves on. Ochako only glances back once, seeing the two shadows cast on the canvas, before sighing and continuing to her tent.

__

Later, as she’s coming back from bathing in the river, Ochako deliberately sets her path to pass by Bakugou’s tent. It feels silly, but part of her hopes that she’ll run into him again – the sound of Bakugou’s laughter felt like the taste of water after a drought, and she selfishly wants to hear it again.

What she doesn’t expect is Monoma’s shadow, still moving wildly inside the captain’s tent, hours after she’d parted ways with Bakugou earlier. As she creeps closer, the conversation becomes clearer and clearer, and it’s not that she means to listen, but Monoma isn’t exactly trying to keep quiet.

“Those peasants are no more fit to be soldiers than you are to be captain,” she overhears, the cruel words said with the finality of a finishing blow, and the silence that follows Monoma’s proclamation is only punctuated by a low growl.

“Is that so?” There’s a soft, ominous quality to Bakugou’s voice, and Ochako has to bite down a shiver at the danger that lurks beneath the words. “Might wanna be careful what you say, fuckface.”

“Maybe take your own advice, Bakugou? You can strut around all you want, but at the end of the day you’re a nothing more than the bastard worth less than the clothes on your back.” Monoma either doesn’t have working ears, or any sense of self preservation, and continues talking. “You might have the general convinced, but you and your pathetic little troop will never see battle – not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Funny, then, that Hakamata’s asking me and my shitty little soldiers to join him,” Bakugou says, and through the illuminated tent, Ochako sees that he’s tossing a scroll between his hands tauntingly. “Keep being petty, fuckface – I can’t wait to report your ass to –  ”

“Pft, you and I both know that’s an empty threat,” Monoma scoffs, and she can hear the scorn in his voice. “Your word is utterly worthless, especially after the general comes around to the shogun’s point of view.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Bakugou demands.

“Don’t tell me – you didn’t even notice?” Monoma laughs meanly. “I’m not here for the recruits – I’m here for you. Did you seriously believe the shogun would let you take command again without supervision, after you sacrificed your entire company just to save your own skin?”

Ochako swallows back the gasp that gets stuck in her throat, her heart pounding. Fury and sadness and rage boil together in her gut, and she’s struck by the sudden, desperate urge to stab Monoma with a dull, rusty knife. Bakugou sounds like he feels the same way, and his voice is dangerously level as he says, “You played good little messenger pigeon. Now, get the fuck out.”

She ducks behind a tree as Monoma haughtily slips into the night air, radiating smug contentment as he trudges off in the direction of his own tent. Ochako slowly looks around, hoping the coast is clear, but darts back when Bakugou stomps out of his tent, fatigue visible in his weary expression. He stops only a few paces away from where she’s hiding, head tilted up to the sky, and she slowly starts to back away to give him some privacy.

Of course, that’s when she steps on a twig, and she flinches at the snapping sound that echoes in the quiet night.

“Whoever is sneaking around like a goddamn rat has two fucking seconds to show their shitty face.”

Wincing, Ochako steps out, eyes averted, and Bakugou eyes her for a tense moment before exhales heavily. “Of-fucking-course it’s you,” he mutters, grimacing. “Scram, round face.”

She bites her lip. Ochako knows that she should go, especially considering what she’d overheard, but she still asks, “We’re being deployed?”

“Tch, were you eavesdropping the whole fucking time?” Bakugou’s glare forceful enough that she shrinks back a little.

“Just the end,” she admits guiltily, and it’s a miracle when he doesn’t say more. She doesn’t know much about Bakugou’s history, but Monoma’s words are damning, even to her ears. Ochako tries to hide her apprehension as she says, gently, “If… if you still need to talk? The offer from earlier still stands, Bakugou.”

“I’m fucking fine,” he snaps, and she can’t help the way she flinches as he rounds on her. His eyes look glassy and unfocused, reliving a memory from the past, and he snarls, “I don’t need you to play mother hen and coddle me like I’m some kid, but in case you’re still not getting the message? Fuck. Off.”

Ochako takes a half step back, swallowing the thickness that suddenly appears in her throat. It feels a lot like he’s just driven a knife into her chest, punching through her lungs as she exhales in a slow, single breath. Bakugou has already turned away, head bowed as she curls into herself, but just as she’s about to leave, she hesitates.

She glances back at him over her shoulder. It’s clear, just by looking at Bakugou, that Monoma’s words had gone straight through all of his bravado, hitting exactly where they were meant to. There’s a weight to his shoulders that she’s never seen before, a weariness written into the curve of his neck and back, and the vulnerability seems so out of place on him that she can’t help the words that fall from her mouth.

“I know my opinion isn’t worth much,” she says softly, and hopes that he’s listening. “But for what it’s worth – I trust you. And I know everyone here does too.”

Ochako doesn’t wait for a reply, instead ducking her head and quickly making her way to her tent. She forces herself to keep her eyes forward as she walks, no matter how badly she wants to look back.

__

The next morning, Kirishima breaks the news to her as she slips into the mess tent for breakfast: they’re marching to Kamino Pass to meet with the 4th regiment of the shogun’s army, led by the Bakugou’s old mentor, General Hakamata. Kirishima is too enthusiastic to notice her uneasy expression, but she’s quietly grateful – her mind is still reeling from what happened the night before, and she ignores her porridge in favor of searching the crowd for a familiar head of spiky blonde hair.

Everyone is busy packing, loading up the caravans and organizing marching orders, and despite her best efforts, Ochako is quickly swept up into the chaos. At one point, she spots Bakugou as she’s running supplies back and forth – he’s wearing a tired scowl, his otherwise normal appearance marred by the dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t look her way once throughout the entire morning, even as she deliberately crosses paths with him, and she pushes on through the hurt that steadily simmers in her chest as the day goes on.

When the camp is packed and everyone finally sets off, she keeps her head and eyes down, quiet even as the other recruits around her whisper excitedly. She doesn’t notice Bakugou glancing back at her, and as they start marching, Ochako silently berates herself for being a silly, hopeful fool.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Family Secrets

Discord request fill! Continuation of this.

ES!IBVS is by @onebizarrekai

characters and pairing: Nevin Jovel, Isaac Beamer, Edward Quinton, Drew Jovel, Grandma Jovel, Nevaacward

warnings: none

word count: 2,035

summary:  After everyone is in the right body, Grandma Jovel explains some things to Drew and Nevin.

tagslist: @anxiety-is-married-to-depression @angelofthehalfmoon @trainwreck-of-skeletons @hisame-amadashi​ @therandomskelekey @capisnotonfire

“You… You have magic, grandma?” Nevin asks, his eyes huge. Drew looks just as confused as he feels. He’d thought that he had to hide his new nature from both his grandma and Drew in order to protect them - he didn’t want any of this supernatural crap causing them problems as it had for him… But apparently grandma had magic… And a lot of it, if the silent, amazed and/or slightly terrified staring that his boyfriends were doing was any indication.

“Yes, moonlight.” She said with a fond smile, chuckling a little bit as she walked over and gently ruffled his hair “I had originally planned on telling the two of you about the magic that you two possess and what it all means on your sixteenth birthday - as your powers would have fully awakened then, but… You were bitten by a vampire, and I have been trying to figure out how to speak to you both about that for months without you fleeing. This whole body-swap thing was quite helpful in that, although I do not know who cursed you.”

“Uhm… Nev’s been what?!” Drew spluttered, his eyes widening in worry as he runs over to his twin brother, hugging the other tightly “Does that mean that you need to drink blood? I’m guessing that’s why you suddenly only drink lunch from that mysterious stainless steel thermos of yours.”

“I… Yeah. I just… I didn’t want you to worry, and we’re not supposed to talk about this stuff to normal humans and I… I wanted to protect you.” Nevin admitted quietly.

Drew scowled a little and huffed at that - he hated that answer. But he also understood that Secrets were important “Fine… You know I would have helped you, if I’d have known about this earlier, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Nevin sighed, a small smile appearing on his face. He felt better, now that the secret that he’d been keeping from his family was out in the open. He felt… Lighter and calmer. “So what’s this about magic? I’m completely comfortable about talking about these things in front of Ed and Isaac - unless it’s some sort of family secret that must not be revealed to others sort of thing, even to other magical beings?”

“If you truly do trust them, you may tell them later. But, I would rather tell the two of you of your birthright and what that means privately. It will make more sense once I have explained all that I can.”  His grandma responded with a gentle, but firm smile “Besides, those two should probably head home and reassure their families that they are themselves again. The fighting between werewolf packs and vampire clans haven’t been bloody in decade, but still…. Old hurts and suspicions still linger, though it does warm my heart to see young ones like the three of you loving and caring for one another without reservation or fear.”

Edward and Isaac both blushed at that and nodded. Isaac is the first to speak up “Alright, Mrs. Jovel. We’ll go. See you later, Nev!” The two of them got up and left the Jovels’ place, heading to their respective homes, very curious about what they’d just discovered about their boyfriend’s family,

~

“Please sit down both of you, this is going to be a long conversation - but a good one, or so I hope.” Their grandma encourages the two teens. Drew settles down on the couch next to his brother, and the two of them lean into one another a little. She smiled a bit at that, clearing her throat, before saying “First thing’s first - if asked by other magical beings, I and other members of our clan generally either pretend to be unknown humans, or if we were seen using magic, claim to be either mages or witches. That is a lie, but one that has been very helpful in keeping us safe, and not being bothered or hunted by those who would terrorize us into submission, or kill us as our powers offend them.”

Nevin and Drew both tensed at that, pressing a little bit closer to one another, and Nevin’s eyes narrowed a little, as a low growl rumbled in his chest. Like hell was he going to let anyone hurt his brother.

“I am glad that the two of you understand the seriousness of this. Now, we are not mages nor are we witches. We are emotion elementals.” Their grandmother explains, confusing both of them “We have human-like forms, as it is easiest to blend in with such forms, and our spirits are far less prone to being captured and either sealed into various objects or gemstones to power certain kinds of weapons or defensive structures, when we inhabit a physical form. Twins are extremely rare and… I am sorry for the pressure that your mother put on the both of you when you were younger. As soon as I found out that the two of you were twins and what was going on, I took the two of you away from most of our clan.” She paused for a couple of moments, a sorrowful look on her face.

Drew shifted a little and asked quietly “Why… Why did they seem to expect so much out of the two of us? I mean, we weren’t the oldest nor the youngest of us and our cousins… So why did we… Were we watched so closely?” and why was Nevin in particular focused so intensely on, scrutinized and scolded for every perceived thing that he did wrong - whether he did it or not. Among other things.

“Because… You two may be the reincarnations of the leaders of our clan. They were a pair of twins as well. The two of you share have the potential to share quite a few of their powers. Their names were Nightmare and Dream Nightmare fell into the darker side of his powers and caused a great deal of chaos and suffering, though he was doing what he thought was best to protect everyone... Eventually Dream and he ended up in a climactic battle that ended up killing the both of them.” Their grandmother explained with a quiet sigh.

“... Don’t your friends and sometimes your boyfriends call you Nightmare, Nev?” Drew asked quietly, his eyes widening a little bit. There was something… Awfully familiar about what she was telling them, btough he’d never heard of any of it before now. At least… Not in this life. But it explained the nightmares that he occasionally had.

“Yeah, they do…And our friends also call you Dream from time to time. But that doesn’t mean that we’re the reincarnations of those people.” Nevin huffed, hugging his brother closer “No matter how we argue, I’d never hurt you seriously, much less kill you.”

“Neither would I hurt or… K-Kill you…” Drew responded back, hugging Nevin back tighter, tears in his eyes at the thought. Both of the twins shuddered and hugged each other tightly.

“Even if you are their reincarnations, the actions of what your spirit did in a past life does not affect what you will do in this one.” Grandma responded firmly, a determined expression appearing on her face. She sighed for a moment “However, there is a way to check to see if you are their reincarnations. The clan will want to have the two of you trained in how to use your powers and for the leadership of our clan - and perhaps to see if the two of you can lead our clan to greater political promince and other such nonsense, but that is not something I feel that either of you should be forced to do. The two of you show great promise and could be quite powerful, but no matter who you might have been… I love you both. And I will love, care for and protect you both to the best of my abilities, while encouraging each of you to be the best version of who you want to be, not who others may wish or expect for you to be.” She stopped talking for a little while, for which both of the twins were grateful, as they processed the information that she’d given them.

Drew fidged a little with his hands, before asking quietly “You said that there was a test to see if we’re the reincarnations of these past leaders? What… What is it?”

Nevin was curious as well and murmured “Would anyone else in our… Clan? As you called it? Be able to perform this test, or is it something specific?”

Their grandma sighed, and answered “You would need to be able to open and wear… Something. I will bring the boxes out.” She responded. She got up and walked out of the room, before returning with two applewood boxes with brass latches and hinges. On the lids of the boxes was the symbol of a massive apple tree. On the face of one of the boxes was the symbol of a stylized star, the other a crescent moon.

Drew and Nevin froze for a moment as she set the boxes on the coffee table in front of the both of them. Drew reached for the box with the sun symbol, while Nevin reached for the box with the crescent moon. The latches opened without any effort and without meaning too, the twins grabbed the golden circlets inside of them, putting them on. They then grabbed the robes - violet and gold for Nevin, bright blue and gold for Drew. The two of them got up and left the room in a daze, blinking as they changed in two different bathrooms.

Nevin stared at himself through the mirror - the cloth felt so familiar to him. Light, yet impossibly heavy. For a brief moment, his eyes glowed a bright cyan and he swore that he could see a pitch-black, shadowy figure looming behind him, reaching out for him…. Nevin ran out of the bathroom without a second glance, and nearly collided into Drew, who tackled him as Nevin fled all the way back to their grandmother, carrying his twin brother in his arms.

Drew meanwhile… He had stared in shock at the surprisingly elegant robes that he was in - as well as the yellow cape that he was wearing. A sudden wave of worry for Nevin had hit him and he’d sprinted straight for where he knew Nevin was changing, utterly certain that the other was in danger. Once the two of them reached their grandma however, the feeling of danger and fear passed, and both of the twins were calm again.

Their grandma looked at the both of them, a soft sigh leaving her before she walked towards the both of them, wrapping her sweet grandbabies up in a tight hug “I had hoped to avoid this for a little while longer. But this is your birthright. Do you wish to know more, or would you rather wait and process what I’ve told you?”

Nevin and Drew glance at one another before answering at the same time “Could you please hold off on further explanation for a little while? It’s a lot to take in.”

She smiles kindly at both of them and nods, hugging them closer to her “Of course.” They hug their grandma and one another until Nevin’’s cellphone goes off.

It’s his boyfriends, who are reminding him of the date that they’d agreed to in a couple of hours, asking if he was still going to come. Nevin hesitated for a moment, but both Drew and their grandma encouraged him to answer with what he wanted to do, so he texted back [can we reschedule? Grandma gave me a lot of info and I’m trying to process it all. Not sure how much more stuff I can process today.]

Isaac answered first [no prob - my mom is threatening to keep me in the house for the rest of the day anyways.]

Edward answered a couple of seconds later [that’s fine - I can’t imagine how all of this must feel. Love you, Nev. Love you, Ink.]

Nevin smiled a little and texted [thanks. I love you both.]. He’s not sure what all of this might mean, but the texts from his boyfriends had helped him feel a bit more grounded.

[lady-o-ren]

Just Between Lovers

Previously

Chapter Three - Flesh and Blood

My first waking thought was a jumbled fog of incoherence that ripped every vessel and tissue within my skull, worse then a whiskey fueled hangover where the only cure was immediate withdrawal from reality and I did just that.

The second time I stirred was with a sluggish awareness that I was indeed, victoriously, not dead with only a vague notion that I was lying in the comfort of a bed seeping in warmth and not much else. No wonderment of how I got there, or even the day or month. It was irrelevant to a mind still adrift, where images fluttered in fragmented shapes, bursted with streams of dancing color, and simply, I just didn't care. Needing no other reassurances but the bed I laid upon, I burrowed further into the sheets preferring sweet oblivion for how ever long I could have her.

However, I wasn't expecting for my bed to mumble back at me with parted lips breathing hot along my neck.

To be pulled flush to hips of another, the beginning's of a waking self making it's presence known quite firmly as I melted into the pocket of heat between this others thighs.

Pressed to a torso that heaved with muscle along the arch of my back, an odd contrast to the lithe body whose name lingered in misty memory, far from the tip of my tongue.

It was then I cracked an inquisitive, blurring eye open to a room coated in quiet silver, where I tried more earnestly to recall a time before the now that pressured at my temples. But I was interrupted by the roaming touch of fingertips as they stroked lazy patterns past the slope of my bared hip. A gentle questioning - To sleep, or no?

I banished the swell of confusion for the promise of  desire. I moved heavy, languidly, as if in a dream (Was it a dream?) turning towards the man who was piecing himself slowly back together from the haze. My heartbeat hitched to see him, to know him again and it did with a stinging snap, all of him at once if only to show the glaring difference to the stranger beside me cast in dappled shadows.

A man who raised a hand to cup my cheek speaking another mumble of nonsensical, Sass-nak, that had me wrenching away in panic.

Who tumbled with me in a tangled embrace of sheets and thrashing limbs to the hard wooden floors, where I kneed the son of a shit deep with a furious twist in his groin - "Dia, mo bhail!" - grabbing my phone with a stumbling step to the closest door to seek refuge…

To the bathroom.  

Fuck! Fucking! Fuck!!

"Claire?!"

With a click of the lock, I leaned against the solid slab of wood, falling to my heels and tile, my heart hammering as he moaned my name - How did he know my name?

"Ifrinn naomh!"

I relished in the bloody bastards cry (triumphantly smug, really) as I turned on my phone to call for help but instead I was met with an image that cracked my sanity in two.

The lock screen.

My face flushed in happiness, pressed to his no longer shadowed in murky dimness but alight with hair that very wave, that very shade of torrid red that had been a blushing revelation to me.

My heart stilled with a chill.

I looked through the photos with trembling fingers swiping madly. Of him. Us. Together. Unimportant moments, the in-between of a life I couldn't remember living but clearly me in all. Another swipe had me squeaking, "Jesus .H. Christ!" as I pressed the phone to my chest in a crimson thump, another stab of mania making me faint.

Fingers clawing at my scalp, I traced the map of memories to the point where my brain threatened to spasm, pushing forward past the throb on to a morning uneventful, to the end of a tiring shift where I was to go home to Frank. Yes, Frank waiting for me (was he still?). But then it rained, pouring pellets that whipped sharp against my face, I ran … and then what?

A single pound at the door knocked me forward in a startle just like -

Falling!

In the rain, straight into a pool of a rippling tide so blue, fathomless like his eyes, to the here and now -

"Are ye alright, Sassenach?"

To a dream made flesh and blood real.

"Beauchamp, you've gone insane."

I sat crumpled as reason and logic abandoned me, leaning my head against the door, a movement mirrored on the other side with a soft tap and a strained sigh.

"Ye ken all ye needed to do was say ye had to piss, not throttle me in the process." Humor tinged with ache laced the strangers voice that penetrated through the wood straight to my beating chest. It was deep, calming almost, rooting me to this impossible reality I still didn't believe in.

And why should I?

Maybe this is nothing more than a vivid nightmare gone too far.

A breakfast of day old curry causing me to hallucinate. (Wouldn't be the first of my beloveds betrayal)

Anything else but the insanity of being trapped in another life.

Sitting there with questions piling higher and higher in suffocating anxiety wasn't doing me any good. So I opened the door, the final test of truth.

What once was a figment of indulgent imagination sat like me, on the ground, so very close, so thoroughly confused and very real indeed. Even with a fury of pictures dizzying my head of this man, I did what I had always wanted to do in those moments of intimacy between us. I looked at him.

A stubbled face of golden skin, a beautiful gaze seeking answers I couldn't give or hold, with hair that curled all over just like in dreams where I felt the soft trail of it brush along my skin..He was also terribly shirtless (I belatedly realized I was wearing his shirt of faint musk and not much else, tugging the hem over my bruised knees) and cradling his offended appendage over his plaid pants that had me feeling mildly guilty but still justifiably smug.

"I ken ye like to stare at me, Sassenach, and I you, but ye care to tell me what had you thrashing mightily about? I would be proud of ye if I werena the one on the suffering end." Despite his brows being knit together in distress the corners of his mouth were quirked up in amusement, I could tell for my benefit only and it put me at ease to know this stranger was at the very least kindly. As well as patient as he waited for a reply that stumbled on my tongue.

"How badly did I pummel you?" My first words spoken to him sounded awkward to my ears. I wanted to ask him a million other things not one of those being his health - Who are you? Is this purgatory? Why are you very, very naked in my phone? But how to do that without coming across as raving mad was beyond me.

"I wouldna call being attacked by a crazed vixen a wee pummel. I meant what I said, ye downright tried to butcher my bawls." He narrowed his eyes at me but the smile only grew wider and I felt my own lips begin to twitch. "Do ye no want to look?"

"Me?" Just when my pulse was beginning to settle.

"Aye, you Dr. Beauchamp, or do I have to sue ye for bodily injury which I'm damn well tempted to." He was already pulling down the waistband past his navel where the path of hairs darkened to a russet. My instinct was to screw my eyes shut and bury my face in the softness of his shirt, but I had already seen it, (felt it too) and I was a doctor first and foremost no matter the circumstances...

Pushing my fright of curls aside, I leaned forward to his partial reveal and could see that he was Perfectly intact. Perfectly so. However, my eyes were drawn to the spectacular bruise I delivered off to the side that I couldn't help but admire.

"No harm done, I just missed your vital organs." The Scot opened his mouth to protest that statement when I poked the bluish splotch making him hiss. If I needed further proof of his existence I could feel it right then and there in a shiver along his soft skin to mine. "But here will need some ice..." Whoever you are.

"If ye say so." he eyed me unconvinced as he drew the waistband back, probably wanting to seek the second invaluable opinion of Frank's favorite webmd. But then his eyes softened towards me in more then just kindness, holding a tenderness of heart that crinkled at the corner of his eyes.

"Maybe some ice for you as well, aye Sassenach?" He reached out to my own discolored patch blooming on my knees, using the backs of his fingers to gently soothe my aches away. A touch so familiar I had felt many times before in dreams of loneliness, want and need that I hesitated to pull away.

"So what was it that gave ye a start this verra early morning, mo ghràidh?" His hand felt of embers as it rested just above the bruising with his thumb brushing the raised bumps of my skin smooth. Still, I didn't move.

"A nightmare is all it was." I replied a little breathless,  barely registering what I was now certain was gaelic sprout from his lips, though the meaning was a mystery. My eyes were more focused on the ruddy back of his broad hand and how I should push it far from me before it traveled upward past the hem of white.

"I wouldna call that a wee nightmare. Tell me what wretch of a creature spooked ye so for me to suffer in it's place. It might do ye some good."

That wretch was Frank.

I abruptly raised myself on wobbled legs and smoothed the shirt down flat, leaving him befuddled at my feet.

"That bad?" He asked concerned. I assured him it was nothing, but the flash of skepticism lit his gaze, scrutinizing the falseness of my words that were blatant even to me before schooling his face back to ease. For me again.

"You need ice." I need to leave. Find Frank, wherever he is. Would he even know me? Listen to me? Believe me? Geillis then...Who will then promptly throw me in a sanitarium, electrodes in hand, straight jacket in the other with the most joyous face of delight to grace her lovely wicked face. An early birthday present for her if anything.

Christ, who was I to talk to?

"A hand, Sassenach?" The Scots burr interrupted another round of 'what the living hell do I do' as he stuck his hand out and I stared at it rather dimly. "Och, I will no' bite ye, no' now anyway. I'll get my revenge on ye when ye least expect it." He gave a weak attempt at a wink and I wondered if my other self had ever found that attractive.

"Try anything and you'll get more then a knee from me, with bull's-eye aim too." His hand completely engulfed mine when clasped together and held it captive to his broad chest of auburn once he was raised to a height that towered over me.

"I'm counting on it, wee vixen." A smirk plastered his face that had me crossed between bashing his nose and blushing.

"You're going to be impossibly annoying aren't you?" I said as I pulled myself from his grip, losing the heat of him to the coolness of the air around.

He raised a brow chuckling, "Och, we've been together this long and yer just finding that out now, lass?"

I didn't bother to ponder how long that was, I threw it to the pyre with all the other burning questions.

I left him to the room I didn't know, to a hallway I didn't remember, dawdling around until the soft patter of my steps brought me to a kitchen most familiar, minus one bare arse redhead, with only a single thought upfront in my mind besides where the whisky was.

How do I get back home?

A/N:      

Dia, mo bhail - God, my bawls 

Ifrinn naomh - Holy hell

[sunyoonandstars]

Under The Stars || BTS !First Time! One Shot || You x Jimin

This one shot was inspired by the following request and is another one in a series of imagines in which BTS are your/the reader’s first. 

Seokjin | Yoongi | Hoseok | Namjoon | Jimin | Taehyung | Jungkook 

You turned around to look at Jimin who had taken a seat on top of the car’s hood and was invitingly patting his lap, waving a blanket.

„Come, sit with me, y/n. It’s getting cold. I’ll warm you.“

Of course, you couldn’t resist Jimin’s cordial smile, even though the thought of being so close to him in such an intimate, romantic atmosphere let your anxiety flare up again for reasons your boyfriend wasn’t yet aware of. So, trying your best to let genuine affection show in your countenance, you only reluctantly sat down on Jimin’s comfortable lap, going on to lean back into his chest as he pulled you close against his body. Instantly, he wrapped both his arms and the blanket around you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

„Hmm, this is nice“, he softly hummed, repeatedly pressing his full lip into the crook of your neck, all the while gently swaying the both of you to the rhythm of the waves crashing against the cliff coast way below your feet.

You couldn’t help but grin at the tingling sensation of Jimin’s hot breath brushing over your skin and were unable to hold back a pleasant tremble when a hot shiver shot down your spine as you noticed his growing bulge pressing against your backside. Involuntarily, you grew stiff in his embrace when Jimin’s lips started wandering down your neck towards your collarbone.

Fluff, soft smut 

Word count 3.244

Thanks for reading! Enjoy! 💖

Under The Stars

You had been driving through the dawning night for hours already, with the windows rolled down, the mild summer breeze caressing your face and getting caught in your hair. A smile curving your lips, you let your eyes wander along the landscape that passed you by, the sea to your left and a green stretch of land, tinted gold by the setting sun, to your right. No soul to be seen. Just you and your boyfriend.

Boyfriend. 

Even thinking that word led the butterflies in your stomach to do somersaults. 

Grinning so broadly your cheeks hurt, your heart pounding against your rib cage, you turned to sneak a glance at Jimin who was so focused on his driving, he didn’t even notice. Whenever he concentrated, he looked so serious. With hooded eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his handsome face bare of any expression, he absentmindedly chewed on his plump lower lip, unaware of your observing gaze. 

You still couldn’t believe he was yours and you were his. That you could actually call this beautiful person next to you your boyfriend. It wasn’t the case that your relationship was still fresh. The two of you had already been together for six months now, but only yesterday did Jimin make it official to his members. In celebration of your first half year together, he had made sure to get a weekend off and, as a surprise, planned a trip to the shore with you. 

Your short getaway was now drawing to a close. Nonetheless, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel sad, because every single second spent by Jimin’s side was like a gift to you, a remedy for the pains of life, even now, when you were simply sitting next to each other in his car in comfortable quiet. Whenever you were with him, he helped you forget your concerns and worries. He was the light of your life and he claimed you were his. 

“What?”, Jimin chuckled, unexpectedly breaking the silence, smiling, briefly detaching his eyes from the roadway to shoot you a searching glance. “What is it, jagi?”

“Why? What is what?”, you stammered, quickly looking away, cheeks burning. 

“You were looking at me.”

“You noticed?” 

Jimin paused, a content grin still stretching his full lips. 

“Of course, y/n. I don’t have to look to tell what you’re doing or thinking. I can just tell.” 

“Oh, yeah?”, you muttered, poking your head out through the open car window, slightly embarrassed you were caught red-handed. 

“Yes. That’s how I know that, right now, you want to kiss me.” 

Choking on your breath, you turned in your seat to stare at a chuckling Jimin in shock. 

“What? You —How — How did you —?”

“Hah! So it’s true! I was right!” 

“I didn’t say — I —“

Eventually, you gave up on the desperate, yet futile, attempt to get yourself out of this sandtrap and helplessly joined Jimin in his awkward little laughing fit. 

“So …”, he began anew once the both of you had calmed down, his eyes on the road again. “Where’s my kiss?” 

“All right, all right.” 

Hardly stifling a shy giggle, you leaned over and placed a quick peck on Jimin’s soft cheek which caused a gleaming smile to spread across his face. You could even tell by merely looking at his profile, since he prided himself a responsible driver, especially when you were in the passenger seat, and Jimin’s eyes stayed on the road at all times. 

Now, as his right hand detached itself from the steering wheel and naturally found its place on your thigh instead, you felt a tingling heat creep up your neck and spread throughout your lower abdomen. Jimin’s warmth seeping through the fabric of your jeans send a shiver up your spine. 

Eyes wide, frozen in your seat, the sensation of Jimin’s touch so close to your most intimate area sending your heart pounding and rendering your muscles useless, you simply stared at him, witnessing a mischievous lip bite. This man knew very well what he was doing. A fact which made this seemingly casual gesture all the more exciting.

„I like this, y/n. Just the two of us. I think we should do this more often. To see how we work together, as a couple, without the distractions of my career and the guys around.“ 

All you manage is an agreeing hum in response. 

„What? What is it, y/n?“ Jimin shot you a scrutinizing glance. „Is this too much? Does this make you uncomfortable?“

His hand removing itself from your thigh educed a subconscious twitch from you. 

„No“, you quickly mumbled, frantically shaking your head. „No. That’s — That’s fine.“ 

„Really?“, he asked, incredulity resonating in his smooth voice. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him look at you out from underneath furrowed brows. 

„Yes. I — I like it“, you muttered, hiding your blushing cheeks behind a curtain of hair. 

„Okay, then.“ 

With a content grin, Jimin put his hand back in its place on your leg, his thumb starting to gently caress the inside of your thigh after a few minutes had passed. 

„Wow. This is so beautiful“, you whispered, more to yourself, as your eyes followed the breathtaking coastline and got lost in the warm light of the dying sun setting the sea on fire and breaking it into a million glistening diamonds. 

„The sea?“, Jimin asked. „Do you want me to pull over, baby? We still have more than enough time to get back. My next rehearsal isn’t due to take place before noon tomorrow, so we could make a stop and watch the sunset. It’s romantic. And I’m a little tired anyway. Maybe a little break would do me good.“

„Really?“

„Yes“, he beamed at you, his sparkling eyes turning into bright crescents.

„That would be great, actually. “

Your eyes only left Jimin’s smiling profile when you put your hand over his, which was still resting on your thigh, and watched your fingers naturally intertwine, yours fitting so perfectly into the spaces in between his own as if your hands were made for each other. 

After a few more minutes spent in comfortable silence, Jimin eventually pulled over and the car came to a halt by a nice spot on top of a coastal cliff with a view so picturesque it was almost surreal. 

„Wow“, you gasped, your jaw dropping, one hand pressed to your lips as you exited the vehicle after reluctantly having let go of Jimin’s warm hand. „This place is perfect, Jiminie. It’s so beautiful.“

In awe of the burning pink sunset, you walked around the car towards the cliff, your eyes tearing up at the beauty before you. 

„I’m glad you like it, jagi. Come here.“ 

You turned around to look at Jimin who had taken a seat on top of the car’s hood and was invitingly patting his lap, waving a blanket. 

„Come, sit with me, y/n. It’s getting cold. I’ll warm you.“ 

Of course, you couldn’t resist Jimin's cordial smile, even though the thought of being so close to him in such an intimate, romantic atmosphere let your anxiety flare up again for reasons your boyfriend wasn’t yet aware of. So, trying your best to let genuine affection show in your countenance, you only reluctantly sat down on Jimin’s comfortable lap, going on to lean back into his chest as he pulled you close against his body. Instantly, he wrapped both his arms and the blanket around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

„Hmm, this is nice“, he softly hummed, repeatedly pressing his full lip into the crook of your neck, all the while gently swaying the both of you to the rhythm of the waves crashing against the cliff coast way below your feet. 

You couldn’t help but grin at the tingling sensation of Jimin’s hot breath brushing over your skin and were unable to hold back a pleasant tremble when a hot shiver shot down your spine as you noticed his growing bulge pressing against your backside. Involuntarily, you grew stiff in his embrace when Jimin’s lips started wandering down your neck towards your collarbone. 

„What is it, y/n?“, he mumbled absentmindedly without pausing his kissing. „Don’t you like this? Should I stop? Is this too much?“ 

Eventually, Jimin stopped his movements when you remained short on any sort of reaction. 

„Am I making you uncomfortable?“, he continued to ask, his words laced with sincere concern. „Sorry, jagi. I never meant to pressure you or take advantage of this situation. I just … couldn’t stop myself. I’m sorry.“

Immediately, Jimin pulled away, loosening his hug around your waist. The defeated tone of his stung your heart like an icy dagger. Instant regret took a hold of your heart. Tears stinging in the corners of your eyes, you turned around in Jimin’s arms to face him, his expression, eyes cast down abashedly, lips pursed to a slight pout, leading your throat to tighten.

„No! I’m the one who’s sorry, Jimin. I really am. My reaction gave you the wrong idea“, you quickly explained, your voice cracking. „I like this. You. Your touch. Being close to you. Everything about this. You make me feel good, Jimin. And I want you. To be close to you.“ You wrapped both your arms around his neck and moved even closer in order to emphasize the truthfulness of your words. 

„It’s just that … It’s just …“, you started stammering, your cheeks turning a bright shade of pink as you felt your eyes well up, fighting hard to hold back the burning tears that were choking you. 

„Y/n, baby, what is it? What’s wrong, hmm? Tell me. You know you can tell me whatever’s on your mind, all right? You know that, don’t you? I won’t judge you. Not ever. I promise. Just, please, tell me what’s troubling you, hmm?“, he coaxed you, Jimin’s voice ever so soft as he went on to cup your face with his hands. 

„It’s just —“, you started out once more, averting your eyes since you couldn’t bear to look at Jimin, afraid to be met with disappointment once he would hear you out. „I’ve never gone this far with any other guy before. I’m … I’m still a virgin, Jimin.“

A sigh of relief escaped your lungs since it felt as if a heavy weight had just been lifted from your shoulders with finishing your last sentence. 

„Oh, y/n“, Jimin chuckled to your surprise before he started peppering your tear-streaked face with kisses. „Why would you even worry about such a thing?“

Incredulous, you looked up at him through a blur of tears to find Jimin grinning shyly, his cheeks tinted rosy. 

„But — I thought — I didn’t want to disappoint you��, you mumbled, burying your face in your palms. „I really want to give you what you deserve. But I’m — I’m just kind of …“

„Scared? Insecure?“, he finished your sentence, placing his hand under your chin to tenderly nudge it upwards and get you to look at him again. „I get it. I really do. But I love you, all right, y/n? It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re experienced or not. And you’re already much more than I deserve. Just being with you like this is a gift. I can and will wait as long as you need me to. Do you hear me, y/n? I’ll wait until you’re ready. We can take things slow and move forward in your own time. Okay?“

A relieved laugh getting caught in your throat, you nodded your head and allowed Jimin to brush away your tears. 

„See? Don’t worry about a thing, y/n. Just smile for me. That’s all I need right now. To see you happy. I don’t ever want you to feel like you owe me anything, okay? If I’m ever moving too quickly or doing something that makes you uneasy, tell me, all right, baby?“ 

Again, you nodded your head to signal understanding. 

„Thank you, Jiminie“, you mumbled, evading his scrutinizing glance. „But — What I’m meaning to say is — I think I am ready. Now that you know. I want it. I want you.“ 

Finally, you muster the courage to look Jimin directly in the eye. 

„Are you sure?“, Jimin inquired, tilting his head slightly, his hands slowly wandering downwards from your face and coming to a rest on your hips. Even these simple movements of his sent surges of excitement like electric shocks throughout your entire body. 

„Yes“, you replied in a steady voice. „I am sure. I want you. More than anything on this earth. To be my first.“ 

„I’d be honored to“, Jimin now whispered, all the while holding intense eye contact, his gaze overflowing with affection and desire. „You have no idea how happy you make me, y/l/n y/n.“ 

„Then tell me“, you teased him, biting your smiling lip to keep it from kissing him just so you could admire Jimin’s beautiful smile for a few more seconds. 

„Well …“, he grinned, seemingly effortlessly lifting you up onto his slender hips. „How about I show you instead?“ 

In response, you simply reciprocated Jimin’s broad smile, running your hands through his soft hair as you leaned in for a slow, rapidly deepening kiss while Jimin carried you towards the back of the car where he placed you on the edge of the open trunk. 

For a few seconds, you remained like that, you sitting in the trunk and Jimin standing before you, placed in between your spread legs, looking down on you fondly, his eyes gleaming, one hand gently caressing the side of your face before it found its way downwards to come to a rest on the back of your neck. Ever so slowly, Jimin then lowered your body into a lying position, his eyes never leaving yours even for a second. Your breath caught when he climbed into the spacious trunk and carefully placed his body on top of yours, propping his upper body up on both his arms, his weight pressing down on you giving you a welcome feeling of security. Jimin’s bottomlessly deep, warm gaze still locked with yours, he now bent down to meet your lips in yet another kiss, one of his hands moving towards your neck to pull you even closer towards him. 

Naturally, almost automatically, your bodies started moving, completely in sync, your shapes fitting the other like two pieces of a puzzle, your hands exploring each other’s edges and curves and most intimate areas, each touch electrifying. 

Soon, quiet moans, growing louder by the minute, filled the car, even drowning out the sound of the sea’s raging and the waves breaking on the shore. Jimin’s luscious lips, ever so soft, never left your skin, slowly but surely moving downwards from your neck towards your breasts, covering your décolletage in kisses, setting your nerve ends on fire and sending surges of arousal and excitement throughout every fiber of your being. 

Your back arched and your breath hitched when Jimin’s hand now deftly slid inside your jeans and between your legs, his skilled fingers quickly identifying your most sensitive spots and making you feel pleasure you didn’t even know was existent as his lips united with yours again in a thirsty, urgent kiss. With a moan, so deep and loud it took even you by surprise, you opened your gates for his tongue to enter. Pleased with your reaction, Jimin only shortly detached himself from you in order to meet your eyes, blond hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, a smile curving his full, rosy lips. 

„God, you’re beautiful“, he breathlessly whispered, caressing the side of your face. 

„And you’re all mine.“

With those words, Jimin’s fingers once again started slowly moving down your shoulder to come to a rest on your waist, pulling your body close against his so you could feel his hardened bulge press against your increasingly wet core through the fabric of your jeans. 

Another stifled moan escaped you, eliciting a satisfied grin from your boyfriend. 

„You like this?“, he asked, his eyes, glistening with lust, searching yours in the falling darkness. 

„Hmm-hmm“, you simply hummed in response. Not managing much more, you nodded your head, teeth buried in your lower lip since the tension building up in the whole of your body, accumulating in your lower abdomen, was slowly but surely becoming intolerable. 

„Good. Because I want you to be able to let loose, to forget your fears. I want this to be just us, our moment. And an unforgettable experience for you, y/n. In the best way possible“, Jimin whispered before slowly lowering his lips onto yours once more, his kisses, at first sweet and innocent, getting increasingly lustful by the second, rendering you powerless again, an addict, hooked to his touch …

With a sigh, Jimin plopped down beside you on the soft woolen blanket spread out in the trunk, still short of breath, beads of sweat sticking to his bare chest and forehead. He seemed to sparkle in the bright white moonlight which illuminated the starry night sky. 

Your head rested comfortably on his arm while hot waves of satisfaction still ran through your shivering limbs. With a worried glance, Jimin noticed your trembling, immediately going on to cover your bare body with a stray towel. 

„How are you feeling, baby?“, he asked after minutes of perfect silence had passed, his voice low, his tone incredibly soft. 

„Good“, you answered truthfully without having to think twice, turning to look at him, smiling. „Actually, that’s an understatement. I’m great. A little strange. But in a good way. This was so different than I had imagined it to be.“ 

„In a good way?“

„Of course“, you laughed, amused by his sweet concern, and leaned over to kiss Jimin’s slightly swollen lips. „It was amazing. Everything about it. You were amazing.“

His eyes turning onto gleaming crescents, Jimin now propped up his head on his arm to get a better view of you, smilingly taking in every last detail of your flushed face and messy hair. 

„I still can’t believe you’re actually mine, y/n. This seems like a dream. I know, it was only the back of my car and probably not all it could have been but —“

„It was perfect, Jimin“, you cut him off in mid-sentence. „It was you. It was on the spur of the moment, even kind of romantic. That’s all a girl could ever dream of.“ 

„Really?“, he inquired, insecurity apparent in Jimin’s deep, brown orbs. 

„Yes“, you reassured him, underlining your reply with another smile and a quick peck on his cheek. 

„I love you, y/n“, Jimin merely said after having stared at you for a while, his sudden seriousness making his words all the more meaningful.

„I love you, too, Park Jimin.“ 

In response, he put one arm around your waist and pulled you in for a hug, your head coming to a comfortable rest on Jimin’s warm chest. 

Listening to the faint sound of his heartbeat, the rhythm of your breathing automatically adapting to his, your eyelids eventually fluttered shut, the last thing that you saw before falling into a calm and content sleep being the stars. Millions and millions of them. Silent witnesses to the utter love that had been shared by two souls in the still of the night. 

THE END

I really hope you liked it. ☺️ I had so much fun imagining Jimin as a boyfriend. It was almost painful lol 🙈😅

@ those among you who expected more (explicit) smut: I’m sorry if you are disappointed, but I’m not comfortable with writing smut about the boys. I tried before (as you probably know if you ever went through my Masterlist) and felt weird doing it. So, this is as far as I’ll go. I hope you can understand and enjoyed it anyway. 😌

Thanks for reading! Take care and have a great day! 💖

Here you can find my Masterlist, just in case you feel like checking out more of my BTS fiction!

None of the GIFs used are mine. Credit goes to the initial creators. Thank you for your hard work and dedication.

[littlelottiexsloan]

case  file     ;  Charlotte Sloan

nicknames     ;  Lottie

associations    ;  Civilians

occupation    ;  Student of Veterinary Science

birthdate    ;  26 years old

hometown    ;  London, England

current  location     ;  Downtown

pronouns     ; she/her

mirror image     ; Kaylee Bryant

IN CHARACTER INTERVIEW

the record stops, the player tape states, and the radio static is replaced with voices ;

 — And our dear listeners are eager to know, how long have you been in Sunset Port? — Most importantly, why do you stay?

I have been in Sunset Port a few days. I came to finish my Veterinary degree here. Why I stay? Why shouldn’t I? My brother and his fiancee live here. I get to know my nieces and be close to the ones I love. As far as I see it I have tons of reasons to stay.

 Of course! We can all identify with the sentiment. Well, at least some of us. [LAUGHTER] What do you do in Sunset Port?

I’m sure you can. Family tends to mean a lot to most of us. Like I said I’m a here to finish my degree. So I am a student. I’m also looking for a part time job so if you’ve heard of anything, any tips are welcome. Otherwise I’m just curious and excited to explore this new city.

 Admirable! Now, I'd have left this question last to finish with a bang, but our listener is impatient, oh my! Have you heard of our little organization?  

Uhm well in a general sense you mean? I’ve heard rumors, but nothing concrete. Can’t say I know much about it to share, I’m sorry.

 Oh my! — And if Isabella Castello came knocking at your door, what would you do?  

I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t come knocking on my door.. I’ve heard of her in the papers of course, but we haven’t been formally introduced. If she would though I’d treat her like any other guest. Offer them refreshments and ask what they might need of me.

 Interesting. Well, I think I've kept you here long enough! Thank you for speaking with our public! Which song would you like me to play for you, now?

Okay I know some people think them a bit over the top but I’d say Somebody to Love by Queens.

BIOGRAPHY

trigger warnings: death, cancer

Charlotte Sloan. Named with the intention of creating a free and independent woman, her name meaning 'free'. The tale of her birth, during a full moon, was a night her mother loved to tell the tale of. Because it was the night when she finally became a mother, and threw herself into the role with passion, a bit much some might add. She had great aspirations for her daughter, set ideas of who she was to be and where her life should take her. But she never stopped to ask if her daughter wanted to reach those aspirations, or who she wanted to be. Hell, she didn’t much seem to care that her baby girl might want something different for herself. The most important thing was always what she, and Selene’s father wanted for their child.

Not surprisingly, Charlotte grew up being chastised, advised, steered and scrutinized by her mother, and sometimes her father. She often felt set up for failure, given that she was indeed not the girl her mother wanted her to be. She wasn’t outgoing or a natural leader. Nor was she bold and outspoken. Whenever someone tried to put Charlotte at the center of attention, big or small, the girl was painfully uncomfortable. Anxious and frightened even. But to a fault she did her best to do what her mother wanted. Even if she spent nights crying over it, antagonizing over every little misstep that would be met with displeasure. As a soft spoken, kind but often introverted child Selene much preferred the company of nature or animals rather than people. She liked observing and taking note, but wasn’t fond of stating her opinions to people she didn’t fully know or trust. Growing up she was cosseted and sheltered in many ways, always carefully watched and protected as the youngest child of  Edward Sloan and his third wife. Whenever she was with her siblings though, Charlotte was happy. Being around others in her family without her parents ever looming presence allowed her to be more carefree, joyous and playful. Traits in herself which she looks back on and wonders if she’ll be capable of reclaiming one day.

All her life Charlotte has done what she is told. With two domineering parents who in their own ways thought they knew exactly what was best for her, she found that both disappointing them or rebelling against them demanded getting into arguments and conflicts she’d rather just avoid all together. She isn’t fond of conflict in general and will rather back down and do what she’s told to do. Its been seared into Selene’s very core how her opinions or thoughts doesn’t really matter. When she was younger she did try to voice her thoughts or state her opinions, but she was always ignored or brushed off. The only ones who seemed to really listen to her were her japanese grandparents. She loved spending her summers with them in their family home on the island of Okinawa. Her mother let her go, despite not being fond of what she was sure her parents taught her daughter. Propriety, chastity, quiet manners and too much respect for elders. Though she might have been glad of that considering how void of rebellion her daughter showed in her teens. The only time she did rebel against her parents were briefly in high school, when she fell in with the wrong crowd. Charlotte was then considered a follower, someone who could be persuaded to come along despite knowing it was wrong. She wanted to be liked, to have friends that weren’t as proper or focused as her middle school ones. Her friends convinced her to join them in stealing from boutiques and stores, and for a while their after school curricular activities went by unnoticed. They stole more, drank and partied, broke curfew. But then they were caught stealing.

As a minor, Charlotte was lucky her father could buy her way out of any charges. Though the consequences were severe. She was sent to boarding school in Scotland to make her straighten out for the second half of her sophomore year and senior year of high school. The school itself located far out in the country side. Away from everyone and everything she loved back home. Her time away gave Charlotte the room to explore other sides of herself, such as her sexuality. Most of her teens she had found that boys didn’t really interest her like they seemed to do the other girls. During her small rebellious phase she experimented with a few boys, but that one hook up she did end up having left her feeling.. empty. Like nothing about it was right for her, and while the guy seemed to enjoy it, she didn’t. At her boarding school, Charlotte had her first girl crush, and she experimented with more than one girl, excited because being with them felt good, in all the ways she’d been told she was supposed to feel with a boy. Though she knew that admitting she was gay, only attracted to women, would only be possible with the closest of friends. Her parents would never approve and neither would her grandparents. In fact, her father had repeatedly vented, both to her and her mother, about his older rebellious son, doing the greatest sin of all. It was so painfully clear that he had cut Etienne off for being bisexual, and Charlotte was terrified of what might happen if he were to figure out that she wasn’t straight either. All her life her parents had been very clear about the path she should take, and that did not involve girlfriends, but boyfriends and straight marriage.

While at first she had loathed being at the school, it was caring for the animals there that got Charlotte trough. At first she was set to care for them as a punishment for skipping class. But after that first afternoon with the horses, pigs, cattle and goats, the big city girl was eager to return. The creatures needed her, and they had to be read and carefully treated for her to understand their needs and wants. It was like learning a new and exciting language, one that inspired her to start reading about animal behavior, biology and training. To Charlotte, this time in her life was pivotal, as it inspired her to put her dreams of becoming jewelry maker on the shelf, and decide to study to become a Veterinarian.

Luckily her parents didn’t disapprove, much. Her mother tried to persuade her to become a surgeon instead, vehement that it was a better profession for Charlotte. But for once, her daughter didn’t automatically break under a bit of pressure or comply without question. Instead the girl quietly argued why she was set on Veterinarian school, and continued focusing on her undergraduate degree after high school. She studied at The university of Edinburgh, though when her mother was diagnosed with cancer last year, Charlotte moved back to London adamant to continue her studies, but remain close to her parents. She thought being close would make her mom fight harder, would mean she might make it. But Christmas Eve came and her mother passed away. Beaten by the cancer that had infected her body. At first Charlotte was at a complete loss. All her life her mother had been her guiding force, the one to oversee and often make every little decision she faced. Now there was just her dad, and he had always been less insistent, more lenient, not the loud voice that her mother had been. Though when he suggested that Charlotte might benefit from studying abroad, she took his advice to heart. Much to his chagrin, she decided to come to Sunset Port to continue her studies at Veterinary School. He tried to talk his daughter out of it, though for the first time in a long time, Charlotte felt as if she could tell him no. As if she actually did have a choice.

Coming to the city, Charlotte is trying to allow herself to be excited to start a new life in a new place. After all she’s going to be close to her older brother and his soon to be wife and adorable twin girls. The two haven’t been all that close as adults but she does feel as if he’s not totally averse to having her around. They used to like each other as kids and while she feels like she has a lot to catch up on she does know that she loves him and is looking forward to living in the same place. Actually its a comfort to her that she’ll have family around to lean on. While she is still grieving the loss of her mother, Charlotte keeps finding out new things about herself, life and others as she is feeling oddly liberated. Before life was very set, her path narrow and lined with strict lines. Now the road is wide open, and she gets to decide what happens next. Its both thrilling and terrifying all at once.

[taronfanfic]

Graduate’s Escape

Chapters 1-16 are here

Chapter 17

Flying business class was a whole new experience for you. The rest of the touring group entered the front section of the plane and took their seats as normal leaving Taron to chuckle to himself at your excitement. You would be sharing one of the double seated areas which could be sectioned off with a screen in the middle. As you played around with the controls for everything, reclining your seat and then pulling it back up again, Taron rolled his eyes.

“It’s like travelling with a small child.” He mocked.

“Hey! Being in here is like Christmas for me, a poor graduate who might not even have a minimum wage job to go back to!”

“Everything will be fine, you said Emily had your back.” Taron reached across for your hand. “And if it isn’t then you’ve got me.”

“I know.” You smiled at him sweetly. “I’ll just text Ems to double check though.”

The plane took off and you settled down into the journey as you watched your first film. It was so much nicer being in business class with no kids kicking the back of your seat, or random strangers falling asleep inside your personal space bubble. After a few hours the cabin lights were dimmed, advising you to try and get some sleep to help with the future jetlag. It would have been a nice idea if you weren’t feeling wide awake. You quickly checked your phone and had a few new messages in from Emily. The first confirmed that your job was still safe. She’d told them you had food poisoning which automatically gets you 3 days off for hygiene reasons. The second message to come through was a copied photo of you and Taron from outside the hotel last night. She’d captioned it with the heart eyes emoji and ‘you guys are the cutest!’. You zoomed the photo in and scrutinized your appearance, expecting to see an ugly double chin or generally unattractive expression considering how many flashes of light were going off in your face at the time. You were pleasantly surprised though, it was a good photo. Taron was looking towards you protectively and proudly, his suit fitted him perfectly and he looked every bit the film star. The last message from Emily was of the ‘don’t panic’ tone; explaining that she’d gone in search of it, your name wasn’t mentioned anywhere and it wasn’t in any of the UK media so you weren’t going to be caught out with faking illness. You saved the image to your phone as you sat forward and turned to face Taron. He had his headphones on and his eyes closed but you knew he wasn’t asleep. As you rested your elbows on the dividing screen and placed your chin to your palm you knew you wouldn’t have long to wait for Taron to sense you were watching him. He kept his eyes closed as he pulled off his headphones.

“Yes?” He asked, failing to keep his smile to himself.

“Just wanted to show you something.”

“Oh?” He opened one eye to look at you with intrigue, then quickly sat up and gave you his full attention. “You look adorable sat like that.”

“As adorable as this?” You handed over your phone to show him the photo.

“Where did you find this?” Taron looked closely at the photo. “Honestly, 99% of photos taken like that are awful. I don’t know how we’ve managed it but that’s decent! You look hot!” He looked back up to you.

“Don’t sound so surprised!” you teased him.

“Obviously you always look hot.” He kissed you quickly. “You know what I mean though. Can you send that over to me? I’m going to send it to my mum.”

“’Course. You’re really close to you mum aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I tell her everything. To my own detriment most of the time.”

“It’s cute.” You ruffled the top of his hair. “But when you say you tell her everything…”

“Not everything.” He laughed. “She’s been asking me to send over a photo of us but all the selfies on my phone are of us together in bed. However much I like them it’s not exactly ideal when you know it’ll be shown to all the relatives!”

“Just stick to this one.” You said knowingly. Taron picked up his phone as the photo from you came through. A few seconds later and he was frowning in confusion. “What’s up?” You asked.

“I think…” he paused before groaning disappointedly. “They’ve changed my flight to Budapest. I go tonight instead of tomorrow morning so I won’t even get to leave the airport once we land.” You mimicked his disappointed groan as you pouted your lips in sadness.

“So we don’t get one more night together?”

“Sorry, Gary.” He gave you a half smile back.

“Makes me regret not making the most of last night now.”

“Hey, don’t. It would have been weird for me after what happened so I can only imagine how you were feeling. It doesn’t matter though, it’s all in the past, and we’re good so no sad faces please.” He placed his fingers to your cheeks and pushed the corners of your mouth up to make you laugh.

“I know, I know. It’s fine. Just going to be hard to wait two more weeks for any action.”

“Who says we have to wait that long?” Taron raised his eyebrows suggestively. “We have hours left on this flight.”

“We can’t!... Where?” You looked round the plane. “There’s no way we’d fit comfortably in the toilet.”

“Here.” Taron replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone’s asleep with headphones and eye masks on. No one’s even moved the entire time we’ve been having this conversation.”

“Seriously… here?”

“Come on…” his voice was tempting and teasing. He pushed back against his seat as he lifted up hips and tugged down his tracksuit bottoms to reveal his boxers.

“Fucking hell, Taron.”

“Jump over…” he ordered in the same tone as he patted the top of the dividing screen. You stood up and quickly looked round the rest of the plane. Everyone else was fast asleep, heads resting on pillows and blankets covering them. You swung one leg over the divide and started to giggle as you lost balance. Taron giggled with you as he also tried to hush you. His hands supported your waist as you lifted your other leg across.

“This is cosy.” You straddled Taron’s thighs and sat down. His hands moved up under your t-shirt as you leant in to kiss him; short and sweet to start with as neither of you could contain your giddy giggles.

“Shhh – stand up.” Taron whispered. He picked up a blanket and held it around your back. “Take ‘em off.” He nodded to your jeans then bit down on his lip in anticipation as your hands moved to undo them.

“This isn’t remotely sexy!” you fired back quietly as you pulled your jeans down and struggled to get them off your feet.

“No, but it’s fucking naughty!” he replied, lifting his hips up again and nodding for you to pull his boxers down. You yanked them down his thighs then slid your knickers down before taking hold of the ends of the blanket and tying it round your waist. As you sat back down over Taron you could feel he was already semi-hard. The filthy glint in his eyes was turning you on and drawing you back in to kiss him. This time it was much rougher, mouths open wider and tongues moving faster. Taron’s hands wrapped around you and pulled you higher up his body causing friction down below. You shifted your weight so you could rub up against him more and get him going. Considering this was his idea you were surprised by how nervous he was and how slow he was to get it up.

“I’m going to ride you hard… and fast.” You dragged your words out as you spoke quietly in his ear. “We’re going to be so naughty. Fucking. Right here. In front of everyone.” The feel of him growing beneath you as you talked filth into his ear was immensely satisfying. He moved his hand down between your crotches and you lifted yourself up, allowing him space to line himself up. As you lowered down onto him you moved your head back so you could look straight into his eyes. “We’re doing this.” Taron kissed you forcefully as he sat up in his seat, using his hands to support your back as you lifted your hips and started to ride him. You did your best to keep your movements small in fear of drawing attention but it was difficult when your body craved the deep feel of him. As your kiss broke apart Taron let out a low moan of satisfaction. You shushed him quickly and placed your lips to his, feeling incredibly obvious with every movement. He dropped a hand to the back of your arse and squeezed it encouragingly which made you tense up around him. Both of you were breathing heavily as you worked hard to keep as quiet as possible, your foreheads were resting together, eyes closed.

“I’m close.” Taron whispered. “Oh god.” You started to touch yourself to work up to his level. You knew you didn’t have the right position to reach climax from Taron alone. You dared yourself to open your eyes and be reminded of exactly where you were, hoping that it would give you the extra thrill you craved. Taron’s face was focused below you; he bit down on his bottom lip as he held in his moans, the rise and fall of his chest was fast. “I-I can’t...” he stuttered quietly “Hold it. Fuck.” He came inside you and let his head rest against the back of his chair. You slowed your movements as you dragged him in and out of you a final few times before letting his tip slide up to hit your clit. The feel of something other than your finger pushed you nearer the edge and caused an involuntary whimper to leave your lips. It got Taron’s attention back too and he opened his legs to create space for his hand. He teased two fingers either side of you with the lightest touch.

“Harder.” You begged. He grazed his fingernails up and around the very edges of you. Every instinct told you to close your eyes and throw your head back with pleasure but you fought against it. You locked your gaze with his and watched him narrow his eyes as he gave you his seductive look. A sudden pressure right against your clit from his middle finger, over and over and over made you lose it and shudder against him. You instinctively dropped your jaw but were quickly silenced by Taron placing his other hand over your mouth.

“Shhh, you can’t!” he giggled as he enjoyed your orgasm. “Welcome to the Mile High Club.”