#wardrobe .˚ business in the front‚ knife in the back

[sanguinir]

tag drop 1 / xxx

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 78 - indoors fashion in 1925

It’s guests and bit characters again, and while Rita Bevan is out, Audrey from Edith’s magazine office is in. The poor girl doesn’t even get a character mention on TVtropes; isn’t that rude? Well, I’m mentioning her here.

I don’t even know Audrey’s surname, but her taste in fashion should not be overlooked. That nice burnt orange silk satin! She’s got a little drop waist sash, a couple pleats down the front, a white shawl collar and a lace jabot to go with it, the latter presumably detachable. The entire outfit it simple and says business, but it’s a great example of a middle-class woman dressing nicely without having to invest money that she doesn’t have in elaborately decorated materials.

The other dress we see Audrey in looks a tad more leisurely; at least the pale peach and cream stripes make me think of a walk by the lakeside. As a sweater dress, this seems a tad less sharp and business-like, but I think it looks quite charming. Also, box pleats. This skirt has them.

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Over to Audrey’s immediate boss, chief editor Laura Edmunds. This is the outfit in which she introduces herself to Edith, and I’m not sure how this style of collar is called. A Chelsea collar? Don’t quote me on this. Anyway, Laura’s got style. Like Audrey before, this is middle-class fashion, but that doesn’t mean she dresses sloppily or that it looks cheap, but that she achieves her chic with the clean lines and funky prints of her time.

The one thing that bothers me about Laura is that she’s so fidgety that I cannot for the life of me get more than one non-blurry shot of her. But look how nice the rimless specs look on her. Since glasses used to be thicker then, putting them into a rimless frame was a way to reduce some weight. The dress is a pretty simple drop waist affair in black, but I like the geometrical print on the front panel. And now please either put down the paper sheet or put off the cigarette, love; you’re giving me anxiety.

For her last office look, Laura shows up in a periwinkle shirt with a tie collar. Edith is wearing a pretty similar blouse several times throughout the season, so I wouldn’t eliminate the possibility that Laura got influenced by her boss’s looks. They could have put a tie on this that pops a little more, maybe a red one, but overall, nice.

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Gwen is back in the house, and she also presents in business-woman chic. I have seen prettier cloche hats than this, but I do quite like the dress. The fabric has a kind of scaly appearance to it, and the marine piping on the slightly shiny champagne look so sharp. We’ve got a rounded collar, an element in the front that’s presumably more of a jabot than a tie, and a bit of marine under layer peeking out from beneath the skirt front that has two sets of knife pleats fanning out from the edges of the mid panel.

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Amelia really should go with a shade that doesn’t make onlookers vaguely think of puking, but whatever. The design with these panels of print on a plain fabric is something I’ve seen pop up in Edith’s wardrobe, and the little arrow shape under her collar looks familiar too. It’s a cute print even and the cut is, while nothing special, typical 1920s neatness; I just really don’t like the predominant color here.

Much better, a dress that she wears in her house and garden and one of those weightless chiffon dreams that just flutter every way. Amelia looks almost ethereal in this one what with the drapey sleeves and the abstract flower print and the little capelet thingie, and I guess appearing sweet and charming when she decidedly isn’t is her whole spiel, so that checks out.

Uhm. Ew. What is that collar? Looks like a bib. I don’t know about this lapse in fashion sense. I mean, if I don’t totally misinterpret the brown fabric, that is an acorn-and-leaves print which is potentially adorable, and we have seen this paneled skirt configuration before. But the top of this is really unflattering. Perhaps it would be better if the neckline was also cut in a V or if they had picked a less fleshy pink to go with it overall, but. Eh, no thank you, please.

And one scene later, Amelia is back in style. This time it’s a black chiffon ensemble with flower print in several orange shades, and she has a sailor collar on her jacket to match, and the overall image is well-composed and subtly elegant, or would be if she didn’t look like a sulky little girl stomping her foot.

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Have I talked about Rose’s glorious hat yet? Too bad; I love this hat. Look at how charming the flowers are arranged curving around the back. Anyway, the dress Rose wears when she comes to Downton for Christmas and Edith’s wedding is simple, a deep blue with a V neckline and some sweet little embroidery at the sleeve cuffs. Rose picked an overlong necklace in knot style for it that is of a slightly brighter blue, and it looks nice on the dark ground.

But she’s not only an adult woman with charm and discreet style, she’s also still Rose, so it’s time for something playful! We have seen voided velvet before, and we have seen Martha Levinson specifically in voided velvet with geometrical motives, but she still kept it fairly subtle with a dark teal. Now in comes Rose in bright golden circles and a line of black circles diagonally through it, and she lowkey looks like a disco ball precursor. I kind of love it. Don’t really love the headband though; I won’t be compelled by this one-big-clunky-element-a-band design in this lifetime.

[iviarellereads]

The Great Hunt, Chapter 34 - The Wheel Weaves

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Wheel of Time, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Wheel icon) In which I am so tired of women in refrigerators.

PERSPECTIVE: Thom gets back to his inn near dawn. After Rand's chat, he'd given up on the Horn tales and changed to the kinds of stories he told in villages, intending a commentary on nobles' stupidity, but the nobles had listened, and laughed in the wrong places, and laughed at Thom, too, thinking he wouldn't notice if he left with a full purse. He'd almost thrown the purse away twice on the walk back.

And so many questions about Rand, how he knew him, etc. Thom lingers on thoughts of Rand, trying to convince himself that the boy's on his own now, and it's none of Thom's business.(1)

He climbs the stairs, being careful of his bad leg, and finds Dena laying on the bed, facing the wall. She must have fallen asleep waiting for him. But when he touches her shoulder to wake her, she rolls limply, the bed dark and wet beneath her. He'd throw up if his throat weren't so tight he can hardly breathe.(2)

He hears the wardrobe creak and turns, throwing his knives. One strikes in the heart of one assassin, the other in the partner's shoulder. The live one makes for the door, but Thom's faster, slashing across the backs of his legs with another dagger.

He asks why, and the man babbles about how it's just the Game, they wouldn't have killed him, they just wanted information about Rand, and Thom could make plenty of gold selling information about him. Several nobles have approached him, and a strange lady he’s seen while asking about Rand.(3) Thom marvels sadly that Dena died for this, and says they made one mistake in it all: they should never have touched the girl. The man convulses as Thom's knife strikes home.

Zera, the innkeeper, rushes in and is horrified, but not paralyzed by it, Thom will have to leave. He offers the fat purse to pay for everything, the cleanup, Dena's funeral... but he has another man to kill before he can leave. Zera says the whole common room's been talking all evening, Barthanes has been killed, torn to pieces with his head mounted on a spike in front of his own fireplace. And, look, one of these men is notoriously Galldrian's pawn. Zera sees a look in Thom's eye and asks him to picture Dena, alive, and what she'd want him to do right now. It's not to murder the King. Thom says he's only an old gleeman, what danger is he? As he takes the stairs back down, he grins like a wolf.(4)

PERSPECTIVE: Fain, reining his horse on a hill above Falme. He's been gathering information on these Seanchan (by torturing innocents) in the day since he arrived, and he dismissed most of it out of hand, until he saw Falme. He rides down into the town, and offers the Horn's box at Turak's manor. Turak is able to open the box, having some experience with similar boxes from the AoL,(5) and extracts the Horn, asking if Fain knows what it is. The Horn of Valere, of course, my Lord.

Unfortunately, Turak also takes the dagger. When Fain reaches for it, the servant catches his hand. Fain insists the dagger is his. Turak asks how it could be his, inside a chest he couldn't open. He might give it back, if Fain is interesting enough. But first, why give him the Horn? So you can take back this land. Why give this land to him? Fain pretends that his family kept Hawkwing's oaths, that an ancestor of his found the chest but the trick of opening it was lost.

Fain keeps talking as if Turak will sound the Horn, but Turak says he will do nothing of the sort, he'll present it to the Empress when he returns home. Fain says that Turak must-- and gets cuffed by the servant with the braid. Turak muses that he might give Fain to the Empress along with the Horn, something the Mordeth side of him rejoices at. A new ruler to influence? Yeeesssss...

“You seem almost eager,” Turak said, and Fain barely suppressed a wince. “I will tell you why I will not sound the Horn of Valere, or even keep it, and perhaps that will cure your eagerness. I do not wish a gift of mine to offend the Empress by his actions; if your eagerness cannot be cured, it will never be satisfied, for you will never leave these shores. Do you know that whoever blows the Horn of Valere is linked to it thereafter? That so long as he or she lives, it is no more than a horn to any other?” He did not sound as if he expected answers, and in any case, he did not pause for them. “I stand twelfth in line of succession to the Crystal Throne. If I kept the Horn of Valere, all between myself and the throne would think I meant to be first hereafter, and while the Empress, of course, wishes that we contend with one another so that the strongest and most cunning will follow her, she currently favors her second daughter, and she would not look well on any threat to Tuon. If I sounded it, even if I then laid this land at her feet, and every woman in the White Tower leashed, the Empress, may she live forever, would surely believe I meant to be more than merely her heir.”(6)

Anyone might be a listener for the Empress, Turak continues, and pass along secrets overheard. He will not be heard conspiring against the Empress or her apparent heir. Would Fain still wish to serve, knowing he could be handed over to torturers in the Court of the Nine Moons for a mere shift of an eye? He wishes only to serve, he repeats, and he knows much that may be useful.

Turak says that Fain may stay. It's a relief to find a second man to amuse him with tales, even if they're both telling lies.(7) Fain is dismissed, but he insists on continuing to seed the word that Rand is coming for the Horn, with Darkfriends and Trollocs and all. Turak thinks it might be amusing to meet a real Darkfriend, and he's always wondered if a grolm could kill a Trolloc. He will have a watch kept, if this isn't another lie. Oh, but this land is boring.

Fain let the grimacing Huan(8) pull him out of the room, hardly even listening to the snarled lecture on what would happen if he ever again failed to leave Lord Turak’s presence when given permission to do so. He barely noticed when he was pushed into the street with a coin and instructions to return on the morrow. Rand al’Thor was his, now. I will see him dead at last. And then the world will pay for what was done to me. Giggling under his breath, he led his horses down into the town in search of an inn.

=====

(1) If you were out of it, we wouldn't be getting your POV. Checkmate, Merrilin. (2) You know that old question, like, "What author, alive or dead, would you want to have lunch with and why?" There are so many things I'd like for RJ to answer for, it might be faster to invent a time machine than to list them all. (3) Three guesses which bombshell would stand out enough and be present in places where someone might be asking about Rand. (4) Thom? Thom, you're not really about to commit regicide, are you? Oh you DEFINITELY are… (5) He is a collector of deep antiquities, after all. Bits of cuendillar are surely not the only curios in his closet. (6) So, he's very politically savvy, this one. Which makes sense, if what he says about the social structure of Seanchan is correct, and we have no reason to believe it's not. He's twelfth in line to the throne, and the Empress has a particular favourite daughter so even the Empress herself might feel threatened if he tried to keep the Horn. (7) What might Domon be telling him? (8) This name is given one spelling here, and a different spelling later. I'll be tagging for the later spelling just on account of, for repeat readers, "Huon" is the name to look up to actually get the character profile because there are two other "Huan"s in the story.

[websterss]

PUT IN HARMS WAY — ANGUS MACGYVER

REQUEST: Mac x reader. Mac coming home from a mission to find you’ve been attacked and you’re in the hospital.

WARNING(S): Fluff, mentions of dying, getting stabbed

WORD COUNT: 1,510

PAIRING: Angus MacGyver x fem!Reader 

A/N: Hope you enjoy it! This is an old repost. Feedback is always welcomed!

MASTERLIST

Your life was as ordinary as you tried to make it be. Once Mac told you about being a secret agent for the Phoenix Foundation you knew your whole life was about to be turned upside down. His team, including his best friend Bozer, were okay with you knowing. They trusted that you could keep their secret. Mac did his best to keep you as far away and hidden from every common enemy or threat out there. He never mentioned you to anyone other than the team and his boss Matty Webber. Little did Mac know that you weren’t as hidden as he thought you would be.

You were currently at the house that you shared with Bozer and Mac. They took you in when you finally moved out of your parent’s house. Not knowing where or how you could afford a house on your own. They offered you the space they had, which you gratefully accepted. You busied yourself by cleaning the house picking up anything and everything that felt out of place. You were about to start vacuuming when the doorbell rang. You really didn’t think much of it as you walked to the door. You went and opened the door to reveal three men dressed in all black wardrobe. 

“May I help you?” You eyed them cautiously.

“We’re looking for someone by the name Angus Macgyver, do you happen to know where he is?” He asked.

“No sorry, there’s no one here by that name.” You were about to close the door when the man’s foot stood in the way.

“I highly suggest you tell me where he is, or things will get messy sweetheart.” He threatened.

“As I said before he’s not here!” You kicked him in the knee making him stumble back and shut the door in his face. You immediately locked it.

You turned and made a beeline for your gun you kept in your room. Mac gave you it just in case of emergencies, and right now you were in one. You could hear the sound of the front door being kicked open. You prepared yourself for the worst at this point. The three men split up to search for you. You could hear one approaching you, you came out and knocked him out, but you had a problem because they heard your grunts in the process. So you hid again.

The two guys walked up to the man you put down. “I see Mac’s taught you a few things, he wouldn’t if it wasn’t necessary, you must be really important to him!” The bulky guy called out. You didn’t respond.

“Oh, come on sweetheart I don’t bite. All we want is entail on where he is, then we’ll be on our merry way as if we weren’t even here!” His persuasion was awful.

You stay silent, trying to keep your breath fairly even. They walked closer to where you were. Just as the man was approaching you swung your arm out hitting him directly in the face.

“Oh, you little bitc-” He managed to grab you in a headlock.

“It didn’t have to be this way.” He whispered in your ear as you struggled to get free from his grip. You saw the other guy get closer, you caught a glimpse of something gray and sharp. Before you could protest he plugged the knife into your abdomen. You gasped and sank to your knees.

“Tell Mac I’ll just swing by next time, okay?” He gave your cheek a light pat. You tried to lean against the wall behind you as best as you could. The pain was intolerable. You didn’t think about pulling the knife out knowing many times that if you did it would make the dying process speed up. You really hope Mac arrived in time. You didn’t feel like dying. 

-

“I’m telling you Mac, beach siding in Hawaii would be the best birthday present ever!” Boxer exclaimed as they got out of the car. Their mission turned out great. They caught their targets and locked them up.

“Bozer for the last time, we are not going to Hawaii.” Mac shook his head.

“You say that now, but I’ll surely convince you.” Bozer smirked.

“Yeah, okay, if you say so.” Max chuckled.

The two approached the house unaware of the mess they would come across. Mac got out his keys to open the door, but only to find out that there wasn’t a door that needed opening. They glanced at each other, not hesitating to go in. The place was trashed and a couple broken pieces of furniture lay scattered all over their floor. “Y/n!”

“Y/n, where are you?”

“Bozer, you check the rooms, I’ll stay in here and look.” He pointed him off. Bozer scurried off in search of finding you. Once he came into the hallway he saw you on the floor and noticed the knife in your lower half.

“Y/n! Oh my god, Mac I found her!” He yelled over his shoulder. He got down beside you and gave your cheek a small slap trying to wake you up. He felt for a pulse, but there was barely one. Mac came running. He spotted the position you were in. 

“Baby, hey wake up, Bozer call an ambulance!” Mac felt for your pulse but it was weak, he knew he had to get you help and fast. Bozer called the team after he called for an ambulance. Once everyone was informed of the situation the ambulance came and put you on a gurney to take you to the hospital.

-

“Hey, we came as soon as we got the call. How is she?” Riley had become your greatest friend when she introduced you to everyone, so for her it was hard enough as it was to hear that you were attacked and injured in the process.

“The doctors haven’t told us anything.” Bozer spoke up.

“What happened?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know, we got home and saw the place trashed, we found Y/n with a knife plunged into her abdomen.” Mack placed hands over his head.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine Mac if anything Y/n’s a fighter.” Jack placed a hand on Mack’s shoulder for comfort.

“Hey, I forgot to mention, but Matty needed you to call her, said it was important.” Riley said.

“Okay, I’ll be right back, tell me if the doctor comes.” With that, he left the cafeteria to call his boss.

“Mac?”

“What did you need, heard it was important?” Mack sighed.

“Yeah it is, listen we found the guys that broke into your house.” 

“Who was it?” There was an edge of anger in his tone. He stood up taller, pressing the phone closer to his ear.

“Know anyone by the name Steve McCarthy, Michael Dan, or Brian Anders?” 

“It definitely sounds familiar.”

“Well, we sent a team to their location, so it won’t be long now till they’re caught.” 

“Thanks, Matty.”

“Yeah, no problem, how’s she doing by the way?”

“The doctors still haven’t told us anything.” He shook his head.

“Well let me know what happens, and I’ll get back to you when we get them.”

“Alright, thank you again, Matty, bye.”

“Bye.”

-

“So what did the boss want?” Jack asked.

“She apparently found the men that hurt her.”

“Really that’s great news!” Riley said in relief.

“Yea.” Mack breathes out a laugh.

“L/n?” We heard a voice call out. All four of us stood up. “Y/n Y/L/N’s family?”

“We’re her family, how is she?”

“We can only speak to siblings or her parents.“ The doctor protested.

“She’s an only child and her parents are out of reach. I‘m her fiancé.” Mack lied. 

“Alright then, she’s stable for now, but we want to keep her overnight for observation.” 

“Can I see her?”

“Right this way.”

“I’ll be back in a bit guys.” He turned to everyone.

“Hey go ahead Mac take your time, we’ll all be here waiting.” Riley offered a tired smile.

The doctor led him down the hallway to where you were being kept in. They walked into your room and there you were, resting. You had an oxygen tube in your nose to help you breathe. Mack sat in the chair next to your bed and reached for your open palm, rubbing small circles over the top of your hand. You seemed to feel the touch because you slowly came to. “Mac?” You whispered, your voice was hoarse.

“Hey, you’re awake.” He kissed your hand.

“You’re here?”

“Of course baby, I'm right here. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You gave a weak smile. “What happened?” Your memory seemed a little groggy.

“Let’s not worry about that right now, okay? You need to rest. The doctor said they want you to stay overnight, okay?” You only nodded.

“Stay with me?” You whispered.

“Always.” Mack leaned forward and kissed your head. Whether it be tomorrow or later on, he was never letting you be in harm’s way again.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Breaking And Entering - Part 2

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: Fate has you and Bucky crossing paths and leads to a change of heart. Warnings: 18+ only, outercourse, slight knife kink Word Count:2372

Part One || Part Two || Part Three

RECAP: You laid there for 20 minutes, arguing with yourself about what you were going to do but there was never any choice, failure was not an option. So you carefully removed his arm from around you and looked down at the peaceful face of the man who had broken some part of you that you didn’t know you had. Tears began to prick at your eyes and blur your vision as you silently removed his dog tags and disappeared into the night.

━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━

The phone charging on your side table vibrated for the third time today. It wasn’t even 7am. You knew you were running out of time to deliver the dog tags to the buyer, and he was not a man to be messed around. But for one reason or another there was some deeply repressed emotion stopping you from handing it over. Guilt.

“Get your shit together.”

You stared at your blurred reflection in the condensated mirror and tried to hide the emotion in your eyes. After failing miserably you swiped your hand across the steamed surface as if to erase it completely and turned away with a huff. You had bigger things to worry about.

The first place Kingpin would send his henchmen would be to the club you owned, it was where all your clients went to request your services. Of course everyone you met there thought you were merely a middleman, the real criminal mastermind’s secretary, none of them knew it was all you. You knew you couldn’t go back to the club for the foreseeable future and it wouldn’t take them long to find your house when they started looking. If you weren’t going to give him the dog tags you needed to leave town.

You grabbed the go bag that was stuffed in the bottom of your wardrobe and checked your tools, cash and clothes were still exactly as you had packed them. After getting dressed in some comfortable clothes, that you could also run in if needed, you hung the tags over your head and tucked them under your shirt. You would find somewhere safe to store them once you were out of town.

Grabbing your phone off the charger you made your way outside to your car and opened the security app. You checked that all the locks and sensor alarms were engaged on the windows and doors before tossing the phone on the seat beside you and headed to La Guardia airport. You would buy a ticket for the first plane out of New York and take a much needed holiday. If you couldn’t get your head back in the game you were dead, simple as that.

━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━

“That’s her, Sam.” Bucky whispered and inconspicuously pointed to your back. “She’s the one that stole my dog tags.”

“The prostitute?” Sam asked.

“She’s not a prostitute, I didn’t pay her.”

“You had sex and she got something of value.” Sam chuckled. “Pretty sure that makes her a hooker.”

“She’s not a- just have Redwing tail her.”

“Are you sure? I thought you said she was in New York.”

“She was and so was I. Now I’m here. People travel, Sam.” He huffed. “I got a good look at her and that’s her, the thief.”

“You haven't even seen that chick's face unless...oh you dirty dog. You straight up took her from behind, didn’t you?” Sam laughed and clapped Bucky on the back before pressing some buttons on his wrist and setting Redwing on his target.

You didn’t want to look over your shoulder but you could feel eyes burning into your back and a shiver rolled down your spine. You pulled the baseball cap down lower over your face and wove your way through the busy streets of Washington D.C, sticking to the most populous places. You were pretty sure you had lost your tail, despite never actually spotting them, but the niggling feeling in the pit of your stomach had dissipated.

Deciding to double back on yourself and make sure you were safe before heading back to your hotel, you passed the front of the Smithsonian and felt the weight of the tags heavy on your chest. Impulse pulled you into the museum and you killed some time by mindlessly walking around the exhibits until you spotted a familiar face. A Fallen Comrade.

There, projected on the wall, was his face. It was the face that had haunted your dreams for a week, blue eyes that looked like ice but set your body on fire. You took the dog tags out of your shirt and turned them over to read them, not that you hadn’t memorised the lettering pressed into the metal.

James B Barnes 32557038 T41 42 O R Barnes 3092 Stockton Rd Shelbyville IN P

Steven G Rogers 32597920 T43 44 O

After reading the monument in honour of Steve Rogers you knew he had no next of kin to name on his dog tag. Taking them from Bucky seemed even crueller now and the guilt you had been holding back resurfaced with a crushing force that knocked the wind out of you. Standing before the lifelike wax figure of the original Captain America you felt the weight of his stare twisting the knife in your gut and you lifted the dog tags over your head.

You didn’t deserve to be in his presence, it was the same feeling you imagined the devil would have walking into a church. It was wrong. Doing what you did best, you left. There didn’t seem to be anything amiss as you exited the museum so you headed straight to the hotel you had booked under a fake name and gave them enough of a cash bond to not ask questions.

Your room was light and airy, full of creams and gold palettes that were the opposite of your taste and personality. You were attracted to dark and dangerous things, it was why you wanted the Winter Soldier so badly that night. He had the ability to break you like a twig and that set your heart racing. You berated yourself as thoughts of him invaded your mind and decided a bath would be the best way to clear your head.

“Yo, Redwing found her.” Sam said as he shook Bucky awake from his nap.

“Where did she go?” Bucky asked as he wiped his face and sat up straight.

“I dunno man but he’s following her up Constitution Ave.”

Bucky got up and shrugged his leather jacket on before grabbing his phone and his hotel key.

“Ping me her location.” He said as he opened the door of Sam’s apartment.

“You sure you don’t want some backup? In case you end up on your back, again.”

Sam’s laughter followed him even after he shut the door and began to jog his way across the suburbs, passing the Whitehouse along the way. He heard his phone go off in his pocket and stopped to pull it out and opened the message from Sam, along with the link that led to your location at the Embassy Suites.

The huge spa bath was big enough to fully submerge in and you let yourself sink beneath the waters and drowned out the sounds of the city. There was a peace that came with the silence, a sweet burn in your lungs that reminded you that you were still alive. All too soon your lungs screamed for oxygen and you burst through the surface with an audible gasp.

Movement in your peripheral alerted you to the fact you were not alone and you reached over the side of the bath to reach for the knife you had put there. Your fingers scrambled around but came up empty and you saw the reason why when Bucky held it just out of your reach.

“I don’t have them.” You said as you waved your hands over your bare chest and watched his eyes follow your hands.

“Where are they?” He asked, stepping closer and looking over the side of the bath and along the entire length of your body.

“Somewhere safe.” You said, swirling your fingers around the now tepid water.

“Not good enough.” He growled as he reached down and pulled you out of the water by your arms. “You’re going to get them back.”

“I can…but then he will just kill me and send someone else after them.” You rushed out as he dragged you out of the bathroom.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He frowned and froze with you in his strong grip.

“Fisk, Wilson Fisk. He hired me to steal them.”

Bucky let go of you and you barely caught yourself at the sudden release. He looked torn as he watched you, like he was debating your fate and he couldn’t quite decide what you deserved. Considering who he was and the connection he had, that was probably right on the money.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” You said wholeheartedly.

“For fucking me or fucking me over?” He quipped sarcastically and tossed your knife onto the bed.

“The second.” You said, catching his haunting eyes as they flicked up from your breasts to look you in the eyes. “Only the second.”

The predicament was gone in an instant and resolve settled on his face before he grabbed your jaw in his vibranium grasp. You thought he had decided you weren’t worth keeping alive and closed your eyes as you resigned yourself to your fate. You waited for the crushing blow to come but a pain of a wholly different kind came. Your head was tipped back until your neck was stretched tight and breathing became difficult. Flames licked at the skin covering your racing pulse in the form of his lips before his teeth grazed over the spot.

“Bucky?” You cried out before his mouth swallowed your words and you returned the heated kiss.

“You’re going to get back what you stole.” He ordered between the work his mouth was doing on your neck. “But first…I need to get you out of my system.”

He pushed you back until your knees hit the bed and you fell trapped beneath his body. Arms caged around you and a hiss of delight escaped through your teeth as he sucked one of your nipples into his mouth and rolled it around his tongue. You freed your arms from your side and tried to run your fingers through his hair only to find your hands pinned above your head and a knife at your throat.

“Just because I’m going to fuck you, doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“I have never lied to you, James.”

“Who are you?” He asked as he pressed the blade a little more against your skin.

“My name is y/n.” You said as you lifted your head up from the bed and felt the bite of the knife threatening to draw blood. “And I just found out knife play turns me on.”

You rolled your hips up and sighed as his jeans gave you the friction you so desperately needed. He pressed himself closer to you and rode his bulging erection between your legs as his hold on the knife loosened. His growl was a deep vibration that set your body alight and he released your hands so he could pull his shirt over his head. You propped yourself up on your elbows so you could watch your present unwrap itself and licked your lips when he dropped his jeans to the floor.

“I own Club Fury in Hell’s Kitchen.” You admitted as you climbed to your knees and met him chest to chest at the edge of the bed.

“What else?” He asked with a groan as your hand wrapped around his thick cock and stroked the length of him.

“I have never met a man who can do what you do to me.” You moaned as his fingers dipped between your legs and teased along your folds while his other arm snaked around your back and clasped the nape of your neck.

“And what is that?” He demanded as he pushed the ribbed digits inside you.

Your head tipped back as his cool fingers invaded you and you swore you could feel them vibrate as they curled inside you, erasing all coherent thoughts except one - the answer.

“Feel.”

He dropped his forehead to yours as both of your arms worked to bring each other pleasure, both hips rolling to deepen the other's touch until it was too much to bear. Your orgasm deepened your breathing, stealing the oxygen that you were sharing with the man millimetres from your face and his cheek was pressed to yours so you could hear every hitch in his breath too.

“Tell me how I make you feel.”

The room was spinning as his fingers never stopping fucking you despite your walls clenched tightly around them and all you could feel was him. His arm that held you close, your breasts pressed flush against his chest, the smear of his precum low on your stomach as you quickened your strokes, the heat of his breath on your ear that he whispered his demands in. He was everywhere.

“Alive.” Your voice was broken by the waves of pleasure that emanated from his hand and you felt the molten liquid running down your thighs as he refused to stop. “Fuck, you make me feel alive!”

His chest shuddered against yours and you felt the hot spurts of his cum trail down your stomach and over your hand. Your palm was slippery with his cum and you used it to gently stroke every last drop from him before you released your hold on him. The eyes that had haunted your dreams all week watched as you ran your finger through his seed on your stomach and brought it up to your lips.

He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and his cock twitched between you as your tongue ran sensually over your finger. You hummed in satisfaction and you closed your eyes at his unique taste, neither salty nor sweet, but the perfect balance and 100% delicious.

“You’re impossible.” He groaned and you opened your eyes to see his jaw clenched and a hunger in his eyes.

“How so?” You asked as you placed your arms around his neck and kissed his tense jawline.

“This was meant to get you out of my system.” He unlocked your arms from his neck and pushed you back onto the bed before crawling up your body, the weight of his already hard cock pressing into your thigh. “Now I just want more.”

━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━

Last Part Click HERE 

A/N: Decided this will be three parts or this chapter would have ended up being like 5k. I appreciate the comments and reblogs, thank you all so much ♡♡♡

Taglist: @slutforsexyseabass​​ @eclecticpatrolroadlawyer

[theonemarvelousness]

valentines ship suggestion No x Vil but its a scheme by Rook

No looks confused at the letter. It's a gorgeous purple paper, with a golden seal--Pomefiore. The beautiful calligraphy on the front, also in a gorgeous gold in the neatest penmanship she's ever seen in her life reads:

No Wei.

Every Pomefiore member she's very familiar with currently, technically, lives with her--and honestly things are really starting to settle out but this is definitely the extra-flavor that exists with that dorm. Having the Housewarden for Pomefiore live here, too, and the Vice, has been difficult--actually, it's TWO sets, but Scarabia can apparently manage pretty well with the two heads of dorm living there part time.

But, well, a pretty seal is broken with a pocket knife. Opening it, she pulls out the letter curiously. It is a thick, old-style parchment written in again, purple ink.

No Wei,

I doubt there are enough written words to apologize to you. And, admittedly, I realize that you prefer action than lip service. Please join me for dinner at the time described below, my treat. I'd like to start making it up to you.

I am truly sorry for all that's happened.

Vil Schoenheit

Huh.

Dinner.

That's a restaurant in the village... Well. She can manage that with her bus pass. She checks through some things... there's enough money on her bus pass to cover the trip, and she has some nicer clothes to wear. No doubt Vil would pick something fairly nice.

It's still cold, so she can definitely get away with winter wear, too...

Well. Dinner it is. At least, she'll give him the time of day. They do need to fix what's going on--or they'd probably end up killing each other.

---

Vil frowns at the letter on the makeshift desk he has to live with. Meals and slumber here have been difficult, even with the imported bed roll and other creature comforts. Honestly, there's been several nights he's just gone back to Pomefiore, especially when he has early days because living in this hovel full time is horrid.

Fine, fine, he does understand the prickliness of No now, but still! She's a terror!

But, a letter? Vil Schoenheit scrawled--it's fairly neat at least...

Plain, simple...

Vil,

I know we are only starting to come to understand each other... and now you know things. Could we have dinner and talk?

The details are transcribed.

I had the boxes enchanted, so just mark to let me know!

Sincerely, No Wei

Well. What harm is there? He marks yes. The letter sparkles.

Well, he makes sure his schedule is set.

---

"Well, Rook," Vil starts as he works over the schedule, "mark the evening of the fourteenth as blocked out. I have dinner."

"O-ho~? With whom~?" His Vice Housewarden is so curious, of course.

"No Wei. It's a mid-level establishment... I assume there are coupons involved, considering. Politely--" He looks around first. No one is around. "--she invited me out so we may reconcile more. I refuse to let her pay, of course." A tut, shaking his head.

"Oui, oui, of course... so, what are you wearing, beautiful Vil?"

Vil pauses. "...I will decide wardrobe later."

"You should bring flowers for Reine du Non." An affirmative nod. "A token of a new friendship! Beaut!"

That IS a good idea.

---

With the busy schedule, admittedly, Vil has no time to talk down details--but the letter was clear on date, time, and location, and if nothing else she IS punctual.

Not quite a fully put-on suit. An overcoat, a button-up, a stylish tie, gloves, pants, and shoes. He has to look gorgeous and be winter ready with the fresh layer of snow. Considering about ten minutes before he went to Pomefiore, No had gone off bundled up--it means she's on the way via bus.

He'll take her back in the car, then.

She looked... nicely done up, at least, as nice as she gets.

---

"The reservation is under Schoenheit, but he isn't here yet." No stands nervously in front of the hostess. She had to jump into the nearby bookstore's bathroom to change into something more... nice? She can't really look feminine at school. The make-up too was a bit of an embarrassing endeavor. It's been a long time since she's gotten ready in a restroom. And, of course, she bought a novel to offset the use.

But it feels really nice to have her hair up and some make up on. The outfit is a nice button-up, with a skirt she had found and bought on impulse at a thrift store. The school ribbon in her hair, tights, and dress shoes--also a thrift store find. It's nice. Not--super stylish or in trend, but nice.

It's nice to feel pretty.

"Oh, come this way." The woman informs. "The other member of your party is already here."

"Oh--good!" No feels a little... nervous.

Well, she has ever right to be. Vil looks stunning. As per usual. It's ridiculous. He's too pretty for a man. It's bullshit.

But, the hostess pulls out the chair for her, and she takes a seat. Feeling... nervous? Why?

They've never really had pleasant time one-on-one.

"Hi." Yeah, even she knows that was lame.

"--and if you think for a second you're going to use some coupon special, I've already put my card down for the check." Bossy, as always. Well.

"--alright." Well, the letter did say--but uh. Yeah, he would make sure to re-iterate that, wouldn't he.

Vil sighs and shakes his head, and offers a simple single-flower bouquet. A beautiful white rose. "And--for you."

Hesitantly, No takes it. It's--absolutely gorgeous. A perfect white rose. And it smells wonderful! Admittedly, she really DOES like flowers. And it's been a long time since someone's given her one. Fine, yeah, she's smiling. "Thanks, Vil. It's lovely."

Then, he produces a vase; a wave of his wand puts in water. "So it doesn't wilt during our meal."

A nod, and No puts it in carefully, admiring the bloom.

---

Well, this is a very surprising turn out. A skirt on No Wei! It hits home how much of a girl she actually is, with a fairly nice-fitting blouse, a skirt, tights, and shoes? Oh, yes--the make up too. That is certainly a girl when she's cleaned up. It really puts into perspective the efforts she goes through to hide her sex and the skewed perception of being at an all-boys-school.

Interesting.

There's some nervousness to her too--but how her blue eyes light up at the rose means they are stepping in the right direction.

Rook was right, and of course flowers do usually make girls happy.

The cuisine is French, and once they get the menus, No looks a little lost. Well, she IS from a foreign world.

"I have an idea." He ventures gently.

No slowly looks up at him. "Yes?"

"How about you have what I'm having."

There's a pause. "That works."

"Wonderful--the bisque, the Coq au vin, and of course the cheese course. Maybe dessert after if we're up to it."

No nods, agreeably. This is nice.

---

No takes in a breath as she sets down the menu and sips her water. In all honesty, there's a big relief. This is nice, a little awkward, but nice.

The table is really small, making this a pretty intimate setting. She's not really sure what to do with her hands so in her lap they stay. It was nice of him to invite her to dinner, though this is a BIT fancier than she expected.

Yeah, no, they would've gone for street kabobs if it was on her dime though and with the dieting Vil might've died.

The order is placed, at least.

"You look nice today." A compliment! It's startling.

"Thanks... um... you look great as always." It's true.

"I do try. You've cleaned up quite well."

"It's... uh, a rare opportunity..." This is so awkward.

"I--know." Oh good, HE'S awkward too. "..."

Awkward silence.

---

It is awkward, they spent an entire semester basically hating one-another and here they are--considering No's apparently the queen of friendship, he didn't think this reconciling part would be so difficult. But, he is the older, wiser member of this... "I am sorry. How... I found out, and better yet, our relationship until now. I didn't act my best in any aspect, and you did deserve better."

"I'm sorry too." She replies immediately. "I'd like to be friends, Vil."

"...Me too."

---

Dinner is so good! No hasn't had this food before, and it is surprisingly delicious. Maybe there is something to this French Food (it is not as good as American cuisine). Honestly, it's also nice to chat with Vil. Go over the game plan for the SDC, and overall just be amicable with one-another. It makes this whole event a lot more stressful and more tolerable.

It's really nice.

She thinks maybe they could've been friends a lot sooner if they just sat down and talked.

"If you won't tell, I won't tell about dessert."

"Considering Ace dumped his laundry on mine today and said it wouldn't be a big deal if I did his too, yeah. Dessert sounds great."

Vil sighs. "So that explains the clothes in the snow."

"I washed them... It's just he's going to have to dry them." He deserves it too, in her humble opinion.

"Well, I recommend the Poire avec orange. I think you'll like it."

"Then let's go with that."

---

The suggestion was a good choice! No looks absolutely delighted with the dessert. A sweetened fruit, not as heavy in calories or sugars as many other choices--and a bit of a cheat day is necessary. Morale-wise, and considering what he's been blind too all this time when it comes to her... she needs it.

Plus, after the SDC not only will the prize money be donated to Ramshackle, he is going to personally oversee the repairs and bring up the conditions in a Housewarden meeting. This is a ridiculous scenario. A student should have never endured such conditions. What was the Headmaster even thinking putting a student there, let alone a girl!?

Wait.

He can't out that part.

It hits him this really is a secret he must keep.

---

The meal is done and No lets out a slow, careful breath. Content with both the food and the experience. It's been really nice with Vil. Honest to goodness nice. "I've had a really good time tonight, Vil, thanks. Though--I do have to go soon. The last bus leaves in twenty minutes."

Vil's eyes roll. "No, we're going back in a car. I can't let you go alone this late in the cold."

There's a moment to hesitate, but she nods. "Well, alright. Then I'm in your care."

The waiter arrives with the check, and Vil barely glances at it before he signs. He stands, picking up the vase. "Let's go, No. I'll wait for you outside so you can change. I've got wipes in the car for your face, so don't worry about the make up."

Honestly, she really likes this side of Vil. So this is why his students like him so much...

---

Rook cannot help his grin as he watches the pair leave.

They had such a lovely date~ He cannot wait to see how this further blooms.

His perfect Roi and Reine.

[egg-baby-official]

Frisk Month 22 Day 6 (New Home)

* There is a heart shaped locket inside the box. Take it?

You carefully lift the locket out of the gift box, inspecting the details. It's gold plated, and fits nicely in your palm. Releasing the clasp by clicking a little button on the side, the locket opens, revealing its contents. 

Inside is an old photograph, carefully cut to fit inside. You don't recognize the two people pictured, but by the looks of it, they appear to be children, maybe a few years older than you. One of them is a monster, and the other… 

A human, like you. 

You turn your attention to the other half of the open locket. There’s some writing engraved into the metal.

* It says "Best Friends Forever."

That’s odd. You thought all humans before you had been immediately killed for their souls…?

… You wonder who they were, and what happened to them. (But it’s none of your business to know.)

Silently, you close the locket and place the chain over your head, around your neck. It feels… wrong, to wear something so personal that doesn’t belong to you. But… you need the defense.

Just being in this room makes you feel like an intruder on something private, like you’re desecrating a gravesite. You don’t know what gave you this impression, but the air is heavy with a nostalgic melancholy that you can’t understand, nor dismiss. 

Perhaps it’s the knowledge of what lies ahead of you, the thought of possibly having to take another life in order to leave this place, that has you in this state. 

You’re too young for this. Too inexperienced to have to make a decision like this.

… 

You distract yourself from the thought, opting to check out your surroundings instead of lingering on the cold dread you feel within your soul.

The room is small, and quaint. It may have been cozy once, but in this moment, feels hollow and empty. A single wardrobe, a simple shaded lamp,  and a set of shelves sit against the back wall. You walk over to the shelves, and inspect the picture frame sitting on the top. Unlike everything else in the room, it looks freshly dusted.

* (It’s a family photograph. Everyone is smiling.)

Two large, furry monsters stand beside one another. One looks surprisingly similar to Toriel. But you left her so long ago now, that you could be mistaken. The other, you can only assume is meant to be Asgore. It’s a stark contrast to the intimidating figure you had conjured up in your head. 

In front of the two monsters, stand the same two children from the photo inside the locket.

(That human again…)

You turn away from the photo abruptly, struck with an emotion you cannot describe, and that does not feel like your own. You distract yourself by inspecting the rest of your surroundings. There are two twin beds at opposite sides of the room. The right side is a bit more full than the other, with a couple plushies and a box of dusty toys nestled up against the bed. All the left side has for decoration is a simple drawing of a golden flower pinned onto the wall. 

You find yourself drawn to the bed on the left side, shuffling closer in order to see it better. The sheets are washed, but covered in a thin layer of dust. It looks like it hasn't been touched in years, a trait that much of this room seems to share with it.

Brushing away a small bit of dust, you press your hand into the quilted blanket, testing the softness of the mattress. 

* (What a comfortable bed. If you laid down here, you might not ever get up.)

… 

You shiver, and curl your arms around yourself, despite not being cold at all. (Something about the way that was said… Sounded oddly morbid.)

…

Inside the second gift box lays a knife. 

…You decide not to take it.

[bigyikes97]

Triangle, my beloved

This drama was a DUMPSTER FIRE that, in my opinion, crossed the line between just awful into some secret tier of amazing. It's the Sharknado of Kdramas. I have to tell you about this show.

First, the premise was amazing. A better writer could've made it the buzziest show of its season. You see glimmers of greatness all through it. However...

The story was NOT written in advance. It was written episode by episode according to input from online fans. And BOY, the results were INSANE. He loves her! He hates her! We need a love triangle! We're going to forget it happened! We can't figure out how to get him out of jail...so the next episode opens with a 2-year time skip and we move on!!

It was COMPLETELY unpredictable, with flat out continuity errors--I'm talking day/night errors, totally forgetting where characters were, cutting to people in the wrong places, people getting stabbed and left for dead and walking around the next day, the whole shebang. One character even completely forgot that he had very emotionally beaten another unconscious and been charged with "finishing him off" in front of a ring of watching gangsters that afternoon--IT CUT TO HIM STANDING IN HIS KITCHEN PEACEFULLY MAKING DINNER AT NIGHT IN DIFFERENT CLOTHES AND THE OTHER GUY WAS INEXPLICABLY FINE!

At that point, to me, it veered completely into comedy and I couldn't stop watching. The characters were a special highlight to me. Have you ever wanted to see a gangster played by Kim Jaejoong whose lipstick occasionally and unevenly turns distractingly pink or orange in-between takes? Now's your chance.

For Im Siwan's character in particular, it seems they were trying to go for a nuanced villain/anti-hero, but couldn't figure out what they wanted and so swung WILDLY between wanting to learn his family's business from the employee-level up, to wanting to escape, to being just some guy, to wanting to return as a mustache-twirling overlord...it was like a parody, and somehow it hit just the right wavelength of being hilarious. He saved it by apparently approaching each episode as a stand-alone concept and putting his whole heart into each week's iteration of the character. It was like, I don't know exactly what this guy is feeling because he's changed his entire motivation and MO like 3 times in 4 episodes, but boy is he feeling something!

(Also, nobody looked ANYTHING like their promo images. Wardrobe, hairstyles all totally different, it was hilarious.)

Towards the end, flashbacks grew longer and longer as the executives apparently quarreled over what material to include. As the actors started to have other encroaching deadlines because they were going over time, they couldn't execute even the plans they wanted, and the ending was completely in the air even as the final episodes were being filmed. Finally, at the end,

(SPOILER!!!)

A main character died in the first 10 minutes of the finale, from a tiny knife wound and in the arms of a trained emergency responder over an excruciatingly long period of time in which said responder did not do any kind of medical treatment or call an ambulance. Both of the other main characters had taken 5 times the damage of that tiny lil wound and bounced back without a scratch.

(END SPOILER!!!)

I mean for the first three episodes our main man was getting beaten to the point of death, stabbed multiple times and left for dead like every 15 minutes and then walking it off the next day:

so watching this other guy keel over from a tiny little cut was jarring and random to the point that it would've been comedic if all three actors hadn't also been acting with their whole hearts to make you forget the abysmal context and silliness of all that preceded.

Come to find out--that particular decision WAS random!! They had gone so far over time that the actor literally had to fly to France to film another show and so they just killed his character and changed the entire end of the story! Which is honestly just very on-brand for the rest of the show.

If you watch it as each scene by itself, each scene is awesome. If you watch it together? Reverse Gestalt theory!! It's somehow less than the sum of its parts!!! But still? Glorious. Also everyone is gorgeous which is definitely a perk.

To summarize, the process was basically a budgeted improv club on steroids in which everyone did their absolute best to keep pace with the bizarre new twists and act surprised each time the repetitive ones repeated. Vibes: Improv - The Office US - YouTube.

I didn't actually finish it; I think I watched the first 15 minutes of the last episode and then just recapped the end. But honestly? No regrets with the show, it's my favorite worst thing and my go-to for "bad" examples of writing and continuity when I'm tutoring. If you want to see some gorgeous faces and kill brain cells, you must watch Triangle, it's a riot.

(look at all that drama they brought to this dumpster fire! Loved it haha.)

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

A Bet and a Blade

A sort-of twin to a Beard and a Bet, because I couldn’t decide which version I liked more. They’re about 50% identical (I checked) - and the first 4.3k words are more or less the same. Also: Jaskier loses the bet in both versions.

If Jaskier can’t get a kiss by midnight, he has to let Geralt shave away his new, terrible beard. But when he fails to find a willing partner, he begins to suspect that his witcher might be cheating.

11.4k words, contains bets and banter, shaving, knife play, and jealous Geralt. Rated M.

~

“You look…” Geralt tugged the black brocade jacket over his arms with a self-conscious grimace, “... utterly ridiculous.”

Jaskier spun around from where he was observing himself in the mirror. The fine golden thread of his embroidered silk undershirt glimmered in the candlelight as he rubbed a hand against his chin - and his new, neatly trimmed beard.

“I think the word you’re looking for,” he drawled, “is dashing.”

Geralt rolled his eyes as Jaskier moved away from the gilt framed glass. The beard had been a surprise. Geralt had been travelling with Jaskier for over a decade, and he’d never seen him sport more than a fashionable smattering of stubble, usually after a few busy days on the road. He’d attempted to be charitable - had tried, truly, not to let his face show his shock.

Which meant, of course, that Jaskier could tell right away that he hated it.

Which had devolved quickly into an argument.

Not an argument. Not really. But Geralt was of the opinion that the beard was awful and Jaskier appeared to love it and the past week had been marked with continual conversation about Jaskier’s New Facial Hair. Even after Geralt had successfully seen off a particularly territorial slyzard - getting them both invited to a celebratory banquet - their conversations still kept segueing back to it.

Geralt had assumed Jaskier would shave for the event - he was always needlessly fastidious about his appearance, especially for such grand occasions - but he’d bathed and dressed in his new, dazzling outfit without even mentioning it.

“You look like a young wizard who’s trying too hard.”

Jaskier gaped at him, stuttering - “You, I, Geralt—”

Geralt stopped his self-conscious fiddling with the buttons on the cuff of his jacket and turned to the bard, eyebrows raised.

“I just don’t think you suit a beard,” he said, lips quirking into a smile as Jaskier glowered at him.

“And I don’t think you suit… suit…”

Geralt paused. “Take your time.”

“Shut up,” Jaskier spat, finally.

“Such poetry from the thrice-time winner of the Oxenfurt Academy Bardic Competition.”

“Oh, shush,” Jaskier stalked past him, reaching for the doublet he’d hung from the door of the huge wooden wardrobe that afternoon, “I’m not here as a poet any more than you’re here to fight monsters.”

“Of course,” Geralt nodded, solemnly. “You’re here as a young wizard who’s trying too hard.”

Jaskier snorted, pulling the doublet on. It had been expertly tailored to him - although Geralt knew by the end of the evening the tightly designed lines that hugged the shape of his waist would be ruined by his insistence on wearing his jackets maddeningly unbuttoned.

“Well?” He said, turning on the spot, arms extended. “Thoughts? And don’t—” he snapped, before Geralt could even open his mouth, “mention the beard, please.”

Geralt let himself look, for once. The doublet was a deep orange colour, intricately embroidered with vibrant green coloured swirls that looked almost like trailing ivy. This one was clipped at the shoulders - the Cintran style, Geralt thought - with shimmering, dark red buttons that threaded from neck to hem. The trousers were of a similar dark red, tightly fitting, tied not at the front but in an intricate ribboned bow that nestled just above Jaskier’s arse, almost invitingly.

Geralt tore his eyes away, suddenly engrossed in his own impossible buttons.

“Good,” he muttered. “You look good.”

He could sense Jaskier stepping closer. “Yeah?”

And then, as if from nowhere, Jaskier’s hands were on his wrists. He pulled them towards himself, then began to fasten the buttons that Geralt had been struggling with for the duration of their conversation.

Geralt froze as Jaskier’s fingers pressed into the soft, sensitive skin of his wrists, trying to focus on anything else. He moved quickly to the second cuff, maddeningly close, and then - when the last button had slid into place - he looked up.

He was too close. Too close, too intimate. There was only one thing for it.

“But the orange…”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “Yes?”

“It, ah…” Geralt lifted the hand not currently pinned between Jaskier’s and gestured to his own bare chin. “Doesn’t it clash?”

It was a low blow, he knew, but it had the intended effect - Jaskier’s mouth opened in a perfect ‘O’ of offence, and he took a step back, releasing him. Geralt could breathe again.

The colour of Jaskier’s beard had been a point of contention for some time. In fact, “it’s red” had been the first thing Geralt had said when Jaskier had asked for his opinion a week ago. This had led to even more bickering, ending in Jaskier proclaiming: well what do you know, I bet you can’t even grow a beard.

Geralt had tried to correct him, but by then he wasn’t listening.

It was an easy out, with Jaskier so dangerously close.

“And you’re a sudden expert on colour theory, hmm? Remind me, what goes with black? Is it…” his eyes swept lazily up and down Geralt’s form, taking in his outfit, “... more black?”

“It works for me,” Geralt smirked.

“And the beard works for me.”

“Whatever you’re paying it,” Geralt said, watching Jaskier move around him and back towards the mirror, “It’s too much.”

Jaskier snuffed at him before starting to fiddle with the fabric of his undershirt. “Luckily for me,” he said, “plenty of other people find a beard extremely desirable.”

“Is that right?”

“That is right.”

“Would you bet on it?”

Geralt regretted saying it as soon as the words had left his mouth. But Jaskier turned anyway, a new and exciting glimmer in his eye.

“Go on?”

“You like the beard, I think it makes you look like an idiot. Agreed?”

“Apparently.”

“And you think it’ll be popular?”

“I do. It is.”

“So I’m proposing a bet. A wager. If you can prove this,” he gestured towards Jaskier’s face, “isn’t a terrible mistake, you win. If you win, you keep the beard. If I’m right, and I win… you shave it off.”

Jaskier gaped. “Geralt! Do you have any idea how long this took to grow?”

Geralt’s eyes darted down to Jaskier’s chest - the hair spilling up towards his neck. “A week? Two?”

Jaskier scowled at him, lips pursed. “You’re telling me,” he said, dropping his hands away from the fabric of his shirt, “that all I need to do to get you to stop teasing me is find someone who appreciates the beard?”

Geralt shrugged. “If you don’t think you can…”

Jaskier took a step forward - just one - just closing the gap between them. “And how, pray tell,” he said, head tilted to one side, “do you propose I judge who likes it? I can’t simply ask...”

“You do what you’re so famous for,” said Geralt, suddenly aware of his pulse in his fingertips. “You flirt.”

Jaskier took another step, till suddenly there were mere inches between them, his face set in a picture of simpering grace.

“Oh fair maiden,” he drawled, “Or…” his eyes darted up and down Geralt’s body again, making Geralt’s chest tighten, “...handsome lord, tell me…” he licked his lips, slowly. “Does my beard make you want to take me to bed?” His eyes flashed, and then - before Geralt could say anything - he leant back, dropping the facade with a laugh. “Like that?”

Geralt was glad the room was dark - glad his years of practise granted him control enough not to let the flush building up his chest show on his face.

“Something like that,” he managed.

“Hmm…” Jaskier mused - or at least pretended to muse. “We need something to measure it. How about… a kiss?”

The flush rose, tickling Geralt’s skin beneath the suddenly tight fabric of his shirt. “A kiss?”

“If I get someone to kiss me, then I win.”

Oh. Of course. Geralt considered this. His first thought, hot and urgent, was no - but to say that out loud would give him away. If he said no, Jaskier would ask why, and there wasn’t a truthful answer to that question that would leave their friendship intact.

He swallowed.

“Alright... If you kiss someone before midnight, you’ll have proven that someone out there finds the beard attractive, and you can keep it. If you don’t, you accept that you look like a prick, and shave it off.”

Jaskier looked at him, slyly. “Sounds reasonable.”

Geralt instantly recognised that expression - immediately mistrusted the easy, oh-so casual way Jaskier had agreed to the bet.

“Wait…”

“What?” Jaskier pursed his lips, all innocence.

“I know what you’re like. If I win, you’ll tell me you’ll shave and then you won’t.”

Jaskier’s expression smoothly melded into one of indignation. “Geralt,” he whined, “do you think so little of me?”

Geralt didn’t even consider it. “Yes.”

Jaskier spluttered, and Geralt spoke over his complaining. “If I win,” he continued loudly, as Jaskier ranted at him, “I’m shaving it off myself.”

“...cannot believe you would— oh.”

Jaskier fell into sudden, hanging silence. In the still, warm air of their shared room Geralt could hear his pulse quicken. No wonder - no one wanted a witcher’s blade at their throat.

“That seems…” Jaskier said, voice thick, “... that seems unfair.”

“Does it?”

“You’ve upped the stakes.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Jaskier leant back on one heel, hands on hips.

“If I win,” he said, “then I keep the beard, and you’re not allowed to tease me about it any more. Ever. In fact, you have to tell me how extremely handsome it makes me look. Or...” he fluttered a hand through the air, dismissively, “words to that effect.”

“Oka—”

“And, assuming I’ve won because I’ve pulled, I get the room for the night. If I, ah… need it.”

It was Geralt’s turn to hesitate. Of course, that was only fair - it was reasonable, even - but the thought of Jaskier sharing the bed with someone else set an unpleasant turn to his stomach. Because it wouldn’t just be sharing a bed, of course: it wouldn’t be sleeping together like he and Jaskier did virtually every night their paths crossed - it would be sleeping together. Sleeping together in a way that was vastly, expansively different from the way he and Jaskier would be in that bed this evening.

He tried to swallow down the acidic sting of jealousy. He had done this to himself, and he would have to own the consequences.

“Sounds fair,” he said, willing his voice not to sound hoarse.

Jaskier took another step forwards, and Geralt could see the intricate embroidery on his doublet, the sheen of the pearly buttons of his undershirt undone dramatically low down his chest, displaying a tempting window of softly haired skin.

“So,” he said. “If I kiss somebody before midnight, I win. I keep the beard, I get the room for the night, and you have to tell me how devastatingly handsome it makes me look.”

The air was cloying: too thick, too warm. “Right.”

“And if I don’t, and end this evening a lonely and miserable man, then I’ll admit defeat and you can…” Jaskier stumbled over his words, suddenly, faltering a little. “You get to shave the beard off.” He stuck out a hand, eyes sparkling in the low light. “Agreed?”

Geralt knew, suddenly, that he’d made a disastrous mistake. He took Jaskier’s hand anyway, his grip firm and his palm sweaty.

“Agreed.”

~

Jaskier’s palm tingled where Geralt had grabbed his hand. His fingers felt like they were vibrating, slightly - the feeling he got after a particularly good performance. They weren’t so numb that he couldn’t tie his chemise or button his doublet, but it was close.

He followed Geralt from their room, down the wide corridor and towards the broad, sweeping stone staircase that led to the banqueting hall. The keep was enormous and ancient, and Jaskier could see himself getting lost in these halls later, when muddled with wine and want.

I’m shaving it off myself. Fuck, but that shouldn’t have had such a reaction on him. It shouldn’t have gone directly and thoroughly and inconveniently to his prick. No wonder he’d upped the bet of their stupid wager to include exclusive use of their shared room: in that hot, swirling moment he hadn’t been able to think about anything else.

He regretted that, now. When he won - which of course he would - he had no plans to take advantage of the stipulation. Perhaps by that point in the evening Geralt would have forgotten the exact terms of the wager, or be so deep into his cups he wouldn’t notice when Jaskier returned alone.

The local Lord had put them both up for the next couple of nights in one of his many spare bedrooms alongside throwing a celebratory banquet. It was a symbolic gesture rather than a practical one: it told the peasants and townsfolk - the ones who’d been tortured most by the slyzard’s presence - that he was a kind and generous ruler, keen to thank the man who’d saved them all.

Very generous indeed, to celebrate the witcher - and his bard - in the way typical of his class: with food and wine and dancing.

Not generous enough to open his coffers to provide Geralt with the pay he deserved after such a fight, though. A banquet was all very well and good, but it wouldn’t mend the tear in Geralt’s armour from the pointed tail of the draconid. It wouldn’t restock his spent crossbow bolts. It wouldn’t feed Roach.

Generous, but not generous enough to provide two adult men with separate rooms, either. Jaskier knew , from his own experience at court, that it was a deliberate slight. It said: I thank you for your services, but you’re not important enough for the effort of cleaning two rooms.

It was with a sense of poorly concealed smugness that Jaskier could brush away the intended insult. He’d far prefer to share a bed with Geralt than be trapped beneath the canopy of one to himself, where all he’d be able to think of was the empty space beside him. He’d rather sleep on the floor beside Geralt than in the Continent’s most expensive feather bed alone.

And despite that - despite the fact that he’d rather be pressed against Geralt’s back than anywhere else - he’d still nearly thrown that aside by adding another, more dangerous layer to their wager.

Jaskier didn’t doubt that he’d win - finding someone to kiss him was easy, it was child’s play. But he had no desire to take it much further than that, not tonight.

He remembered with sudden, colourful clarity the moment the slyzard had spun, the spikes on its venomous tail slicing neatly and easily through Geralt’s chestplate, and completely missed the marble step beneath his foot. For a few flailing, falling seconds he was in the air, and then there was a rough grip around his waist and he found himself righted again, the stolid stone beneath his feet.

Geralt peered at him, eyebrows raised. His hand was still wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, and Jaskier’s heart was thundering wildly in his chest, his stomach leaping in a way which he was quite sure was nothing to do with the close brush he’d just had with a rather unpleasant - if anticlimactic - injury.

Neither of them moved.

“You alright?” Geralt said, clearly concerned.

Jaskier rolled his shoulders, willing his traitorous heart to calm, knowing that Geralt could hear it.

“Just… woolgathering,” he dismissed.

“Hmm.”

Finally - horribly - Geralt let go.

They descended the final steps in silence, Jaskier straightening the hem of his doublet as they went.

No, he thought to himself, as they entered the noise and light of the banqueting hall. Tonight, there was only one person he intended to share that enormous bed with.

*

The feast was, as all of these affairs were, marvellous. The food was delicious, the wine rich and expensive, and the singers, while perhaps a little grating to Jaskier’s well-practiced ear, were certainly more than acceptable. It helped, of course, that they kept shooting him nervous little glances. The rest of the room knew who Geralt was - witcher, butcher, saviour - and acted accordingly, often with hesitant awe or fear. But the musicians knew Jaskier. It felt good to be known for his own merit, not just as the man stuck to Geralt’s side.

Not that he was stuck, this evening. He had indulged himself at Geralt’s side for the meal, then as soon as the dancing began - something Geralt had no interest in at all - he had weaved his way through the crowd to win the bet. He’d get it over and done with quickly - a flirt here, a suggestion there, wheedle a kiss when he could be sure Geralt was looking so he couldn’t accuse him of lying, and then he’d be back to Geralt’s side for the rest of the night.

It was probably a bad plan, in truth. Because finding someone lovely and eager would be far better for him than staying beside Geralt all evening and - and fucking yearning. It would be a suitable, if ineffective distraction.

Ineffective because even in the throws of passion - even pressed against a cold brick wall beneath the lips of a stranger - brown hair kept turning white, in his mind’s eye. Blue eyes yellowed. Soft voices turned rough.

He tried not to. He tried to stay in the moment, to focus on the person with him, to lose himself in the softness of their skin and the tangle of their hair. Before, each dalliance was a ballad, each kiss like falling in love. But now… now they were shadows, almost, fleeting and swift.

There were a few who would indulge him. A few who, like him, had someone else on their mind. With them, he could let go, he could pretend. But tonight he wouldn’t need to pretend, and with any luck his courting would be so swift that he wouldn’t have time to sink into what-ifs.

Jaskier peered around the ballroom. It was full of his favourite sort of people - his other favourite sort of people. People singing, celebrating, dancing. People whose concerns rarely looked further than the next day, who had time for things like arts and literature and relaxing. The sort of people who, generally, were happy to be wooed by a bard: especially a famous one.

This would be easy. Just one kiss, and then back to the banquet. Maybe afterwards he’d even have time to get Geralt to dance after all.

*

Nearly two hours later, Jaskier was realising that he may have misjudged. Finding someone was easy enough - but he hadn’t even had so much as a peck on his newly hairy cheek. There was the extremely handsome man who’d reached for wine at the same time as him, brushing hands over the server's tray. There was the willowy older woman, her black hair streaked with white, who’d danced with him twice. There was the lady with the little scar over her eyebrow, who’d laughed at his jokes like spilling water.

But no kiss.

He was dancing with a plump woman from Toussaint with cropped blonde hair, his hand nestled nicely against her curvy waist. She was truly lovely, and as they danced they talked, their feet never missing the mark. It was rare that Jaskier would find someone who could do both at the same time, someone who could match his fondness for chattering. Her name was Margot, and she was complaining in-depth about her mother’s rather overbearing nature.

“You know, she forces me into watercolours and insipid poetry— oh, no offence, of course!”

Jaskier smiled, twirling her. “None taken, ma chérie.”

She blushed prettily. “Anyway,” Margot continued, gripping his hand a little harder. “It’s all very well and good, but I much prefer oils and she’s gotten it into her head—”

They continued to dance, Jaskier sympathising with her complaints about her mother, nodding along as she explained the benefits of oils over watercolours.

“You know,” she said, as the song drew to an end and the dancing stopped, their hands still gripped together, “I’d love to paint you. You’d make a…” she licked her lips, slow and deliberate, and stepped forwards till she was whispering in Jaskier’s ear, “...a fine subject.”

Jaskier was struck with the sudden image of himself, reclining on some plush velvet chaise lounge, paint-stained fingers skimming over his—

“That sounds lovely,” he said, truthfully.

She smiled at him, stepping back. “You know, I’ve got…” She trailed off, suddenly, blinking.

“You’ve got…?” Jaskier prompted, keen to see what she’d say next.

“Oh, I…” she gave her head a little shake, and from the other end of the dance floor the band began to play again. “Nothing! Sorry, totally lost my thread of thought.”

“Happens to us all,” Jaskier grinned. “So, you were saying… about oils?”

“Oh! Yes, I…” She stopped, again. “Um…”

She looked suddenly nervous. Jaskier felt a little guilty - maybe he was pushing too hard.

“How about another dance instead?” He suggested, extending his hands.

“I think…” she took another step back, neatly dodging both Jaskier’s hand and another dancer. “Actually, I feel a little tired. I might go and find somewhere to rest, or head into the grounds for some fresh air…”

“Do you want me to escort you? Or find you something to—”

“No, no. That’s quite alright.” She gave him a quick, apologetic smile. “Lovely to meet you, Jaskier.”

And then with a swish of wine-coloured skirts she was gone, leaving Jaskier alone on the edge of the dance floor.

Odd. Very odd. It had been going so well, too. And stranger still: she hadn’t been the first to leave so suddenly. Perhaps he was going to lose that bet. Attempting not to look like a man who had just been rejected, he grabbed a goblet of wine from a passing server, tugged the sleeve of his doublet and turned on his heel, as if simply observing the room.

Geralt. He was leaning against a wall not too far away, an empty goblet hanging from his hand, watching… watching him. Frankly, Geralt looked miserable, his face set in a familiar stony scowl - and Jaskier suddenly felt terribly guilty for leaving him alone for so long. Geralt hated these sorts of events, and without Jaskier to see off annoying nobles or simpering witcher-fanciers he would have been forced to fend for himself.

Shit. Jaskier had been so wrapped up in their stupid game that he’d forgotten the point of the whole event itself: to celebrate Geralt’s victory against the creature in the mountains. A victory that had been hard won.

He made up his mind at once. No more bet. No more finding someone to kiss. The rest of the night was for Geralt, and if the cost of that was his beard… well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He swung back around, looking for the nice young lady with the wine. She had already moved on to the other end of the room, and by the time he’d chased her down, plucked a full goblet from her tray and squeezed his way through the crowd back to the far wall, Geralt was… gone.

Oh. Jaskier looked around, aware he was rather foolishly spinning like a slow, gaudy top. Perhaps Geralt did want to be alone this evening. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to peer over the crowd. And - there - a flash of white hair and black velvet. He’d only taken one step forwards, when there was a hand on his shoulder and a murmured voice close to his ear.

“Two glasses?” Said the voice, smoothly. “Are you looking to share?”

Jaskier turned, and was immediately met with a pair of deep brown eyes. By the time he’d remembered what he was doing, Geralt had vanished back into the crowd.

~

Geralt stomped down the corridor, moving away from the lights and movement and noise of the banquet hall. It was overwhelming, and he felt trapped despite the size of the room and the breeze drifting in through the huge windows. He’d held on for as long as he could, sticking to the corners and the edges, staying out of the way, but enough was enough.

Jaskier had vanished some time ago, and Geralt had tried - truly - not to think about where he’d gone.

He didn’t care about the bet. He didn’t care about Jaskier’s new beard - he’d get used to it, in time - and it certainly didn’t detract from Jaskier’s…

Jaskier’s everything.

He’d made a rod for his own back by goading Jaskier into the bet, he knew. It felt almost like a kind of self-flagellation, forcing himself to confront what he could never have. He’d asked Jaskier to find someone, knowing that every tender moment or stolen kiss shared with whoever Jaskier chose would only bring him pain.

Geralt had been caught, more than once. He’d caught the eyes of Jaskier’s partner over his shoulder, or bumped into them as they went to fetch a drink, and a single glance had been enough to send them running, Jaskier suddenly alone again.

He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t want to stop Jaskier finding someone - several someones - someone who could love him with the intensity he deserved. But every time he saw Jaskier draw a person close to him, place his hand on their waist, tuck a loose strand of hair behind their ear…

It was like a knife in his back, like eels writhing in his stomach, like poison on his tongue. It made him sick - and so, he ran, hoping that the pain wouldn’t show on his face yet knowing that it did.

The jealousy burned like a brand. Jaskier was not his, he would never be his, but he couldn’t make himself see that. It made him feel lesser, grappling with this emotion that, unlike the rest, he truly couldn’t stamp down. It overwhelmed him, making him irrational, making him—

He didn’t know if the feeling made him more human, or less. But when it overpowered him, showing on his face and in the hard set of his shoulders, it didn’t matter: the pain made him look monstrous, to everyone else.

Geralt wasn’t sure where he was going - just away - trying to walk out this roiling, bubbling energy before it could crush him. He was vaguely aware that the keep had expansive grounds, and if he could find his way through the labyrinthine building he’d soon be out in the cool air beneath the stars, where he could collect himself away from prying eyes.

He turned a corner into a narrow corridor, a huge set of glass double doors to the far end, and was immediately struck by a familiar voice echoing from one of the many secluded alcoves set into the wall.

“—Pankratz, but you can call me Jaskier—”

Shit. Jaskier’s voice was quickly followed by a low laugh. Geralt froze on the spot. He could keep moving, pretend he didn’t know they were there and continue towards the gardens with a quickened pace. Or he could turn and go back the way he came - back towards the banquet hall, teeming with noise and life, safe at least in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be forced to confront any more of his own jealousy.

But his head was already starting to pound, and the hall was hot and noisy and - if he was quick - he could stride onwards and Jaskier and his newly acquired friend would be none the wiser. He could pace the grounds instead of being forced to mingle, making meagre smalltalk while his insides twisted.

He made his decision, took a single, steady step towards the doors at the end of the hallway, and immediately collided with a broad man dressed in a deep red velvet doublet who came tumbling backwards from the alcove, laughing.

He was not laughing when he looked around to see who he’d just fallen into.

“Finn, where’d you—” Jaskier’s grinning face appeared from behind the wall. He spotted Geralt. The smile slid away like oil slicking over water. He frowned. “Geralt?”

The man - Finn, apparently - was a good half a foot shorter than Geralt. He peered up at him with mortified terror and then, without even saying goodbye, shoved around him and ran back towards the banquet hall.

“Finn!” Jaskier shouted after him - but it was too late. He didn’t look back.

“Shit,” Geralt mumbled, watching the man run then turning back to Jaskier. “I was just—”

He fell silent. Jaskier’s frown had deepened, his expression settling into something steely, like he’d just had a realisation.

“Just what?” Jaskier’s tone was acidic - dripping with it - nothing like the laughing tones Geralt had heard coming from the alcove. He felt the sudden urge to take a step back.

“I was looking for the gardens,” Geralt said, feeling like he was on trial - like he was defending himself.

“Is that so?”

“What? Yes, it was—”

“You expect me to believe that, Geralt, Really?”

“What are you—”

Jaskier cut him off. “You fucking…” He stuttered, suddenly furious, “You cheat!”

“What?”

“I didn’t realise my facial hair mattered so fucking much to you, Geralt.”

“I wasn’t cheating—”

“Then what was that about? What was that? Because it looked to me like you were scaring off a perfectly lovely gentleman for no good reason aside from the fact we’ve got a stupid bet on about my fucking beard!”

“Jaskier, I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, don’t try that!” Jaskier was enraged, now, his face flushed, his hair messed around his head. He pointed an accusatory finger at Geralt as he spoke. “I saw you, earlier. After I’d danced with that lovely woman from Toussaint. I saw your face. I thought, oh, it’s just Geralt, I know he’s just uncomfortable at these sorts of things. That’s just how he looks when I drag him to a banquet. I felt sorry for you! But all that time you weren’t just being your usual, awkward, scowly self you were…” he shook his head, hands raised in disbelief, “you were trying to win a fucking bet, apparently!”

Fuck. Geralt knew, horribly, what Jaskier was talking about. He had been watching him dance with that woman - so soft and pretty and gentle, who’d looked at Jaskier like he was made of sunshine, who’d leant in and whispered in his ear. He’d lost himself, forgotten to school his face. His jealousy - sticky and tart - had looked like anger, to everyone else. Like a threat. No wonder Finn had run.

“I know you thrive on being right—” Jaskier was shouting, now “—and you just love it when I’m wrong, but this? Scaring off people who might show me the slightest interest just so you can prove how much of an idiot I am and win a bet? Did you scare off all the others, too? It’s too much, Geralt!”

“It wasn’t about the bet.” It was all Geralt could manage.

“Then what was it about, Geralt? I don’t need saving from a good time, and these are all just… nice people! Nice, normal people! There’s no other reason for you to stand there and brood at them just because— because—”

Jaskier stopped, suddenly, his mouth hanging open. He blinked. His eyes grew wide - even wider than before, reflecting the low lamplight. After a prolonged few seconds, he dragged his gaze up to meet Geralt’s.

“I…” He swallowed, heavily, as if choking something back. “Are you… were you jealous?”

The tiled floor dropped away from beneath Geralt’s feet. The denial was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“No,” he muttered, “No, Jaskier, it’s not—”

“It’s not?”

“I…”

Now he did take a step back, as if Jaskier had transformed in front of him into something to run from. But Jaskier was quicker, like he could tell what Geralt was thinking, and his hand shot out, gripping around Geralt’s wrist and trapping him in place.

“Don’t…”

They stood frozen for just a moment, neither of them moving. Geralt could have pulled back, could have wrenched his arm away easily. He didn’t. Finally, Jaskier’s grip loosened - but he didn’t let go.

“Do you know why I do it?” Jaskier said, quietly.

“... Why you do what?”

“Why I go out there, and look for someone eager and willing to spend a night with me? Or… or an evening? Or just an hour?”

Geralt didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak.

“It’s because when I’m with them, Geralt, when I’ve snuck out onto a balcony or behind a pillar or I’m sitting in the back of some filthy, noisy tavern with someone who’s name I’ll forget in a few days… It’s like someone wants me. And I can…” he finally released Geralt’s wrist, his fingers flexing around nothing, “I can pretend they’re you. I’m always…” he took another breath, and there was a tremor to his next words. “I’m always pretending they’re you.”

“Jaskier—”

“You know,” Jaskier cut him off with a harsh chuckle, “ I thought perhaps I could match quality with quantity. But I’ve not quite been able to get the balance right. You always ...tip the scale.” He looked away, down to the space between their feet, his fingers fiddling with the frilled cuff of his shirt. “Just… you ought to know. If… if you are…”

Geralt’s pulse was thundering, his chest squeezing. His heart was in his throat, making him unable to talk. Jaskier took another step back into the shadowy alcove, and Geralt found himself following, chasing the ghost touch of Jaskier’s hand around his wrist.

“I…” He sighed, and Jaskier glanced towards him. “Fuck, Jask. Yes.”

“Yes what?” It was barely more than a whisper.

He was going to make him say it, Geralt could tell. He steeled himself, digging deep into his reserves, willing himself to talk.

“I hated it. I hate it, seeing you out there with them. Seeing you with them when you should be with—” he cut himself off, aware of how possessive he was sounding - aware of how trapped Jaskier was, the bulk of Geralt’s body blocking the only exit from the tiny space.

But Jaskier didn’t try to escape, didn’t even try to move - just looked at him, watching him with his lip trapped between his teeth, the air between their bodies suddenly smelling of spice and salt.

“With who?”

“With me.”

The scent spiked, and Geralt felt like he was drowning in it - the unmistakable smell of adrenaline and arousal. He growled out a curse - and Jaskier raised his eyebrows, watching him carefully.

“You know,” Jaskier said, leaning against the wall with a cheeky half-smile. “The bet was your idea. You did this to yourself.”

“I know,” Geralt groaned, “I know. I didn’t think…”

“What’s new there?”

“Hmm.” It was supposed to be a noise of derision - a half-hearted signal that Geralt would not be playing along with Jaskier’s teasing - but it came out as a rumble, nearly a growl.

Jaskier made a soft little noise somewhere between a stutter and a sigh. “Geralt, I—”

Before he could say anything else, from somewhere high above came a faraway sound - a bell chiming, an iron-clad, echoing noise. Jaskier frowned for a moment, listening. After a beat, the sound rang out again, and then - suddenly - Jaskier realised.

“Shit, Geralt, it’s midnight—” The bell continued to chime.

“Not quite midnight.”

Again - another low ring.

“Which means I can still win the bet!”

Geralt peered at him, so kissably close. “You could.” Another ring. “But you won’t,” he added, smirking.

Jaskier’s next word - a curse - was muffled by the sound of the bell.

“Oh,” he muttered, his words chased by the chime of the seventh ring, “you bastard.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier spluttered.

“You know—” CHIME “—I’m just going to grow it back right away—” CHIME “—I’m going to grow it even longer, and you’ll be forced to—” CHIME “—put up with it, and I’m going to write a fucking—” CHIME “—ballad about how fucking marvellous it is to have a great big bushy beard, and—” CHIME—

Geralt stopped silently counting, then surged forwards, muffling whatever it was Jaskier had been about to say next beneath his lips. Jaskier melted into the touch instantly, the tirade dropped, and Geralt felt his hands wrap around his waist, tugging him closer. Together they stumbled backwards, colliding with the far wall, and Jaskier swore breathlessly into Geralt’s mouth.

He was keen and wriggling beneath Geralt’s lips, his hands never resting for more than a moment on one spot of his body, searching, desperate. Geralt moved away from his mouth - eliciting a low whine from the bard - placing a row of kisses across his jaw and down his neck, avoiding the contentious beard.

“I win,” Geralt murmured against his skin, nuzzling at his neck.

“Looks like—” Jaskier gasped as Geralt pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his skin, “—looks like you do. What a shame. I’m distraught.”

His fingers gripped tighter into Geralt’s shoulders, digging into the rich black fabric. Geralt wanted nothing more than to finally shrug off the infuriating piece of clothing and feel those fingertips on his skin.

“Shall we go back upstairs?”

“Yes...”

“Good,” Geralt pulled away, only taking a moment to appreciate Jaskier’s reddened lips and his dark, needy gaze. “I’ve just won a bet, and I intend to cash it in.”

~

The banquet hall was slowly emptying when they returned, the musicians quietly packing away their instruments. The Lord was long gone - if he or anyone else had missed their presence at their own banquet, Jaskier certainly couldn’t tell.

They walked in silence back up the stone staircase towards their room, arms linked. Desperate kisses in a hidden alcove were one thing, but neither of them wanted to draw undue attention to themselves by falling into a rough embrace in the middle of the fucking dancefloor. Jaskier felt like his skin was on fire, his body burning, horribly aware of Geralt’s arm beneath his hand, his shoulder against Jaskier’s own. It was too much - and not enough.

When they were upstairs, the only ones in the empty corridor, Geralt finally kissed him again - pressing him against the wooden door of their room, his hands gripping Jaskier’s waist, thumbs digging into the divots of his hip bones. They stayed there for a long moment before Jaskier found the handle, swinging the door open and sending them tumbling both inside.

Jaskier let Geralt maneuverer him backwards till his knees collided with the bed, making him collapse down onto the feather-stuffed mattress. Jaskier could only stare as Geralt stood above him, eyes wide, heart thundering. He lifted a hand, running his fingers across Jaskier’s jaw, cupping the side of his face. Jaskier could feel his face flush, his skin lighting up where Geralt touched him, leaning into his grip.

“Geralt—” It was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and impatient.

“So…”

“Yes?”

Geralt’s fingers dug into his skin, nestling in his beard. Jaskier shuddered. And then, in a swift movement, Geralt was on his knees, pushing Jaskier’s thighs apart and settling himself on the rug between them. Their faces were inches apart, now, and from his position on the floor Geralt was suddenly shorter. That didn’t stop him from surging forwards, though - didn’t stop him from kissing Jaskier again, keeping that firm hand pressed to his jaw.

“You know what we’re going to do now?” Geralt muttered against his lips.

Jaskier whined. He didn’t even mean to - the noise wheeled out of him unbidden.

“Hmm,” Geralt kissed him again. “Where’s your razor?”

It was like a collision in Jaskier’s mind. The unbridled sense of want - Geralt’s urgent kisses and roaming hands and squeezing, exploratory touches - crashed against the sudden image of a blade against his throat, of flashing steel against his skin. Before, when Geralt had set the rules of the bet and insisted that he be the one to shave Jaskier, it had made something new and interesting ignite in him - a spark of something closer to want than fear.

Now, that spark had caught, burning him up.

“It’s—” his breath caught, and Geralt leant back, giving him space. “Ah…” The fluttering in his stomach was replaced with a heavy, embarrassing weight. “About that…”

Geralt’s eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“I don’t… actually… have a razor.” He met Geralt’s gaze. “Anymore.”

Geralt frowned. “What about the one with the carved handle? From Rinde?”

Jaskier tilted his head, dislodging Geralt’s hand. “Well—”

“Oh, gods.”

“The issue is, it broke…”

“Right.”

“And, well, I had the money, but—”

“But you spent it on something else.”

Jaskier risked a cheeky grin. “You know me so well.”

“Hmm.” Geralt placed his hands on Jaskier’s knees. “What did you buy instead?”

Jaskier swallowed, Geralt’s palms hot even through the fabric of his trousers. “New boots.”

Geralt glanced down to Jaskier’s feet, curiously.

“Not those boots. Other boots. The new ones… fell apart. After a week. There was a bit of a downpour in Oxenfurt, and you know how it gets…”

Geralt pursed his lips. No, Jaskier thought - he likely did not know. Geralt was fastidious about his footwear, and would never have reduced himself to buying boots that fell apart the first time it threatened to drizzle.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued blithely on, “No matter. We’ll use yours.”

“I don’t have one.”

“But…” Jaskier frowned. “You’re so…” instead of finishing that thought, he brought his hand up to smooth against Geralt’s jaw, where there was only the slightest hint of stubble. “Or did I get it right?” He said, feeling suddenly wicked. “Can you not grow a beard after all?”

“More like…” Geralt released one of his knees, moving instead to trap Jaskier’s hand beneath his own, held between face and palm. “...there’s no point carrying extra blades with me when I’m on the Path.”

Jaskier’s fingers twitched against Geralt’s stubble as he thought. “Extra blades?” He said, “You mean to tell me, you’ve been shaving with your swords?”

Geralt shrugged, casually. “Or my dagger.”

“Hrnk.” Jaskier spluttered. “I see.”

“Do you?”

“Mmm.”

“Well, then.” Geralt finally let him go, standing again, looming. “Which will it be?”

“Which—”

“Sword or dagger?”

Jaskier could feel his face flush, his ears turning hot. The burning little voice - the little light that had nestled itself somewhere between his navel - was screaming at him: sword, sword! He could imagine it - here in this opulent space, squeezed between Geralt’s thighs, his sword held to his neck. He could already feel how cool the metal would be. How sharp.

His trousers were suddenly tight - too tight. His chemise clinging. His ears rushing.

Geralt’s expression shifted, a little.

“Jaskier, we don’t have to—”

“...Dagger.”

They spoke over each other, words mingling. Jaskier blinked.

“But the bet…”

“Is not as important as your comfort.”

Another rush to Jaskier’s core, another vice around his ribs. Gods, why did Geralt have to be so fucking good?

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said. “I did lose, after all. So I’ve got to… pay up. That’s how a wager works, you know.”

“If you’re sure.”

“It’s almost like you want me to keep the beard, Geralt. And after all that complaining, too…” He grinned, wolfishly, and leant back on his elbows on the soft coverlet with a low hum. “Maybe you do like it after all.”

Geralt looked down at him, eyes dark, and Jaskier grinned, invitingly. He rather hoped Geralt would join him on the bed, bet forgotten, but instead Geralt just leant oh-so casually against one of the sturdy bedposts, arms folded, watching him. Jaskier couldn’t help but squirm under that gaze.

“So,” Geralt said, slowly. “The dagger?”

It was a tease, Jaskier knew, to indicate just how much Geralt truly hated the beard - but it hid a genuine question. If he said no - said that it was a stupid fucking bet and he’d changed his mind and he was keeping the bloody beard - Geralt wouldn’t press the issue, and would likely take him to bed regardless, judging by the dark expression in his eyes.

But he wasn’t going to say no. Not now, now with that little curious spark still flitting in his stomach. He wanted to know what would happen if he encouraged it - kindled it.

“The dagger,” he repeated.

“Good choice,” Geralt rumbled. Then he paused. “Perhaps the sword next time, hmm?”

Jaskier shifted against the sheets, his prick hardening. “Perhaps.”

Geralt grabbed his pack where it was resting against the wall and reached inside, pulling out the blade in its leather sheath. It was a simple thing - a honed steel edge with a leather-wrapped handle, and Jaskier had seen it both embedded in a ghoul’s side and used to delicately slice segments from the last apple, found in the bottom of a bag.

And now that blade would be against his skin. Against his jaw, against his neck. Oh, hell.

As he stepped closer, Geralt flipped the blade in his hand - a neat little twirl that Jaskier had tried and failed to replicate some time ago, before Geralt had carefully taken the knife off of him. Even that made Jaskier’s stomach fill with butterflies, and he was beginning to understand exactly what he was getting himself into.

“So,” he said, cooly. “Where do you want me?”

“Here…”

Geralt gestured towards the large vanity table to the far side of the room. It was a massive, ancient piece of furniture with a huge gilt mirror, the glass alone worth more than the combined worth of Jaskier’s possessions.

“Not on the bed?”

“Not if you don’t want to ruin it.”

Jaskier hesitated. He would actually take no small amount of pleasure in ruining the annoying Lord’s bed, but Geralt probably had it right. He rose, then settled himself onto the thick velvet stool in front of the vanity, looking not towards the mirror, but at Geralt, waiting for his next command.

Geralt watched him, his head to one side. “Take off your doublet.”

Jaskier certainly didn’t need telling twice. The expensively embroidered piece of clothing fell to the floor behind him.

Geralt stalked over, placed the dagger on the lacquered table top then took Jaskier’s face in his hand, twisting it. His hand was hot, fingers pressing into Jaskier’s skin, eyes intent.

“Hmm.” Geralt was working it out, Jaskier realised - calculating angles and methods and execution. Figuring out the best way to finish the job.

To finish him.

Jaskier’s eyes darted to the dagger resting innocuously on the vanity table, the blade still hidden beneath the leather sheath. Geralt caught the movement, looking at him with a curious, intent expression.

“Interesting,” he hummed.

Jaskier frowned. “What’s--”

Geralt cut him off with another kiss, the question smothered beneath Geralt’s mouth. His words melded into a muffled moan as Geralt’s tongue probed against his lips, sliding in, sliding against his own tongue.

Jaskier was about to reach out - to pull Geralt down on top of him, the rickety stool be damned - when Geralt released him - suddenly and horribly - before beginning to move around the room. He grabbed the basin from the corner, along with the jug of water, and brought them both to the vanity. Next he shuffled back to his bag, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a thick looking bar of soap and a scrap of cloth. Clearly, he was going to do this right.

Geralt placed the soap next to the dagger, then filled the basin with water. Jaskier could only stare, heart in his throat, as Geralt worked. He watched as he twisted his fingers, muttering something under his breath, and there was a little flash of heat and flame, making Jaskier jump.

Igni. Geralt was warming the water for him, making sure it wasn’t too cold.

Next, he shrugged out of his own jacket, laying the black velvet doublet on the bed. Beneath, he wore only a pale grey undershirt, thin and simple, and as Jaskier watched he rolled up the sleeves with meticulous care. Jaskier had always appreciated Geralt’s arms, but now, like this, there was a new little twist in his core.

Geralt was rolling up his sleeves like he was getting to work, but for once - for the first time - that work was Jaskier.

When he was done, his tools - such as they were - laid out on the shiny table top, Geralt paused, still standing at Jaskier’s side. He reached out a hand, and Jaskier thought he would grab his jaw and kiss him again, but instead he slid his fingers beneath the frilled collar of Jaskier’s silk chemise, hovering above Jaskier’s skin.

“This is silk…The soap will ruin it. Can I…?”

Jaskier only nodded, unable to do much else. In a lithe movement, Geralt was on his knees in front of him, then reached for the cord at the base of his throat, and tugged.

It didn’t shift.

“Hmm…”

Jaskier peered down at him. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s caught,” he said, edging closer to examine the bow. “It’s knotted, here…”

His breath ruffled the silk, and Jaskier forced himself to breathe. Geralt’s fingers tugged again at the material, brow furrowed. And then - his hands stilled. He licked his lips, and his expression softened into one that Jaskier could only describe as curious. Like he’d just had a sudden, devilish idea.

“Can you replace the cord?” Geralt said, finally leaning back.

“I… yes?”

“Good.”

He reached for the dagger, unsheathing it in a quick, slick movement. The blade glimmered in the orange light as Geralt turned it in his hand, checking the sharpness. Jaskier couldn’t help but track the moment, lip trapped beneath his teeth.

“Can I?” Geralt gestured with the dagger to the tightly knotted cord at Jaskier’s throat.

He nodded again.

Geralt’s hand was soft and gentle against his chin as he tipped Jaskier’s head up, making space. He could feel the tension in the silk as Geralt slid the sparkling tip of the dagger beneath the cord. There was a knife to Jaskier’s throat - Geralt’s knife - and by all rights he should have been terrified, but the feeling just wasn’t there. When the point danced closer to his Adam's apple, the little bite of anxiety - the fear of pain - flared for just a second before being engulfed by desire, mingling them into something entirely new and overwhelming.

And it was overwhelming. Geralt was barely even touching him, but Jaskier’s body was reacting like he was being ravished. He could feel little beads of sweat beginning to trace neat, tickling lines down his spine. The hair at the back of his neck was on end and his cock - so close to where Geralt knelt in front of him - was growing increasingly hard as his pulse stuttered, blood rushing.

Geralt could tell, of course. Geralt could see what he was doing to him, for one, but no doubt he could hear the rush of his heartbeat, too. Jaskier wondered if he could smell it, with his heightened witcher senses. He hoped he could.

There was a moment of stillness. He was aware of Geralt’s eyes on him, gauging his reaction, then - a tug, swift and sure, and the cord split.

He gasped.

Geralt placed the dagger back on the tabletop, then swiftly tugged the cut cord from the eyelets of the undershirt, making it hang open - making it gape. His hands brushed against the skin of Jaskier’s chest, but he only lingered for a second before grabbing the fabric bunched at Jaskier’s side and pulling it up and over his head in a swift, lithe movement, letting it drop to the floor beside his discarded doublet.

“Turn around.”

Jaskier did as he was told - and found he was facing the mirror, watching the reflection of Geralt behind him. Geralt reached down and dropped the bar of soap into the water, rubbing it between his hands into a thickly bubbling foam. Jaskier watched as the suds squeezed between his fingers, spilling softly over his hands.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Geralt’s hands were warm, as was the water, the soap suds not unpleasant against his skin as he massaged them through his beard, across his jaw. Geralt moved around his face as Jaskier watched in the mirror - down his neck, firm but gentle, not quite wrapping around it, and then up and over his mouth. For a moment, Geralt’s palm was pressed to Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier opened them - just a fraction - only the ghost of a kiss. Behind him, Geralt hummed.

When Geralt seemed happy that he was well-coated, he washed off his hands in the basin, dried them off on the cloth and reached, finally, for the dagger. He gave that too a quick wipe using the cloth, then stood back behind Jaskier, the blade in one hand and the other resting lightly on his shoulder.

“You’re sure?” He asked, twisting the dagger around in his hand.

Jaskier met his eyes in the mirror. Geralt’s gaze was dark. Hungry.

“Positive.”

~

The air was hot and thick and close. Geralt’s undershirt was clinging to his skin, and as he looked down at Jaskier he could see beads of sweat gathering at his nape. It was cloying, in the same way the air in the alcove had been, making it hard to breathe - hard to concentrate.

It wasn’t just the heat. It wasn’t just the warmth of Jaskier’s flesh beneath his hands, the sheen to his skin.

It was the smell.

Above the still-clinging hint of food and wine, the unfamiliar scent of someone else's space, and the slightly tart smell of soap was the overpowering smell of Jaskier. Geralt knew what Jaskier smelt like, of course: it was only natural after so many years travelling by his side. That was nothing unusual, in itself: he was a witcher, and scents were as familiar to him as the shape of letters on a page.

He’d grown used to the myriad of smells that eked from Jaskier’s skin - when he was happy, or afraid, or sad - or, as was the case right now, when he was aroused.

But Geralt had never noticed it like this before. He'd smelt it often enough to recognise it, but never quite so intensely. It was honeyed and thick, syrupy in its sweetness, but spiced too, tingling in his throat.

Before, in that little alcove, he’d felt like he was drowning it. Here, in their shared space, the walls closing in: he wanted to. He’d sunk to the bottom of it, inhaling it.

When Jaskier had pulled him from the alcove and back upstairs, he’d been struck with the wild imaginings of all the things they could be doing - all the things they would do, once there were several inches of solid oak door between them and the rest of the world.

Geralt had only brought up the bet to tease him - to see what he would do. But as soon as the words had left his mouth Jaskier’s heart rate had quickened - that intoxicating scent had spiked, minutely - and Geralt had been… curious. He’d tested, in his own silent way - culminating in slipping the blade beneath the tangled knot of Jaskier’s chemise and cutting it away.

Jaskier’s reaction had been instant and unmistakable. And the many and various things Geralt had planned to do with Jaskier were pushed quickly and hotly aside until Geralt found himself gazing at Jaskier’s reflection in the gilt framed mirror, looking at the blade held to the curve of Jaskier’s cheek. His own blade.

It was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome - not if meant Jaskier kept looking at him like that.

He kept his hand steady as he pressed the edge of the dagger to Jaskier’s skin and slowly dragged it down across the soapy hair. Jaskier’s hands clenched into fists and his breath caught in a soft little gasp. Geralt could see, even in the low candlelight, the skin on Jaskier’s arms and the back of his neck erupt into goosebumps.

Even after Jaskier had given him his assent - more than once - Geralt had been worried that this would be a step too far. But from Jaskier’s reaction it was clear that he was perfectly content like this.

Jaskier twisted a little on the stool, self-consciously. Content was perhaps too mild a word for what Jaskier was feeling, right now.

The dagger exposed a soft swathe of pale skin - slightly pink from the friction of the steel - and Geralt leant lower, examining Jaskier’s face to make sure that the skin wasn’t broken, that he hadn’t pushed too hard. It was fine - just a little flushed - and Geralt leant back, satisfied, before wiping the mess of suds and hair away on the cloth.

Neither of them spoke - and Geralt was glad for the silence. It allowed him to concentrate fully on his grip on the dagger, on the pressure he applied to Jaskier’s skin.

He moved deliberately, working out each stroke before he made it, finding the best angles. The first few strokes were easy - but it soon became clear that to finish the task properly, he’d need Jaskier to move.

Softly and slowly, he reached up his hand to the back of Jaskier’s head, carding his fingers through his hair, pressing into his scalp. Jaskier leant back into the touch with a quiet sigh, and Geralt gently pulled his head back until his neck was stretched, giving him better access to the hair that spread up his throat and across his jaw.

Like this, Jaskier was staring directly up at him. His eyes were wide and shimmering, pupils blown. His mouth was slightly parted, the very tip of his tongue pressed to his bottom lip. Gods. Geralt had seen Jaskier flirt and fuck his way across the Continent, and he’d seen shades of that expression pointed towards his many and various conequests. He’d wondered how it would feel, more times than he cared to admit, to have that look turned upon himself.

And now he knew. The heady gaze went straight to his already alert prick, a squeezing pressure building in his core.

Jaskier appeared to be feeling the same - he shuffled uncomfortably on the stool again, and even in the shadows Geralt could see the hard line of his prick straining against the dark red fabric of his trousers.

It would be easy to toss the dagger aside, reach down and grab him. It would be easy to rip that fabric away and tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Or… or Geralt could continue to shave him, drawing him out.

Drawing them both out.

Geralt smiled, feeling a little smug, then began again, the dagger back against Jaskier’s cheek. He took his time, tilting Jaskier’s head occasionally as he angled the blade. He wanted to bask in the feeling of Jaskier’s stare - his heated gaze, boring into him - but he needed to focus lest his concentration slip, along with the dagger. Besides, even though he couldn’t see Jaskier’s expression, he could feel it - and so could the rest of his body.

He shuffled from foot to foot, his own prick pressing uncomfortably to the tight fabric of his dark trousers.

The blade still gripped in his hand, Geralt maneuvered Jaskier’s head again to better reach his neck. Jaskier let out another one of those delicious sighs as Geralt held the dagger against his throat, pausing as he considered the best route to take along his skin.

“Just...” Geralt muttered, “here…”

Geralt slowly dragged the blade up his neck, Jaskier twitching beneath him. He was close to being finished… just—

He tilted Jaskier’s head again, forcing him to look back up at him. He was still sporting a moustache - which alone looked even more ridiculous than the beard had - but to shave it best he’d need to pull the skin taught.

He hesitated, for a moment, then pressed his thumb to the corner of Jaskier’s lip. He could feel Jaskier’s breath playing against his skin, hot and needy, so he pressed harder - pulling Jaskier’s mouth open. Jaskier sighed and then - with a cocky half smile - licked his lips, his tongue brushing lightly against the pad of Geralt’s thumb.

Fuck.

Geralt hummed, the sound vibrating from his chest. He was achingly hard in his trousers, and as Jaskier leant back he nudged into him, the sudden pressure maddening. Jaskier smirked.

If Geralt wasn’t careful, he was going to spill into his smalls like a fucking teenager. He moved the blade up, watching as Jaskier’s eyes widened, then used the very tip of the dagger to scrape away the hair above his nose in small, gentle strokes. He was so nearly done - so nearly undone - but there were still little patches of hair on Jaskier’s neck and chin, and he wouldn’t leave a job half finished, even if it left him reeling aftwards.

“Nearly there,” he mumbled, releasing Jaskier’s head and locking eyes with him in the mirror. “But we’re not done.”

Jaskier confidently held his gaze. “Are we not?”

“Not yet.” Geralt placed a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. His naked skin was warm beneath his palm - invitingly so. “This way…”

He needed to reach the final little patches of hair, and there was only one way to get reliably close enough to do so. He positioned himself in front of Jaskier, then sank swiftly to his knees. Jaskier parted his legs, letting him in, and Geralt slid between them - one hand pressed to his thigh and the other still holding the glimmering blade.

Geralt tried not to look into Jaskier’s eyes - clouded with want - and instead reached up to cup his jaw once more as he slid the dagger over the final hairs. He smoothed over Jaskier’s chin, his neck, below his nose, around his lips, moving ever-closer.

“There.” He could only whisper it, his thumb pressed to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, his lips brushing against his jaw. “Done.”

“How…” Jaskier’s voice caught, and he licked his lips - the tip of his tongue dancing once more against Geralt’s skin. “How does it look?”

“Better.” Geralt dropped his gaze, letting his eyes linger for a long, deliberate moment on the unignorable bulge between Jaskier’s legs before looking back up. “Much better.”

And then he couldn’t hold it back any more. He dropped the dagger to the rug then surged forwards, pressing a hot, desperate kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier gasped against him and Geralt pushed closer, shuffling forwards on his knees. Jaskier matched his movements, wriggling towards the edge of the stool and opening his legs wider, wrapping them around Geralt’s middle in a rough, warm grasp. Geralt moved his hand down Jaskier’s body - over his jaw, down his neck, skirting against one of his stiffening nipples and then around his waist, sliding into the small of his back. His skin was soft and pliant beneath his hand and Geralt couldn’t help but squeeze - eliciting a shudder and another small groan.

Pleased with the reaction, Geralt lowered his lips, dragging them across Jaskier’s jaw then burying them in his newly shaven neck, nuzzling into the skin which he knew would now be sensitive and tingling. Jaskier arched against him and he smiled against his skin - lips teasing, tongue tasting.

“So...” Jaskier gasped, breathless, “you, ah. You prefer me clean shaven, I take it?”

That was only half true. Geralt did prefer Jaskier without the beard - even now, he maintained it looked ridiculous - but that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why he was so desperate to touch him, wasn’t why his cock was aching for him.

“Hmm,” Geralt growled, unable to stop himself, “I prefer you like…” he bucked forwards, grinding himself against Jaskier’s stiff prick. Jaskier squirmed. “... Like this.”

“Ah—” Jaskier stuttered, “You could tell? I mean… of course, now you can, but…”

Ah - he was talking about the dagger. About the knife to his throat.

“You hesitated,” Geralt said, slowly. “I thought you were scared, but… that wasn’t it at all, was it?”

“No,” Jaskier admitted, “But… I didn’t realise. Until... quite recently, in fact.”

That was news. Geralt had assumed this was something Jaskier had indulged before, judging by how eager he was to have the dagger pressed to his skin.

“How recently?”

Jaskier appeared to be thinking. He pressed another kiss to Geralt’s mouth, then trapped Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth with a little tug. There was no force in the world that could have stopped the whine that escaped Geralt’s lips.

“Quite.”

“Ah, Jask—”

“You know,” Jaskier silenced him with another kiss, tangling his fingers through Geralt’s hair, sending shockwaves down his spine. “I’m glad you scared away those others. Even if you didn’t mean to,” he added quickly. “I’m very glad.”

“Hmm…” It was easy to ignore the still-swirling guilt when Jaskier was kissing him - when he was tugging at Geralt’s hair. It was clear - clear by the keenness of Jaskier’s lips and his prick pressed into Geralt’s stomach, why he was so glad. “Who knew you’d be so happy to lose a bet…”

“It’s not just the bet, Geralt. Not just… whatever that delightful thing you did with the dagger was.”

“No? What about… the others?”

“The ones you chased away?”

Geralt mumbled an assent - he didn’t want to think about Jaskier’s potential lovers, or his own behaviour towards them, even if it was accidental.

“I didn’t want any of them,” Jaskier breathed against him, voice suddenly quiet. “Not really. I wasn’t going to… I didn’t want to bring them to bed, bet or not bet.”

“You didn’t?”

“Of course not.” Jaskier paused. Geralt could feel his heartbeat flutter like a trapped bird where his fingertips rested in the divot of his neck. “There’s only one person I want, Geralt.”

Geralt felt his own slow pulse stutter, his stomach twist. He pulled away, to better look into Jaskier’s eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier leant forwards, resting their foreheads together. “Even if he’s a jealous bastard.”

Geralt couldn’t help but laugh. For all he wanted Jaskier, for all the desire swirling in his chest, he grounded him, too - brushed away some of those darker moments of self-doubt when he trod the line between what he was and what others assumed him to be.

“Although I must say,” Jaskier continued, “I hadn’t really been anticipating… all this. With the, ah… the shaving. And the dagger.”

Geralt laughed again. It seemed impossible. “How many times have you had a knife pulled on you, Jaskier?”

Jaskier sniffed. “...a few,” he confessed. “But you’ve never done it before.”

Geralt’s heart squeezed. “And that changes things?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Jaskier grinned against his lips. “I am,” he said, his fingers digging into Geralt’s skin. “That’s why you love me.”

Oh. The air was sucked from Geralt’s lungs. He hadn’t thought to say it himself - hadn't thought it would be something Jaskier would want to hear, especially when the evening had been fueled by lust and jealousy and building, burning want. But Jaskier had said it for him, and hearing it come from Jaskier’s lips made Geralt realise just how true it was.

Jaskier froze beneath him, going utterly still, and the heady smell of arousal suddenly grew tart and lemony with fear.

“Shit,” he said quickly, “that’s not what I—”

“Jaskier.”

“I mean, I didn’t—”

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

Geralt’s hand slid upwards, over his face, tilting his head. He kissed him again, moving slower now, trying to make him see.

“It is,” he whispered.

Before Jaskier could respond, Geralt wrapped his hands tighter around his waist and in a swift movement rose to his feet, lifting Jaskier fully from the little stool. It felt right to hold him in his arms like this - like he should have been doing it for years. He suddenly remembered the other term of their bet - the compliment that Jaskier had insisted on, if he won.

“That,” Geralt muttered into Jaskiers shoulder, teasingly, “and the fact that you’re… what was it I had to say? Devastatingly handsome?”

Jaskier shuddered against him with a muffled laugh as Geralt lowered him down to the bed. The thick feather mattress sagged beneath them as he lay Jaskier down, leaning above him, his arms pressed to either side of his face. He looked - gods - he looked beautiful, like this, kiss-bruised and keen.

Jaskier stared up at him, expectantly. Waiting.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed, his chest rising and falling in waves. “Looks like I will be needing the room tonight after all.”

Geralt’s chest squeezed, all anticipation. Slowly, he leant down, feeling the mattress sag even more, until their lips met in a soft, lazy kiss. He smiled.

“Would you bet on it?”

[sixteenth-days]

heavy lies the head

(So I saw @pine-storm-season's empires!scott post and then blacked out and wrote 1200 words, so uh,, enjoy? Warnings for body horror, blood&injury stuff. It's also on ao3!)

He has a headache.

At first, Scott puts it down to stress. It’s not like he’s been exactly having the most anxiety-free time lately- looming threat of eternal winter and all- and lack of sleep. He doesn’t get a lot of rest even at the best of times, not when new buildings and bridges and towers are always building themselves up in his mind, making his fingers itch to make them real. This is far from the first time he’s given himself an exhaustion headache, though it does feel like one of the worst yet.

So he rolls his eyes and rubs at his temples and goes to bed early, reluctantly. Drags a pillow over his head, because it’s still too bright outside, and the light hurts his eyes. Drifts off, uneasily, to sleep.

He dreams of gold and white, and gold and white and goldandwhiteandgoldandwhiteand light-

When he wakes up again, he feels like he’s dying.

Pain is hammering at his head. It feels like some maniac is driving nails through his skull, drumming in time with his frantic heartbeat as he curls up into himself, gasping into his pillow and smelling blood. His room is dark, still; he can’t see. He’s dying. He must be dying.

He brings a hand up, clumsy from sleep and disorientation and pain, and he feels something sharp and slick, wet metal beneath his fingertips. There’s blood on his hands. There’s blood on his pillow.

His first thought, dizzy and disoriented as the dark room wavers back and forth in front of his eyes, is that he’s been stabbed. Some idiot Assassin’s Guild member had come in the night and stabbed him and now there’s a knife in his skull and he’s bleeding out into his bed and he’s going to die. He hasn’t died yet.

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t died yet.

He wraps a shaking hand around the spike of metal stabbed into his head, and- it’s not a knife, it’s shaped all wrong, pokes at his hand instead of slicing his palms open, and something about the shape of it is familiar even though the haze of pain and panic- and he pulls.

The world goes white.

Pain blooms out of the aching spot in his skull, lighting the ends of all his nerves on fire and chasing all the way down his spine. He might be screaming. He hopes nobody is near enough to hear- people will talk, ha-

No, wait. Help. He needs help. He doesn’t- he hates to admit it, but he needs help. From anybody. Gem has magic, she might have something to help- Katherine, Shubble, anybody-

The stars fade out of his eyes and he can more or less see again, the dim room fading back into focus. He can see the unlit lanterns; the long, moonlit shadows. The blood is dark and obvious against soft white and teal sheets- it’ll probably look like a murder scene in here, come day. He’s still not entirely sure it isn’t.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, slow and cautious, and then claws himself the rest of the way up to sitting, bracing himself against the bookshelves in his headboard. His balance feels off- his head feels too heavy, almost, tipping to one side and then the other.

He sits for a moment, and just tries to breathe, holding himself as still as possible to try to forestall another wave of blinding pain. It doesn’t come, and he relaxes, just a little, letting a shaky breath out.

The headache’s died down enough for him to move a little, at least for now, so the next order of business is to try to stand. He only needs to get to the rookery. It’s not far. He takes a deep breath, levers himself up and out of bed. Every step seems to take twice as much effort as usual, when his balance is all skewed and every muscle feels wrung-out and shaky.

He makes it almost to the top of the stairs.

The next snap of pain comes without prompting or warning, stabbing into either side of his skull and driving him to the floorboards immediately. He hits the floor hard, and the world narrows down to nothing but his breathing and the grain of the neat wood planks filling his field of vision. He can’t lift his head. The world is going fuzzy and indistinct around him.

His eyes slip shut, maybe.

The next thing he’s aware of is that there’s someone else in the room. He can’t see them, through the darkness and the pain, and his head is swimming incoherent, but there’s a hand on his shoulder and someone is murmuring something in an awful, too-familiar voice that he knows and that he’s never heard before.

Whoever they are, they’re almost gentle as they half-carry him back to bed, and when he sinks back down into bloodstained pillows, unconsciousness comes as a blessed relief.

When he wakes up again, it’s morning. He doesn’t know which morning. He feels like he hasn’t moved in days.

He doesn’t hurt anymore. His bed looks like a massacre scene, dried blood flaking off his hands and stained into his sheets, but the pain’s all gone, like it was never there. He feels… fine. A little warm, even. It should be a relief, but it’s almost not- after the wracking intensity of the pain, there’s something disconcerting in itself about the absence.

His head is still heavy.

He doesn’t want to reach up to feel it, so he doesn’t, but-

He needs to know, regardless.

He slips out of bed, ignores the bloody footprints on the floor, crosses the room to the wardrobe. The imbalance is still there, but he’s already getting used to it. He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

He pulls the wardrobe door open before he has a chance to think better of it, and looks in the mirror.

He’s not really surprised by what he sees, somehow. He’d had a sinking sort of suspicion- can’t even pin down when it started, whether it was when he reached up to his aching head and found blood and metal or when he first laid eyes on Xornoth, or even before that.

Xornoth had obviously been changed, warped by the power he held. Of course. It made sense. No mortal could act as a conduit for a god’s power and come away from it unscathed, no matter how strong they were.

The antlers are solid and gold, glittering in the midmorning sun, splattered with dried blood from where they clawed his way through his scalp. He moves his head a little, and feels the heavy weight of them shift, pulling at his skull.

Alinor’s antler crown had fit him perfectly, he thinks, and he can almost laugh about it.

The metal feels smooth and warm beneath his fingertips, when he reaches up to touch it, humming with life. He feels a little sick, a little overwhelmed.

If this is what it means to be a champion, he’s not sure he wants it.

But it’s too late now, isn’t it?

Are his eyes brighter than they were yesterday?

[amysteryspot]

Don’t know how to stop - Thomas Shelby x Fem!Reader

Prompts: 40. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you.”; 69. “What do you want me to say?” + "Don't Know How to Stop" by Halestorm

Requested by: @sighonahurricane

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Changretta!Reader

Summary: “Or what, Thomas?” she interrupted him, defiance in her eyes as she glared back at him. “We both know you won’t kill me. You want revenge, want to see me suffer or you would have already killed me that night at the warehouse, in front of my father.”

Warnings: Smut/NSFW/+18, mentions of violence, swearing, there's a very brief implied reference to rape

Word Count: 2510

A/N: Not even going to try and find an excuse as to why this is longer than it should be, all you need to know is that I was in the mood. I absolutely loved to write this, but I'm feeling anxious about what you all are going to think of it. Really hope that you like it. For reference, reader is a Changretta and this is set between season three/four. Feedback is very much appreciated as always.

(Y/N) = Your Name | (Y/N/N) = Your Nickname

English is not my first language and this wasn’t proofread by a beta.

If you want to be tagged in my stories, just send me a message.

She had been the one that faced the Devil. Down on her knees in front of him, begging for her father’s life as he held the knife to her throat.

“One life for another,” she had offered, fingers curling into the fabric of his waistcoat. “You can have me. Do anything you want with me, just spare his life.”

The deal had been made that night, for reasons that Tommy still couldn’t understand, even after all these years. He wasn’t even sure if he had really considered the possibility of killing her, despite the rage clouding his mind at the time.

Vicente walked free, dragged out of the room in tears, at the expense of leaving his daughter behind, a prisoner of war.

Tommy confined her to the guest wing of Arrow House. He didn’t want to see her and be reminded of the reason why he slept in an empty bed now. It was easier to ignore her existence if he didn’t have to see her every day.

His son had other plans though. Somehow, Charlie found a way to escape his nanny and ended up finding (Y/N). Tommy knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into his son’s room to find it empty. It was safe to say that he was seeing red as he climbed down the stairs, calling for Mary and asking about the whereabouts of the nanny and the baby.

The door to her room hit the wall with a loud bang that startled both the women in there and Charlie, who was all curled up in (Y/N)’s arms.

Tommy looked at the nanny, ordering, “Take Charlie back to his room.”

She did as commanded, quickly, even though the boy didn’t seem very pleased with the idea of leaving (Y/N)’s arms. Tommy walked straight up to her, grabbing her tightly by the jaw, and almost lifting her from the ground.

“You don’t get to talk to him. You don’t even look his way or else…”

“Or what, Thomas?” she interrupted him, defiance in her eyes as she glared back at him. “We both know you won’t kill me. You want revenge, want to see me suffer or you would have already killed me that night at the warehouse, in front of my father.”

His hold on her had gone lax but he still kept his hands on her.

(Y/N) continued, “The boy came to me, I’m not going to blame a child for sins that aren’t his.”

Tommy observed her in silence for a minute. The rise and fall from her chest, the way both her hands were circling his wrist, how she didn’t show any sign of fear even though the imbalance in power was evident. He let her go, leaving the room without another world, only to be haunted by the image of her in his dreams.

“Are you going to kill her or fuck her?” Polly’s voice got him out of his trance.

He looked up at her but did not answer, because he didn’t know what to say.

Polly continued, “Because these are the two available options with you. You are either going to kill her or you’re going to fuck her. Considering that you are mourning, I would bet on the second, or you would have killed her already.”

She took a drag from her cigarette, taking her time in exhaling the smoke, before saying, “You men start wars because of your uncontrollable ego, and in the end, is always the women who pay the price of it.”

In the end, both Polly and (Y/N) were right. He didn’t kill her. His aunt’s words have made him realize something better to put a definitive end to this war between them and the Italians: a wedding. What could be worse for Vicente than having to marry his only daughter to a Shelby?

After a year of mourning, Thomas married (Y/N) Changretta, sealing the pact she had made with him for good.

They slept in separate rooms at opposite ends of the corridor. Since she was his wife now, Tommy had to get used to the idea that Charlie would have to be around her, or people would get suspicious. He had never been one to care about what people thought of him, but sometimes it was easier to maintain the appearances than to go against the norm.

If Tommy was worried about having to see her more often now that they shared the same corridor, he was wrong. (Y/N) was like a ghost. He rarely saw her outside of brief encounters whenever he was at home at the time the meals were served, the occasions when he found her in Charles’s nursery, or when she had to accompany at events.

On those occasions, (Y/N) was the image of a perfect, dutiful wife. She was well mannered and educated, making it easy for her to hold conversations with the most different people. Her charm and beauty helped her, and Tommy was surprised at how good she was at making people believe that their marriage wasn’t a sham.

His family and the staff of the house knew better though—all (Y/N) was was spoils of war.

They were surprisingly civil to each other, posing for the public eye as the perfect couple and avoiding each other like the plague at home. When they met at home, occasionally, a polite conversation could end up in a fight. Except for that night when Tommy found Charlie in (Y/N)’s arms for the first time, their arguments never turned physical.

Until one night when Tommy was especially pissed off by something business-related and ended up pressing her up between his body and the wall of her the drawing-room.

(Y/N) had never backed away from a fight, never showed any signs that she was afraid of him. But that night, that night the way she flinched when he touched her and the look of pure horror on her face as she looked at him, made Tommy let go of her immediately.

As he watched her ran away from the room, Tommy realized what must have crossed her mind, and the mere thought of it made his blood boil. The glass of whiskey that was on his desk exploded in a hundred pieces on the wall, before he retired to his room, plagued by the sight of her running away from him.

He tried to be more careful around her after that, always seeking some kind of consent from her before getting too close or touching her. Tommy would never force her to have sex with him, not for revenge, not because she was his wife.

They crossed the line from civil to friendly at some point, maybe after she sassed him because of Lizzie in front of the whole family, making everyone laugh, but he was not sure. What he did know for sure was that he started to see her as more than someone who was there because of a casualty of war somewhere along the way.

It was hard to ignore her after that. It was hard to ignore the beautiful woman navigating the corridors of his house, playing with his son in the garden, handling the staff, helping with the business. It was hard to ignore the woman he tried to avoid for so long, the woman he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He wasn’t sure at what point he had started to consider the idea to fuck her, it just happened. One night, after they arrived from a gala, fighting about something that Tommy didn’t even remember anymore, they fucked against the vanity in her room.

After that first time, it all went downhill. It was like getting high for the first time and then not being able to control the need to take another hit. (Y/N) was warm, soft, willing, and available, and Tommy decided that he wasn’t going to deny himself or his needs searching for other options when he had her right there.

Things escalated quickly and they developed some kind of silent agreement, another deal. During the day, they acted like old acquaintances, respectful, and civil to each other. But after dawn, they would seek each other out, drowning together in a desire that seemed to have no end.

That had been a long time ago, so long that he didn’t remember how it was not to have her around. Long enough for some unrequited feelings to show up.

He did his best to ignore the guy talking to (Y/N). They were hosting a dinner at Arrow House, the man talking to her was some rich bachelor from London that was being a little too friendly to Tommy’s liking. He downed the whiskey in one gulp and noticed Polly watching him, but his attention is quickly drawn back to his wife.

At the end of the night, after all the guests either left for home or to the guest wing and all that is left are the Shelby’s at the parlour, Tommy revels in the feeling of (Y/N) sitting beside him, reclining against the arm he rested behind her shoulders. From the other side of the room, Polly looks at him and smiles, like she knows something that he doesn’t.

It happens the week after the gala. They’re both getting ready for a family meeting. His room became their room, unofficially, because her things were scattered all over the place—her perfume and jewelry on the bedside table, dresses on the wardrobe, lingerie on the drawers, even the sheets smelled like her.

“Tommy,” she exclaimed in a reprehensive tone, as he pressed himself against her back, arms sneaking around her waist and preventing her from running away as his lips trailed down her neck. “What are you doing?”

“Giving some very due attention to my wife,” he answered, casually, walking them both closer to the bed.

“In broad daylight?” (Y/N) gasped, something between surprise and a protest, although she was doing very little to resist his advances.

“Want to see you,” he stated, before turning her around to kiss her.

“Your family is downstairs waiting for you,” she warned against his lips, breath uneven and fingers clutching onto his shirt.

“My family is downstairs waiting for us,” he corrected, nibbling her earlobe and smiling because of the sound she made. “Let them wait. They’re probably too occupied drinking, anyway.”

Any pretense of resistance from her part vanished when Tommy started to unbutton her dress. He was desperate to feel her skin against his, to taste her, and be inside of her. When they were both finally naked and pressed against each other on the bed, it felt like some kind of miracle.

Tommy drank her in, from the blush on her cheeks to the way her toes curled when he touched a sensitive spot on her body. All the scars, the birthmarks, the dips and curves, the softness of her skin, the heady taste of her on his tongue, and how wet she could get for him. He wanted it all, needed all of her.

He was tired to fight against it, tired of pretending that this feeling gnawing on his chest was something else.

“(Y/N/N),” he breaths against her skin, the feeling of her short nails scratching his back driving him crazy. “I love you.”

Her eyes open to stare right into his, something between surprise and uncertainty on her features. Tommy kisses her, gripping her tights a little harder to dive deeper into her.

The whimper of need that comes out of her lips makes him wild. All he can think about is how she feels, how good she feels, how right she feels. Here, underneath him, crying out his name, welcoming him into her body, scratching his back as the both of them get lost in pure pleasure.

All it takes to make her unravel is for him to press the engorged nub at the apex of her thighs. (Y/N) comes undone and brings him down with her, just a few trusts later, her walls milking him from his orgasm, his seed taking place deep inside of her for the first time in a long time because they were too lost in each other to care.

One more time they pretended, dressing in silence and walking down the stairs as nothing more than acquaintances. If his family suspected of something, they didn’t show it.

The meeting went uneventful, as planned. (Y/N) found a way to sneak out of the parlour before him and when Tommy went upstairs to his room—their room—he found it empty.

Sighing, he made his way to the other end of the corridor. He knocked one time, before letting himself in. (Y/N) was sitting in front of the vanity, taking the pins out of her hair. She was already dressed to sleep, the silk nightgown revealing her legs and a bit of the lace underneath. Their gazes met through the mirror as Tommy closes the door behind him.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I love you.”

(Y/N) takes a deep breath, still not turning around to face him.

“Tom…”

“We’ve been dancing around this for too long, it’s time to face it.”

She sighs, a hand running through her face as she says, “What do you want me to say?”

He is in her in a heartbeat, pulling her up and pressing her against the vanity, just like the first time they had sex. Tommy takes her face in between both of his hands, nose brushing against her as he mumbles against her lips,

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Tom, I can’t. We can’t,” she protests, weekly, eyes closed and hands holding his wrists.

“A little too late for that because I don’t know how to stop this.”

“Your brother blinder my brother, Tommy. Your wife was killed because of that. I’m only here because you wanted my father that and I made a bargain with you. How this is supposed to work. What people will think?”

“Fuck what people think. We are already married, (Y/N). What happened, happened. We can’t change it. But this thing between us, this thing is real. I’ve denied myself that long enough, not going to keep pretending anymore. I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time now and I know, I know that you feel the same, so stop fighting against it and say it.”

Tommy’s lips brush against hers as he repeats himself, half plea, half command, “Say it.”

“I love you,” she whispers, eyes closed tightly as if the words will be less real if she can’t see him.

“Say it again,” he commands, nose bumping into hers while his thumbs caress her cheeks.

“I love you.”

“Again,” the sound is music to his ears and Tommy just can’t get enough of it.

(Y/N) opens her eyes, looks him in the eye, and professes, “I love you, Thomas Shelby.”

He smiles, for what feels like the first time in years, and confesses, “I love you too, Mrs. Shelby.”

.

Taglist: @stressedandbandobessed7771 @internalmess3 @theshelbyclan @giowritess @captivatedbycillianmurphy

[statticscribbles]

Mission Pt 1: Backlog

Summary: A Peggy/Reader/Bucky, Reader is another winter soldier, Bucky was left in charge of you

You wake up and everything is black, you can feel the cold creeping in and you wish for the before. You squint against the light and can hear screaming and gunshots far off. The man standing in front of you holds a gun towards you; you nod and grasp it, moving out of the box they usually keep you in.

“Fuckin’ hell they didn’t say you were a woman.”

“Orders?” You ignore his questions and wait for him to say what he wants. He explains how you need to follow him and make sure he doesn’t get killed. 

“Accepted mission. Where is the end point?”

“End point? Uh, my hotel room.” You nod and follow him out. He screams as you drag him back to the wall and shove him through a door.

“Safe in room, wait.” You return to the main hall and pick off the agents searching for the man. You know they don’t expect you to have a new handler yet so they enlist you for help. You lead them back to the room shooting them when they peer through the doorway. You step on the bodies as you reach for the man.

“Sir, Come out. It’s safe now.” You tug him over the bodies and move towards the entry way. You press him towards the car, and he stumbles over his nerves as you shove him in the back seat.

“I am not being driven by a woman.”

“Then we walk.” He grumbles but settles into the back seat as you start the car. You drive in silence for a while before the man tells you his hotel address. You pull up to the building and can see most of the people in familiar clothes. You nod to the man and as he gets out he beckons you forward.

“To my room, those were your orders.” You tuck the gun away and nod moving in front of him to lead him towards room 304. You can tell you unnerve him although you’re not sure if it’s because you’re a woman or because you just killed ten people. You step over into the rooms threshold and nod to him as he enters it. You turn to him when he closes and locks the door.

“New Orders are-“ You shoot him through the stomach.

“My orders before you were to kill you, thankfully your mission did not interfere with superiors.” You nod and step over his body before aiming the gun at his head and firing. You begin to make your way back to the base but a smell wafts around you and you find yourself captivated by it. You follow it and find yourself standing in front of a diner. You catch a glimpse of your reflection and decide that there’s no blood anywhere so you can afford to stop in and eat real food, with the emergency money Commander gives you. You order a burger fries and a milkshake and the woman who takes your order smiles at you. You can hear the door opening and another person walking in.

“Hey there English, can I get you the usual?” You don’t look up but assume the woman’s nods form the scrape of the chair you hear next. 

“Any more leads on that old case? I’ve seen you pouring over the files, who was she anyways, she can’t have been that important to the SSR otherwise they’d have everyone looking for her.”

“You’re smarter than everyone gives you credit for, she was a very good friend.” You frown at the voice. You’ve heard it before, you’ve heard her before. You searching through your old missions and as you finish you burger the waitress worriedly fusses over you.

“You’re crying, are you sure you’re alright miss.” She hands you a tissue and you wipe your face with it. Clutching it you nod.

“Fine, just a bad memory is all.” You try to smile but the other woman is suddenly peering at your face.

“Y/N?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name, I’ve been told I have one of those faces.” You smile awkwardly and glance up to the clock. It’s only been an hour; you’ll be able to make it to the safe house long before sunset.

“I’m sorry, are you sure you don’t know anyone by that name.”

“I wish I could say otherwise but I don’t know anyone named that.” You stand and excuse yourself, wringging your hands as you know she wasn’t asking the right questions. You make it to the safe house and Commander ushers you in fretting over you.

“What happened?”

“Target requested a mission, but it didn’t interfere with the orders to eliminate him, just extended the mission. He’s dead, in his hotel room.”

“You smell like grease..”

“ He decided to get food with me. I had a milkshake.” Commander frowns.

“And a burger and fries..”

“You’ll have to burn that off before we put you back in cryo. You know the rules about eating on missions.”

“It would have been suspicious to refuse..” Commander nods.

“Let's go train then, you haven’t beaten me in years.” Commander laughs and lets you charge first. You’re twisting yourself back and fumbling to grab at the knife you dropped as another agent scampers forward.

“Commander, a new mission..” The agent shrinks back when they see you panting holding the knife in front of yourself protectively.

“Thank you Jason, well, looks like you’ll be going into cryo for a while then… They want to work on improvements with other subjects, but they’re allowing me and my team to keep you in peak health; we’ll be waking you every few years to re-feed you and keep you up to date on the world. They said it should only take a decade or so to complete.” You nod and pocket your knife before following Commander down to the basement. You tense in fear as the cryo pod comes into view and you shrink back as the door hisses open.

“Come one, you know this has to happen eventually. Go on. Make it easier and choose to sleep.” You swallow and nod skittering around the edge before clumsily climbing into the open door. You peer up to see the Commander smiling down at you.

“You’ll be okay Y/N, you’ll be okay.” You feel the cold and you’re not sure if you nodded back before everything goes back to the dark before.

Commander looks no different than when you went back in, but you’re brought to a small table in the basement that wasn’t there before. You notice their limp as you settle into the chair.

“Your leg?”

“Nothing to worry about, just age. Now you’ve been out for five years, so this is everything that’s happened.. We also have some clothes and music for you to examine as well. If needed you can be brought out to the town nearby.” You nod and begin to read the notebooks and newspapers that the agents have gathered for you. You look up the stairs as a knock on the door sounds. A male agent comes down holding a tray.

“Average meal of the week. Eat it.” You can tell he’s afraid, you’re not sure if it’s of Commander or you. You nod and eat the food mechanically.

“This is a chicken pot pie, it’s a simple easy dish to make, we could cook it if you want.. We have a week till you go back in. You’ll need to train and use some updated weapons.” You nod. Commander gives you the quilt that you’ve been told to sew. You add a few squares of fabric from the old dresses and clothes your wore. The new wardrobe you won’t wear is folded nicely in the closet. You wonder when the quilt will be finished and you secretly hope once it’s done they’ll let you keep it. Commander lets you work on the quilt for an hour before you’re brought up to the kitchen to learn how to make a chicken pot pie. You learn what and how to fire and dismantle an Uzi within the next two days. Once you have your knives strapped to your arms and legs Commander hustles you towards the town. You wish for the combat clothes you normally wear, but tuck yourself into the massive winter coat anyways. You’re tense and paranoid in the strange town, it hasn’t changed much but you long to go to the city nearby and look for the diner. Commander asks if you want to go to the city tomorrow as you seem to be able to handle the crowds of the town. You try to hide your excitement but can’t help the warmth in your smile. You wake up from the cot you’ve been sleeping on to hear shouting and a gunshot. You keep your knives close but stay curled under the blankets and coat from the wardrobe. You huddle curled under the coat tucking your body as close to yourself as you can get. You can hear footsteps rushing around the rest of the house and you can hear the door slamming to the basement and you tuck yourself under the coat fully. You hear men shouting and all the papers on the table being thrown around. You can hear them ripping the clothes out of the wardrobe and tossing them over the coat you’re tucked under. You hear stray gunfire and then the footsteps telling you they’ve all left the room. You peek out as you hear another set of footfalls. You can hear the limp as they stomp down the stairs and the worried face of Commander stares at you before hustling you over to the cyro’s open door.

“You have to get in now, we need to transport you to New York, it’s the safest place for you. Get in.” Commander shoves you forward into the pod, you turn around and see blood covering the doorway as it’s closed over you. You fall into sleep before you can question if the blood is your own.

You wake again to Commanders face. There are gray hairs are slowly creeping over the brown you’ve grown accustom to. You’re not sure why you’re expecting his hair to be longer.

“You’ve been out for fifteen years. Come on Y/N, time to get up, you’ve had enough beauty sleep. A lot’s been happening.” You stumble out of the pod and swipe your hand through your hair.

“We’ll have to give that a trim, it’s getting long again.” You nod and move towards the table you see in the corner.

“We’re in New York city. Still a basement, but that’s safest right now. Shall we get down to business? Quilt first, it helps with your motor skills and helps your body adjust to being out of the pod.” You’re handed the quilt and given twice the normal amount of fabric to add, you settle into the new armchair and start sewing.

“There was a space craft launched, and a new president, as well as Winston Churchill’s funeral, in addition to two men going into orbit, and a massive civil right’s movement. There’ were some amazing movies and musicals produced. And my favourite part of this year so far is that sixty-six of those nazi’s got life sentences in prison.”

“Busy year then?”

“Oh! Germany’s been divided by a wall as well, that happened a few years ago. You don’t need to know any of that though. I’ve woken you up because you have a mission. Here is everything you need to know about it, you have two days. It shouldn’t take you that long though.” You nod taking the black book from her hands you scan over the information and go to the wardrobe to find clothes to wear. You like this year; the clothes while not terribly loose seem to be long enough to conceal more weapons than previous years. You slip you knives against your skin and hum in time with the sound of the metal. You depart the safe house for the first time in a decade. You giggle at the thought. You’re walking through the streets and find the building easily. You walk through the doors and slip past the secretary  and up the two flights of stairs. You’re scanning the door numbers when a young woman approaches you.

“Excuse me can I help you?”

“Yes I’m looking for Mr. Phillips office I have a three pm meeting, and I’m terrified I’m late.” The woman smiles and leads you to a large door where she knocks and shoves you in with a wink calling out to Mr. Phillips’ that his three o’ clock is here. You smile shyly and notice another woman sitting in a chair.

“I should get going then. Sir, I’ll see you later.” The woman stands and as she breezes by you tense. She keeps her eyes straight ahead and you can tell she gasps as you tell Mr. Phillips you name is Y/N. You’re not sure if that was a reckless move, but within the hour Ms. Peggy Carter is the only one to remember. You’re sitting outside a familiar diner, cleaning one of your knives in the back alley before you start your way back to the safe house.

You slip into the house without knocking and you ready one of you knives dragging the tip against Commanders arm as it’s draped over the arm of the couch.

“You’re late, stop by to get a burger again?”

“No just to clean up, lot’s of blood.”

“Blood?”

“Yeah the orders on the paper were to kill Mr. Phillips..”

“After we got information out of him! How the fuck are we supposed to get information out of a dead guy!”

“I can get it I swear!” You stumble back as Commander lunges forward from the couch, gun gripped with white knuckles.

“You fucking better! Get out and don’t come back till you have all the information!” You scramble back to the headquarters and mumble an excuse about forgetting your purse. You shift through as many of the files as you can; folding and stuffing the papers into the bag you slipped under your skirt. You huff and finish emptying the file cabinets against the back wall. You hear footsteps approaching and sigh as you crawl onto the fire escape the slip into the alley. You return and throw the bag towards the chair Commander sits in.

“Thank you. I’m sorry for being harsh but that would have ruined the mission. I won’t punish you like the rest of the agents want me to. But if they ask I shocked you for a while.

“Of course.”

“You’ll have to go back in now, the mission is finished.”

“But I could help you look through the files.. or I could-“

“Y/N, you have to go back in. no arguments, go on. I’ll be down in a second.” You’re seated at the table scribbling in the margin of the notes you’ve been given to learn. Commander comes down the worn steps, the limp all the more obvious and you take a moment to truly look at Commander’s appearance. 

“Commander, your hairs long, we should trim it…” you laugh weakly.

“Come on, to the pod. In a minute though, I need to tell you something first.” You nod letting commander hold out the quilt to you.

“We’ll let you finish this, I’ve left instructions for your next handlers. When you go into the pod this time, I wont be here when you wake up. You’re going to be asleep for a long time, but you’ll be okay.” Commander smiles at you. Now is as good a time as any to ask.

“Commander, did I ever go on a mission with anyone named Peggy Carter, I keep remembering her but I’m not sure if, it’s all fuzzy..”

“You’ll remember her as you sleep, you’ll remember what happened to us. Now, Y/N, go to sleep.” You furrow your brow biting your lip.

“Goodnight Commander.”

“Bucky.” He smiles and kisses your forehead.

You can hear two people arguing as you wake up, you make a point not to move but another man’s voice say’s your heart rate is increasing. You try to keep yourself calm but you can feel the panic creeping in. He comments again on your heart rate accelerating and you open your eyes to realize the door to the pod is still closed. You slam your hand against it and it pops open. There are three men in front of you and two other people behind them that you can’t see.

“Did none of you read the instructions?” You watch as they’re expressions shift.

“Instructions?”

“Yes, look they’re right here. Commander, oh.. Here.” You hand them the piece of worn paper and you grasp at the quilt.

“I need to sew more on this, it helps with my motor skills.”

“Of course.” One of the men hands you the sewing kit and smiles softly. You nod back. You finish stitching the clothes you last wore and you look up as the group read the instructions.

“So it say’s here we give you all these notebooks, you read them, and we ‘take you out for current time activities’ which apparently is normal stuff people do every day in this time period..”

“What’s the year?”

“2018” A woman steps from behind the men.

“Peggy!” You jump forward clinging to her. You can vaguely hear one of the men cursing and another woman stands next to Peggy, she gentely pulls you off her.

“You changed your hair it looks so light? Did you get bleach to do it, is there a secret mission?”

“My name’s Sharon, Peggy was my aunt.”

“She died? But I never got to tell her I was okay..”

“You knew Peggy?”

“Yes, she was my friend, and I worked with her on some of the missions..” 

“Y/N?”

“At your service!” You beam at the man who walks down the stairs.

“Wow, you’ve changed quiet a bit since I last saw you, the hair looks good.” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“You knew me when I was Winter?”

“Of course, we only went on a few missions but your team liked to brag about you to my team. They called you the fist and went on and on about all your missions, they just called me Y/N..”

“Y/N?”

“Yeah, number 56327. If you want to be more specific..”

“Oh. Oh god, I’m so sorry I didn’t..” You hold your hand up smiling.

“It’s alright. Nothing came of it.” He nods and moves you away from Sharon. You tilt your head at the other woman. She raises an eyebrow at you and steps closer. You step backwards and Bucky laughs.

Support My Writing?

[jawabear]

If you are doing requests right now can I request either 15. “It’s just a scratch” “you got stabbed” “it didn’t go that deep though” or 16. “Oh well! Thank god they missed anything vital! It’s not as if you lost a ton of blood or anything” with either Javi or Frankie? Only if you have a chance to get to it. Thank you so much! I love your writing!

Germany 2012 (Frankie Morales x Reader)

Not my GIF

A/N: Once again, I’m so sorry that this took so long Anon! But I hope you like it! I went with Frankie because I had this idea for a while and I haven’t written for him in a bit. I hope that’s okay. I have no idea how the army works so it’s probably in correct and notice how I didn’t really used a lot of Tom because F that guy. Readers code name is “Wolfgang” don’t ask me why, I just like it. But it doesn’t play a massive part so you can read it as something else if you want :) hope you enjoy! Sorry for any mistakes. Stay safe.

Genre: angst, fluff, smut

Warnings: fem!reader, injury detail, stabbing, violence, guns, usual army things, mentions of a fear of heights, body self doubt, smutty things, but it’s Frankie so it’s soft

Summary: a mission in Germany back in 2012 set the beginning for their relationship after an unfortunate event

Bullets were flying everywhere from both sides. The men they were after greatly outnumbered, six against what they gather to be 15 or maybe more. All heavily armoured and holding machine-guns that seems to have infinite ammo.

The mission had started out normal for them. An easy recon mission. All they had to do was check the area to find the guy that was dealing in Illegal weapons trading, only to enter if it was clear. As if they were going to follow that, regardless of if it were clear or not they would still go in to look for the guys, find out the information about who he is selling to and then proceed to kill him. But things quickly turned south when one of the guards spotted Santiago as he got into position. The guard had run inside the house yelling that there were intruders and then the shoot out started.

“Fuck, we’ve got to get to higher ground to take these guys down! From this cover we can’t shoot them, we’re to low down” Redfly said down the radio.

“Any one see an vantage point?” Santiago asked.

(Y/N) looked around and spotted a sturdy looking tree to her left, if she could climb it and find a good branch she could take them out easily with her sniper to allow them in. “I’ve found a tree” she reported through her radio “I can get up there and take them out”

“Do it Wolfgang” Ironhead said, she knew that he had nodded but obviously she couldn’t see it.

“Wolfie, you sure?” Catfish asked as he grabbed her arm, stopping her from leaving.

She smiled at him and nodded “I’ll be fine Cat” she assured him “cover me”

“You got it” he nodded, releasing her. He continued his shooting and she ran over to the tree he had spotted. She examined it for a moment and began climbing it to perch on the thickest branch she could spot. She lost her footing a few times which strained her wrists as she gripped at its rough bark. She ignored the scratches on her hands and aching in her wrists as she pulled herself up into the branch.

She pulled her sniper from her back and held it in position looking down the scope and lining it up with each member of the gang they were after. Bullet after bullet she shot and they dropped like flies to the ground. “Nice shooting Wolfgang” Pope complimented. She could hear the branch below her crack the longer she stayed there, she tried to pick up her pace but the cracking was starting to worry her.

“The front is clear” (Y/N) spoke down the radio “Redfly, Benny, you’re good to make your approach” she said.

“Making our approach” Redfly told them.

“Cat, Pope, you’ve still got a few ahead, I’ll try and take them out but-“ before she could finish the brach broke out from under her. She was quick to grab the smaller brach above her, her legs gripping the thick truck of the tree “shit” she muttered.

“Shit? Wolfgang what happened?” Catfish asked frantically down the radio.

“The branch snapped” she looked down, she was quite the way up. Her heart pounded against her chest. In all the action she hadn’t realised how far up she really was. She was scared of heights. “Fuck” she panted, her voice shaky as she tried to pulled herself up. She suddenly felt faint, her hands sweating. She managed to pull her self up into the other branch, she grabbed another one above her and tried to steady her breathing as she scoped the men who were still blocking the path for Pope, Catfish and Ironhead. But she couldn’t help but think of how large the distance from the ground to her was. Her hands shaking, she struggled to get a clear shot. “G-guys, I can’t get a clean shot” she said, her voice still shaking “I’m-I’m to h-high up”

“Don’t worry Wolfgang, we got it” Benny cut in. Multiple gun shots were heard and she guessed that the last of the guards on the outside had been taken down.

“Pathway clear, heading into the house” Pope confirmed.

“(Y/N), stay where you are” Cat’s soft voice came through her ear.

“O-okay” she stuttered with a nod she knew he couldn’t see.

He was soon standing at the bottom of the tree “(Y/N), jump” he ordered as he held out his arms.

“Are you crazy?” She questioned him.

“Trust me (Y/N), I’ll catch you, I promise” he assured her. She swallowed thickly and looked down at him. It was such a long way down. She regretted climbing up that damned tree. She gripped the branch tighter in her hand “(Y/N), I swear to you. I’ll catch you”

She took in a deep breath and tried to drop her self down a little bit so the jump wasn’t as high but as she made her decent her foot sleep as she lost grip of the tree and fell. She let out a soft scream as she fell, but she fell against something soft, something that definitely wasn’t the ground.

(Y/N) opened her eyes that she didn’t realise were closed in the first place. Her face pretty much pressed against Frankie’s who lay below her, his arms securely round her waist “I told you I’d catch you” he smiled to her.

“Are you okay?” She asked him softly, her hand brushing a few leaves out of his hair.

“Yeah, are you?” He asked in the same tone, his eyes flicking between hers.

“Mhm” She hummed as she nodded.

“Alright guys, enough playing around, get in here” Pope’s stern voice came in their ears.

The two laughed softly and she rolled off him. They both stood and made their way into the large house. They all regrouped in the large living room that was completely empty, they made sure she was okay and she assured them that she was.

“No cars have left since we got here and we knew he was here. He’s not among the dead so he has to be in here somewhere. He’s clearly hiding” Ironhead summarised the game plan “find him, secure him, we get the information and we take him out”

“Right” everyone nodded and went their separate ways throughout the house being careful not to make a sound.

The floors seemed to creak loudly due to the silence through out the large house, one small noise seemed to echo in every room. She gripped her pistol tightly in her hand as she scanned every room she passed, making sure to check for any off looking areas or enclosed spaces that he could be hiding in.

She made her way into what appeared to be one of the many bedrooms. She looked under the bed and between the sheets, and he wasn’t there. She looked inside the walk in wardrobe and he wasn’t there either. There was another freestanding wardrobe on the other side of the room. She thought it was strange and cautiously walked over to it, but he wasn’t there either. She let out a huff and turned to walk out of the room but then see heard wood scraping across the floor. She turned sharply and saw their target emerge from behind the wardrobe.

Before she could reach for her gun she head the flicking of a knife and the target charged at her. (Y/N) was a master in hand-to-hand combat but she was too caught of guard to gain her composure and fight back. The knife went straight through her side making her groaned.

As he charged at her, his shoulder rammed right into her chest knocking her back wards but she instinctively grabbed hold of him pulling with words to her and she stumbled backwards into the landings barrier. Breaking through the weak wooden beams, the two tumbled down to the floor below them, she landed on an awkward angle, her arm was definitely out of place but she tried to ignore it.

She managed to flip them over and climb on top of him. (Y/N) held him to the floor her hands wrapped around his neck and her knees trapping his arms, the knife long forgotten back upstairs.

“Guys, I got him” she spoke through the radio “by the door”

“Coming to you” Pope said.

She heard footsteps racing towards her and they all appeared, guns at the ready “nice job Wolfgang” Redfly complimented.

She got off him and pulled him up to his knees, Benny got behind him and tied his hands being his back. (Y/N) stepped away for a moment, she placed her hand on her side where the knife had cut into her, she knew it wasn’t going to kill her but it certainly wouldn’t do her any good if she left it bleeding out. She grabbed a bandage from her belt and lifted her shirt slightly, the others were too busy with the interrogation to notice her injury. She hissed in pain slightly as she wrapped the bandage around herself. It was at this point that she began to realise the pain in her arm. As well her wrists from climbing the tree. She grit her teeth and jumped slightly at the gun shot. A body hit the ground.

She looked at saw the Redfly had put a bullet in their targets head, none of them seemed bothered so she guessed they had got everything they needed. She pushed herself off the wall and stumbled a little bit.

“I think we’re good to go” Pope announced with a nod. Everyone else agreed and they soon left the house and made their way back to the large car they had arrived in.

She tried to hide her pain on the drive back but she could feel her blood seeping into the bandage and spreading. Her head fell back against the car and her hand went to her hip “You okay there Wolfgang?” Benny asked, Frankie snapped his head in her direction.

She lifted her head and gave him a soft smile “Yeah, I’m fine” she assured softly. She lifted her hand seeing it was stained red with her blood “just a scratch”

“That’s more then just a fucking scratch (Y/N)” Frankie stated firmly. He carefully lifted her shirt seeing it was almost black with blood, most of it drying already “Santiago, we need to hurry. (Y/N)’s hurt” he spoke down the radio to the driver.

“Right, on it” Santiago agreed.

“I’m fine Frankie” she strained, she jolted back slightly when his finger traced over her wound “I’m pretty sure it missed anything vital. It didn’t go that deep”

“Oh well! Thank god they missed anything vital! It’s not like you’ve lost a ton of blood or anything. Not like you’re going to bleed out here is it” he retorted sharply making her feel more guilty then she already did. He grabbed her hand and held it firmly against her side in hopes to slow the bleeding.

It didn’t take them long to get back to the safe house they had been assigned to. Frankie lifted her into his arms bridal style and brought her into the house, placing her on the sofa and lifting her shirt up further.

Ironhead took his place, taking over with cleaning her wound. All the others could do was watch. “Why didn’t you fucking say anything?” Benny asked angrily.

“By the time I realised we were already fucking leaving” she said back to him. A lie of course.

“But you had enough time to bandage yourself up!” Santiago yelled “you should’ve fucking said something”

She didn’t respond to them, she pressed her lips together and looked away from the to Will who had finished up with bandaging her now clean wound “luckily, you’re right. It did miss anything vital. You’re going to be fine Wolfie” he assured her.

“Thanks Will” she thanked him with a soft smile. She went to push herself up but used her damaged arm and it sent her right back down to her back. She whimpered and hissed at the strange pain that shot through her arm.

“What is it (Y/N)?” Frankie panicked as he came to her side next to Ironhead.

“I landed on my arm when I caught the bastard. Fell from the second floor to the first” she explained through gritted teeth.

They carefully pulled her up to a sitting position and Frankie ran his hand over her shoulder lightly feeling that it was dislocated. “We got to push it back in place” he said.

“Oh fuck” she sighed. The two boys swapped sides. Will put his hand onto her shoulder and Frankie grabbed her hand giving her something to squeeze when Ironhead popped her shoulder back into place.

“You ready?” Will asked her.

“Just do it” she said, her grip tightening on Frankie’s hand.

“Alright. 3...2...-“

“Shit!” She groaned out as he popped her arm back into place.

“There” Will said “should be back to normal now, just try not to move it to much for now”

“Thanks Will” She thanked him again. Always thanking him for something. She looked to Frankie and gave him a soft smile and released his hand. She stood, she looked to Pope and Benny who stood looking away from her, “I’m going to take a shower” she announced quietly as she left the room. She held her side as she walked down the hall into the bedroom she had been staying in the past two nights.

It was dark by the time she had showered, taking her time due to her injured arm and side. She hand re-wrapped the bandage around her side and began putting her clothes on when the door opened and Frankie walked in. He quickly backed out when he saw she was just in nothing but a pair of shorts. Luckily, her back was too him. His face was bright red. She let out a soft giggle and pulled on a loose fitting shirt before walking to her door and opening it.

“Hey Cat” she smiled. He jumped slightly and turned to face her.

“Sorry (Y/N), I should’ve knocked” he apologised.

“It’s okay” she chuckled and waved off his apology. She stepped to the side and allowed him into her room, closing the door behind him.

“How you feeling?” He asked her as he sat on the foot of her bed.

“Alright” she shrugged as she sat beside him “as good as one can feel after they’ve been stabbed” she laughed.

“I’m sorry for the way Santiago and Benny spoke to you earlier. And...I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you. We were just...scared. Scared that it could’ve turned out a lot worse then it did”

“It’s okay Frankie. I know they didn’t mean anything by it. I know you didn’t mean anything by it either. All of you were just looking out for me, and I greatly appreciate that. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I thought I had it sorted..”

He rested his hand on her bare knee. “You shouldn’t have gone up that tree, you know you’re scared of heights”

She nodded “I know” she admitted “I guess...I was just so caught up in everything that...I just didn’t think. And I feel like I fucked everything up. Getting stabbed, dislocating my arm...falling out a fucking tree...”

“You didn’t fuck anything up” he told her “you got him. No mission is perfect, no one leaves without injury. Remember last time? Santiago crushed his ankle, we had to carry him back, but we got through it”

“Right” (Y/N) managed a small smiled “still, I’m sorry...” she rested her hand on top of his. He flipped his hand over and interlaced his fingers with hers “thanks for catching me” she looked at him, their eyes meeting.

“Of course, I’ll always be here to catch you” he whispered to her.

“Frankie...” she whispered back to him. They slowly leaned closer to each other and soon their lips were touching. She squeezed his hand and lifted her free hand to his cheek.

The kiss was sweet but it didn’t last long. They both pulled away from each other but their foreheads still touching. “(Y/N), I think we’ve been doing this silent dance for a while now”

She smiled at him and giggled “I’m glad we both acknowledge how terrible we are at hiding our feelings” He laughed at this. She bit her bottom lip and looked at him through her lashes “could we..maybe...” she ran her hand down his chest.

“Yes” He said all to quickly “but..I don’t want you to think-“

“I won’t think anything Frankie” she assured him with a soft kiss “we both acknowledged our feelings. And we both want this...right?”

“Yes (Y/N)” he nodded. She smiled and kissed him again. He removed his hand from hers and began working himself out of his jeans, sliding them down his legs and kicking them off. She pulled back from him and moved onto the bed. He stood and pulled off his shirt, dropping it to the ground. She bit her lip again as her eyes raked over his body. He was perfect.

She noticed how his chest was dotted with scars, reminded of missions. Most of them she could also remember, one of them was when he decided to be a human shield for her, jumping in front of a bullet that could’ve killed him.

He crawled onto the bed above her and kissed her again. Her hands found their way into his hair and gently tugged on the strands keeping his head against hers. She hummed against his lips and his tongue dragged across her bottom one. She opened her mouth and their tongues danced together. He ultimately won over her and his wet muscle explored her entire mouth, claiming it as his own. He then pulled back from her lips and trailed his kisses down to her neck. But she didn’t want that, she wanted to taste him more.

She pulled at his hair, his head leaving her neck and he smirked at her before pressing his lips to hers again. His rough hands slipped under her shirt and ran up her body, behind careful to miss her injury. He gently grabbed her breasts in his hands and she moaned softly into his mouth. His thumbs ran over her nipples and she whimpered. He was then quick in pulling of the shirt and tossing it to the floor.

She prevented him from leaving her lips, her eyes squeezing shut, she didn’t want him to see her. She wasn’t exactly proud of her body. She couldn’t see any beauty of it. “Baby,” he whispered against her lips “why won’t you let me see you?” He asked.

“It’s nothing nice to look at” she mumbled.

“Please...” he whispered, barely audible. She swallowed and released him from her arms. He pushed himself up to his knees. Now it was his turn to gaze on her body. He ran his fingers lightly over the few scars she had picked up in her career. Given time, he could probably recall how she got each and everyone. “You’re beautiful (Y/N)” he whispered down to her “so beautiful...”

He placed a gentle kiss to her lips and then moved his mouth to her nipples, bringing her left into his mouth while he rolled the other between his thumb and index finger. “Fuck Frankie” she whimpered “god, it feels so good to be touched again”

“When was the last time someone touch you like this (Y/N)?” He asked her, his lips trailing down her body, placing warm kisses over her stomach.

“M-maybe, about five years ago?” She guessed, she couldn’t really think straight. She had dreamed of having Frankie like this with her, and it was so much better then she ever imagined, she didn’t want to think about any of her past lovers, none of them mattered to her, the only person that mattered to her in that moment was the man above her who was loving every inch of her body.

“Well,” he muttered as he brought his lips back to hers, his fingers hooked under her panties and toyed with them for a moment “we can both end our five year streak” he smirked.

She nodded quickly and he slid back down her body, pulling her panties with him. He held her legs open before she could even try to close them from embarrassment. “You’re already wet” he commented with a smirk. She covered her face with her hands and let out a soft groan “baby,” he said softly as he pulled her hands from her face “let me see that pretty face. I want to hear every noise that comes from that pretty mouth” he placed her hands in his hair again and hooked his arms around her thighs.

He brought his mouth down to her wetness and nudged his nose against her a few times before dragging his tongue between her folds. She let out a moan as her head fell backwards “fuck” she whispered. He licked her slowly again and again. Each time she would have the same reaction but her eyes slid shut as she sunk into the feeling.

“You taste so good baby” he complimented “so delicious” she loved the way he looked between her legs. Licking her wetness as if she were his favourite flavour ice cream or something. As if he hadn’t eaten anything in years, five years.

“You feel so good baby...” she hummed as she dragged her fingers through his hair “making me feel so good...”

“Let me make you come” he mumbled.

“Yes...please” she whispered. He pushed his mouth against her and sucked harshly on her clit, his tongue throwing it side to side. She moaned and panted with every flick of his tongue, his hips rolling against his mouth. He removed one of his arms from her thigh, she whimpered when she felt one of his thick fingers press against her hole “F-Frankie” she stuttered, he hummed and slipped his finger inside her “fuck Frankie” she moaned and gripped his hair. He began pumping his finger in and out of her “wh-What fuck what if the g-guys h-hear?” She panted.

“They won’t baby, they’re drinking outside” he assured her, as if on cue a loud laugh erupted from outside. He slipped another finger into her and curled them inside her.

She groaned loudly and rolled her head back biting her bottom lip “oh baby” she moaned “I’m so close..”

“Hmm...come for me, Mi amor” he enticed her, his tongue attacking her clit. Her grip tightened in his hair, holding his mouth closer against her.

“Fuck fuck fuck” she cursed, her walls clenching around his fingers, his hips stuttering against him as she let out a shaky moan.

“So good...” he mumbled “so fucking good baby” her chest was heaving slightly as he pulled his fingers out of her, he lapped his tongue up her a few times. He moved his face from between her legs and trailed his lips up her body, this time only kissing her scars, his lips lingering on each mark. Frankie moved his face back to hers. He slipped his wet fingers into her mouth and she happily sucked on them while holding his wrist. “You’re so beautiful...you look so good after you come...”

“You made me feel so good..” she mumbled against his fingers. He pulled them out of her mouth and replaced them with his lips. Her hands came to rest on his cheeks “I want to feel you inside me baby...”

He nodded and she rolled him onto his back, climbing on top of him. She moved down his body and pulled down his boxers and threw them to the floor. She almost drooled at the sight of his length and how it was already dripping with pre-come. “Oh baby...” she whispered. Her tongue slid out of her mouth and licked over the tip of his length.

“Fuck...(Y/N)” he gasped. She took his length into her hand and began stroking him while sucking on his tip. “Baby, fuck, baby please...I just want to be in you” he begged softly.

She released him and straddled his waist. She positioned his length at her hole and slowly sunk down onto him. They both groaned at the feeling. Her hands were flat on his chest as she began to steadily bounce on him. “You feel so good Frankie...” she whimpered. He gripped her sides, just above her hips as he was weary of her injury.

“Shit, so do you baby” he groaned “so fucking tight”

She rolled her hips against him and he let out a loud groan. Her pace began to pick up and her nails dug slightly into his chest. Her breath came out in heavy pants, she took one of his hands and pulled it up to her throat. He slightly tightened his hand around her and a smile formed on her lips “so dirty” he growled “you like having my hand wrapped around your perfect neck baby?”

“Yes” she whispered, she groaned and gripped at him. He could feel her walls clenching around him, the squeeze made his head spin. “I’m going to come again...”

He flipped her so she was back on her back and he began to pound into her. She grabbed his wrist and choked out a moan of his name. He grunted with every thrust into her. “Make me come again...make me come around you” she panted breathlessly.

“I will baby, I’ll make you scream” she shivered at the deepness of his voice.

“Yes..” she whimpered. He slipped his free hand between their bodies and began to rub harsh circles on her clit “fuck!” She yelped, her back arching up, her chest hitting against his. “Fuck, fuck Frankie!” Her walls were pulsing around him, her face flushed red and her eyes beginning to water. “Fuck-I’m coming!”

“Yes baby, come for me” he grunted to her. Her nails dug into his wrist as she came, her head being thrown backwards. But his relentless pace didn’t stop, if anything he went faster. Tears began to slip from her eyes at the overstimulation and the lack of air in her lungs.

“Come Frankie, please come inside me” she whimpered. He thrust into her a few more times and released inside her, his hot come shooting into her.

“Fuck” he grunted. His hips stilled and he removed his hand from her neck and she drew in a sharp breath. His face fell into her neck.

She hummed, a smile on her face, her fingers gliding through his hair as he breathed heavily into her neck “a great way to end a five year streak” she giggled he just nodded to her “worth the wait...”

“Definitely” he mumble. He lifted his head from her next and placed a heavy kiss to her lips that slowly got softer as his breath came back. “Do you think..” he began, running his hand up and down her side “we could make this a thing?”

“Having sex?” She asked

“Well yes, but like...us...together”

“Together?” She smiled “you want to be with me?”

“Yeah..I really like you (Y/N). I think you’re amazing. You’re so beautiful and strong and you hold us all together. And I know that maybe it’s not a great time to get into a relationship but..I’m willing to try if you are”

She pulled him back down for a kiss and rolled him over so she was back on top. His arms wrapped around her waist and gently held her on top of his chest “I really like you too Frankie” she said as she stroked his cheek “I think we can make this work...I want to make this work...”

“I want to work too...but...we’ve been friends for years, I don’t want this to ruin it. Like, if something happened between us, I don’t want it to ruin our friendship”

She nodded and kissed him again “I can understand what you mean. Hopefully, nothing does happen to us, but if it does, I don’t think I could live without you in my life regardless of if we’re together or not. You’re my best friend Frankie, I think we can do this”

“I hope so. I’ve wanted to be with you for ages baby. I’ve wanted to hold you like this, feel you like this, I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first day we met”

“Please kiss me” he smiled and laced his fingers into her hair to hold her lips against his. Both of their hand now rested on his cheeks. She shifted slightly and felt his length move inside her. She giggled “I forgot you were still inside me baby”

“Me too, I was wondering why I felt so warm” she sat up but he desperate chased her lips by sitting up as well, his hands flattening on her back and kissing her again. “I never want to stop kissing you”

“Can you at least pull out of me?” She laughed. He groaned and shifted under her and pulled his length out of her letting out a harsh breath as he did. “Do you think we should tell the others?” She asked him, she rolled off him and led in her side, he too rolled over on his side, propping his head up on his hand.

“We probably should...” his eyes looked down her body and his hand grabbed lightly at her side, running his thumb over her skin. “But..I don’t know how they’ll take it. There are rules against this right? About dating within the army...”

(Y/N) hummed in agreement knowing he was probably right “How do you want to play this?” She asked quietly.

Frankie looked to the door of the room and thought for a moment. “Which ever way allows us to be together” he began before looking back to her “that’s the way I want to play”

04/02/21

Taglist: @linkpk88 @phoenixhalliwell @lunaserenade @harrys-stan (let me know if you wanted to be added to or removed from the list)

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Wrath and Rage

Wrath x reader

Word Count: 1762

Summary: Wrath already had a queen when he was summoned to Emilia’s side. Needless to say she wasn’t happy about his absence. 

Note: He’s hot, and I had a plot bunny. don’t worry about it

You didn’t bother to hide the laugh that bubbled up from your throat at what your husband just told you. “So you got spooked and dropped your knife, is that it?”

Those golden eyes of his seemed to glow with irritation as he looked over at you. “Well, I don’t exactly want humans to know I’m around, now do I?”

This time you scoffed. “If some little witch managed to figure out that she’d just laid eyes on Prince Wrath himself based on that teensy little interaction, I’d want to meet her and shake her hand.”

“But the knife--”

“Is no indication of who you are on its own, and you damn well know it.” You slid your hands down the front of his shirt, fingers deftly opening it button by button. “Relax, my darling. You’ve been running around like a chicken with your head cut off about this whole Pride thing for so long. I’ve hardly seen you in weeks.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”

You did. The trips never took very long at all, after all, but you still missed him. Before this it’d been centuries since he’d been away from you in the human world for any real length of time. “Be that as it may . . .” You slid the shirt off of him and allowed your fingers to trail down the golden snake on his left arm, a mark that had an exact twin on your own skin. “All you have to do,” you kissed that shoulder, “in order to keep Pride’s whole search,” this kiss was to his neck, “a secret,” jaw, “is get it back before the little witch does anything stupid.” That last bit was whispered next to his ear.

Then his lips were suddenly on yours, as demanding as ever as he shoved you against the wall. He tugged at the laces to your pants while his lips moved to your neck.

“See what you miss when you’re--” your teasing voice cut off when the heat of his body suddenly disappeared, “gone.” You opened your eyes. Sure enough, Wrath was nowhere to be found. Anger flared through you, its presence making the shadows writhe around you.

The only reason he would leave like that would be a summoning, something out of his control. And the only person dumb enough to summon a prince of Hell would be that. Fucking. Witch. Rage, the emotion your power stemmed from, swelled throughout your body.

She will pay for this.

~

Little did you know that in the human realm, your husband was thinking something similar. 

The combination of Emilia’s staring and the searing mark that’d appeared on his normally-clear arm set his teeth on edge. It shouldn’t be possible, a second betrothal spell in addition to the already fulfilled one he had with you--willingly, he might add--; yet there it was. Moon-shaped and clashing with his color scheme.

Still, he didn’t let on to what it truly meant. Odds were good that it wouldn’t amount to anything anyway, especially if he had a say. And if it did . . . Heaven help the woman that had to face the ire of the Queen of House Wrath.

~

In your time spent forcefully separated from each other, you and Wrath found yourselves weaving a complicated web to end this stupid endeavor in your favor, not the way Emilia wanted. And as soon as she agreed to marry Pride, your victory was sealed. Hours before that, when he’d died in the human realm, Wrath explained fully what had been going on since the messengers that’d been frantically flitting between you two could only convey so much, and you’d spent the time planning the final pieces of this battle of wits.

And enjoying each other’s company, but that was neither here nor there.

When it came time for Wrath to retrieve her, you lounged on the bed as he dressed, crown and all. “You can’t kill her when we return,” Wrath was saying while you watched him.

Your eyes moved to stare hatefully where their mark of betrothal used to reside. “I am aware,” you bit out.

“Are you?” There was an evil little smirk on his face when he turned to look at you. “Because your shadow seems to have other ideas.”

Sure enough, when you glanced down you saw that your shadow seemed to be holding a knife. Always the cause of your bad poker face, that thing. With a flare of gold in your eyes, you brought the shadow back under control, and it resumed being a silhouetted version of you, nothing more. The frown that’d been on your face since this mess started though, that stayed stubbornly in place.

Wrath took that as his cue to sweep closer elegantly, fingers trailing lightly down the golden body of the snake on your arm. “I swore to you the day we married that no one would ever come between us, did I not?”

“You did.” And Hell if your voice didn’t sound sullen despite yourself. You wanted to be unbothered by this. Truly, you did. But it was just so . . . unsettling to hear that someone had (however ignorantly) tried to steal him from you.

His free hand drifted over to grab the crown that still rested on the duvet. Your crown. The match to his own with spikes sharp enough to kill a man if you so chose. “Have I ever given reason for you to doubt that vow?”

“You haven’t.” That was true. A demon like Lust might have warranted such a fear, but Wrath was another kind of beast, an honest one. At least when it mattered. Mattered to you, that is. A warmth settled in your chest as your fingers moved to lightly hold his.

“Then why are you doubting me now?” his lips were pressed to your temple and he placed the crown on your head as he murmured the question.

Moments like this you remembered why you married him with perfect clarity. For the first time since he was stolen weeks ago a heat other than rage burned through you like a flashfire. “It’s not that I doubt you,” you said, turning so you could see his fierce, golden eyes. “It’s that I hate her.”

“Soon enough she will be Pride’s problem,” he soothed, “not ours.”

“Good,” you snarled before sealing your lips against his.

~

If Wrath’s lips were swollen suspiciously when he stepped out of the shadows to bring her to Pride, Emilia couldn’t work up the courage to comment on it. She was already in this mess with these demons so much deeper than she ever expected; she didn’t think her heart could take the stress of picking that particular fight on top of everything else. Besides, they weren’t bonded anymore; it wasn’t any of her business who he did or didn’t kiss.

Still, for some reason her heart stung at the thought of him with someone else after all they’d been through together.

But then they were bantering like it was all normal.

And then she was trying to scream in agony as it felt like someone lit her soul ablaze.

And then they were standing in a throne room steeped in black and gold and red.

This wasn’t House Pride, she realized abruptly. These were Wrath’s colors through and through.

“You’ll have to forgive the brief stop here,” a woman’s voice called Emilia’s attention to the front of the room. She was beautiful. Leather pants, a billowing shirt, boots that looked artfully worn-in, all steeped in nothing but black. The only spot of color in her wardrobe was the golden crown atop her head. A flash of gold on the back of her hand drew Emilia’s attention. “A prince of Hell like my husband can only travel directly from the human realm to his home. An envoy from Pride awaits outside to escort you to your Betrothed.”

Emilia’s ears started and were still ringing at the word ‘husband’ by the time she finished talking. The gold she’d noticed on her hand. It was an exact copy of the snake she’d seen on Wrath’s body the night she summoned him. Confusion lanced through her. “What--”

You laughed, cutting her off. This was rich. “You never stopped to wonder what the mark on his other arm was?” You rose from your seat, shadows coiling around your feet menacingly. “You’re dumber than I thought.”

Emilia could only stare at the approaching figure, alarmed by the casual display of power as well as the pitch black veil surrounding her that was every bit as threatening as the black and gold one around Wrath. She had to fight to retain any form of dignity and stay carefully neutral-faced when Wrath’s hand settled on the woman’s lower back in a display so casual it couldn’t have been faked.

“How terrible to meet you,” you scoffed. “You can call me Rage.”

A fitting emotion for such a terrifying queen, Emilia supposed.

“I think it goes without saying that if I ever see you lurking around my husband again, not even your betrothal to my brother-in-law will save you.”

Said husband had a look of evil smugness on his handsome face that made Emilia recoil a little. Then a thought occurred to her. “If you already have a queen, then why--”

“Was everyone pushing me to make it official with you?” Wrath cut her off, one eyebrow arching. “That answer is quite simple if you think about it.”

“Which is exactly why she hasn’t figured it out,” you smirked. “They don’t like me because I’m not intimidated by them just existing as princes of Hell.” You turned to face Wrath, loving the automatic way his eyes trailed over your form heatedly. He’d been worked up since the two of you dressed; there hadn’t been time to burn off some of the aggression that danced within both of you. “ Now,” you addressed her even as your hand moved to cup his face, thumb skimming along his cheekbone appreciatively, “you’ve robbed me of Wrath here for quite long enough on top of forcing me to singlehandedly deal with the idiocy of lower demons. You’re lucky I don’t kill you for the former, and I hate you even more for the latter, so kindly get the hell out of House Wrath.”

You didn’t spare the girl a glance as a guard moved to escort her out. No, you only had eyes for your husband . . . at least until your eyes closed when you dragged him down for a bruising kiss.

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Eighteen (Zuko x Reader)

Chapter 17

Word Count: 2,200

Author’s Note: Shit’s hitting the fan y’all - not just in Two Halves but in everything else as well. I’m formatting this and ignoring all the impending doom swirling around me by drowning it out with Disney move soundtracks. 

You wake before Zuko the next morning, which isn't hard considering you barely slept. Toph arrives under the cover of early dawn, the sky just becoming gray as her ship lands on the palace grounds; you meet her without your husband, as you never got the chance to tell him she was coming the night previous. 

“You didn't have to rush out here,” you tell her, clutching her hands in an anxious vice. “It's not safe.” 

“When have I ever cared if anything was safe?” she scoffs. “Sparky clearly needs help protecting you.” 

The words are delivered with sarcastic wit, but her fingers shake in your palm. 

You decide you won't tell her about Qiang’s threat - you don't want to give him reason to hurt anyone else. Instead, you tell her that the palace is under constant, heavy surveillance, and that you're still unsure who exactly is conducting the strange occurrences that have plagued you or what their motives are. Not exactly a lie, but enough that you feel she won't be put in any more danger. 

“Do you think you can even trust your guards?” Toph wonders, her arm clenched tightly to your elbow. 

“Suki vetted every one of them herself,” you tell her. “But… we still don't know.” 

As you walk with her through the palace, nothing feels secure - the servants that pass you all seem suspicious, the guards and metal benders that flank you all looking like strangers through the gaze of your fear. Anyone could be working under Qiang; the thought of being so unsafe in your own home, even with the people you trust most beside you, makes you ill to the point you feel dizzy. 

“Zuko should be up,” you blurt. “Why don't you spar with him before breakfast? I’ll meet you.” 

Toph’s brow furrows with unease, her grip on your bicep becoming tighter. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

You nod, but don't bother to put on a brave face. 

“I just feel a little tired,” you reply. “I didn't sleep very well last night.” 

Again, not a lie. 

Toph considers this for a moment, no doubt gauging your pulse, then concedes, letting you go with a firm, nervous squeeze. 

“Okay,” she says. “We’ll stay close.” 

When you see that she goes without incident, you sweep through the corridor, hastily making your way back to your own, personal bedroom, and locking the door behind you. For a moment, you stand staring at the threshold, considering pushing your vanity or wardrobe in front of it to barricade yourself in. 

Your vanity. Your wardrobe. 

It sinks in that you haven't been alone in this room since you returned from Ember Island; you moved your belongings into Zuko’s room, opting to sleep next to him and making plans to convert the room back into a sunroom. You pace the floor slowly, inspecting the bed and its thin, billowing canopy, the windows and their gorgeous views beyond lightly veiled curtains; had you stayed in this room, they'd have been switched out for heavier ones in anticipation of winter, but they remain, letting in cool air that chills the dormant space. Dust has gathered on the deep, glossy wood of your vanity, your fingers leaving streaks in their wake as they run along its edge. You pull the single drawer open as if by instinct, something catching in your chest as its only remaining contents slide out from the shadows. 

A single pai sho tile - the lotus. 

On its side, so minuscule you can barely make it out, is a series of addresses; you discovered the markings one night while nervously toying with the gift from Iroh, finding various locations around the world listed on the piece after inspecting it under a magnifying glass. You told no one of this, not even Zuko, knowing deep down that it was something Iroh meant only for you. Your fingers trace over the address in the Imperial City - a pub by the name of Ichigo’s. 

Without a second thought, you dash to the trunk at the foot of your bed and pull a cloak from its depths - the one you and Zuko used to navigate the city unnoticed during your wedding celebrations. You strip out of your ceremonial robes, folding them neatly in the space where the cloak was and replacing them with your traveling clothes. You thank the spirits for the cold weather as you pull the cloak tightly around yourself, making sure it obscures your face before leaving the room once more. 

In the corner of your bedroom, there's a hatch; it's hidden under a false floorboard, beneath a thick rug, and leads to tunnels that wind in a labyrinth below the palace. Zuko explained that they've been there for hundreds of years, known to very few select people within the palace walls as an escape for the royal family should the need ever arise. 

“It's how we hid when Aang invaded the Fire Nation,” he told you. “It's where I confronted my father and left.” 

You raise the hatch from its disguise, slipping into the hole it forms in the floor with a single candle, the lotus tile, and the knife with which Qiang intends for you to kill your husband. In a matter of seconds, the board and rug fall back into place, and you slip from the palace in the dark, the entire world above unknown to your disappearance. 

The streets of the Imperial City are unfamiliar to you, but you make an effort to walk with sure steps. Your face is well hidden under your cloak, shadowed by the gray gloom of a silver sky, but it isn't as if anyone is curious enough to slow and peer beneath it; the air is brisk, and people rush past you in a haste to get where they need to go, back into warmth. 

Ichigo’s is on the fringes of the city, resting on a small hill beside the docks amongst a cluster of other businesses; together, they form a small alley and marketplace, its shops and stalls either shuttered or lit with hanging burners to fight off the winter cold. As you approach the bar, climbing over a set of wood steps that creak and shift under your weight, rain begins to fall. 

The inside of the bar proves much more welcoming than its surly exterior. In one corner, a fireplace burns with a wide, open hearth, a set of thick logs crackling cheerfully within. The paneled walls are decorated in an array of tapestries and promotional posters for other local businesses, and the tables that span the room are cozy and intimate, seated with cushions and placed atop tatami mats that buffer the rough wood floors. The bar itself is also quite quaint; only a few feet long and hosting about four seats, its shelves of liquor bordered by a twinkling string of lanterns and a small, handwritten message board announcing the day’s kitchen specials. What catches your eye, however, is the cluster of pai sho tables against one wall, the one farthest occupied by an elderly man in a white robe; you approach him tentatively, taking the seat opposite him and bowing respectfully under the guise of your hood. 

“Are you interested in a game?” the man asks. His voice is kindly, his mouth spreading into a grandfatherly smile as he speaks. “I don’t often find strangers willing to play against me.” 

“A game would be nice,” you reply, unsure what exactly you’re doing but knowing this man must be the reason Iroh sent you here. “Do you mind if I play with my own lotus tile?” 

“Not at all,” the man accommodates. “I too have my own set of tiles.” 

You reach into the pocket of your cloak, placing your lotus amongst the tiles set up on the game board; the man observes you carefully, leaning in to get a better look at the piece you’ve brought with you. 

“Do you mind if I see that for a moment?” he asks. “The craftsmanship is exquisite.” 

You nod, allowing him to take the piece. He turns it over in his fingers, running the pad of his thumb over the intricately carved design and holding it up to his face, inspecting it with great discretion. A nervous flicker tickles your stomach as he traces over the sides of the tile, no doubt finding the inscriptions on its surface. 

“You’ve been sent by a friend of mine,” the man finally states. 

“I believe so,” you respond. “I’m in need of some help.” 

“Then you’re in the right place,” the man says with a grin. He stands, handing the lotus tile back to you and ushering you to follow him. “Come with me. There’s another friend I’d like you to meet.” 

Wary, you follow him to the side of the bar, where he lifts a heavy curtain and slips into a back room. You clutch the knife in your pocket tightly, discreetly, hoping you haven’t just made a grave mistake and gotten yourself in more danger. He takes you through the bar’s storage room, moving aside a tower of boxes to reveal a small door, held in place by a simple, secure latch; he snaps it open, leading you through a low archway that descends into the building's basement. 

On the other side of the short passage, you find a tiny, yet nicely decorated sitting room - curtains hang from the ceiling creating a tentlike atmosphere, parted in places to reveal maps of the four nations hung on the walls. The center of the room is occupied by a large desk upon which many books and scrolls are scattered, and the air is heavy with the smoke of incense. Under the single lantern that lights the space, you spot the familiar face and humble stature of an older woman. 

“Advisor Yong,” you gasp. 

She stands in shock, pacing quickly over to you as you lower the hood of your cloak to reveal your face. She takes your hands in her own, clutching them tightly. 

“My lady,” Yong breathes with as much awe as you addressed her with. “How did you come all this way? Are you alone?” 

“Iroh gave her his tile,” the man who brought you explains. “I assume he sent her for her safety.” 

“There are tunnels under the palace,” you add. “I told the staff I was feeling ill and snuck out. Nobody knows I'm here.”

Yong guides you to the table, sitting you down beside her and telling the man to fetch you a cup of tea. The time-wisened lines in her skin seem deeper than usual, creased by a frown that distorts her whole face.

“They'll be discovering that you're gone soon,” she says, “so we must make this quick. Has Iroh told you about his membership with the Order before?” 

You shake your head, furrowing your brow in confusion. 

“The Order of the White Lotus,” Yong elaborates, “is an ancient society that operates beyond political bounds. We come together to share ancient philosophy and knowledge, but since the war… we act as a sort of lifeline organization as well. Emergency aid for those who need it.” 

“Iroh gave me that lotus tile when he was here for the wedding,” you tell her. “He must have known something I didn't because we’re in much more danger than we thought - Qiang threatened me. He wants me to kill Zuko.” 

“Qiang…” Yong mutters. “He can't be the one behind this. He doesn't have the manipulative tact to convince so many groups to act according to his will.” 

“He made it seem as if they were huge,” you continue. “He told me they had informants all over the palace.” 

“He's a good liar,” Yong dismisses, though her expression remains concerned. “Intimidating, too; that's why he was the one to threaten you. But he isn't the leader. What did he tell you? When he gave you the order?” 

“He said they'd kill my family. I don't want to lose anyone, but Katara and Aang…” 

Yong nods. 

“Aang is too important,” she finishes for you. “His death would devastate the world and put countless lives in danger. I promise, we won't let any harm come to them or anyone else.” 

She stands once more, offering a hand with which she raises you up. She continues to clutch it, gripping you as if letting go means surrendering you to the enemy. 

“I’ll call a meeting of our members within the city,” she states. “We have a few members staffed at the palace who we’ll ensure are at your guard. I’ll alert internal security and have them investigate Qiang immediately.” 

The man returns, and Yong instructs him to leave the tea and accompany you back to the palace - as far as he can without compromising the security of the tunnels. 

“Advisor Yong,” you say as you're ushered again through the passage and out the back of the pub, “we only have a week. Is that… do we have enough time?” 

Yong’s eyes sweep your face, her pupils flitting back and forth as she tries to find the right words to say.

“I won't lie to you,” she finally answers. “I don't know. All I can promise you is that we’ll do our best. We reconquered Ba Sing Se with much lesser numbers than we have now - here's hoping those odds are still in our favor.” 

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[herstarburststories]

Beautiful Ghosts [p1]

A/N: HAPPY BDAY TO ME, YAY! The first chapter of this hopefully mini series is for @alleiradayne 's 1k celebration! Congrats, hon. A mix of angst and two kinds of comfort here. I gotta admit that I started working on this months ago and kept going until I was satisfied with how it was going. Hope you guys like this one! Divider by @talesmaniac89 !

Summary: Something as tribal as death wouldn't keep you away from Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Prompt: I’m not going to leave you. You’re never going to have to suffer by yourself again, I promise.

Characters: Dean and Sam Winchester, you

Rating: PG 13

Word count: 2404

As always, you are in Dean's arms when the two brothers enter the bunker after a hunt. There isn’t any sound to break the silence, no raucous laughter, or even a snarky comment about today’s slain monsters. Their steps are stronger than usual, and one breath is missing.

Of course, it’s different from your usual entrance. Your arms aren't tangled with Dean's and his aren’t wrapped around your waist or shoulders. You are in his arms, yes, but you are lying still in a state of lifeless despondency. To think, he was once hopeful, stupid enough to believe that he'd only be carrying you like this when he was marrying you. 

Sam is awfully quiet. He can think and organize a hundred words into speeches in his mind, but nothing comes out. The younger brother feels like a kid during a class presentation too worried to say the wrong word and receive the wrong reaction. Therefore, he chooses silence, just like the other Winchester. They both make room for the grief that way.

It's a silent agreement that you are gone for good. The spell used to bring Eileen back is no longer available, and there is no devil willing to make a pact — not that one would allow the others to do so, after all.

Dean still considers it. More than once, more than a million times between the drive back home when you laid in the backseat with your guts on the car's floor and putting your body on the couch with more tenderness he’d thought himself capable of. 

He would come back to hell just to save you, even if it meant not staying to see you thrive. The agony would be more bearable if he knew that for each scream of his, there would be a grin of yours.

He has no hope now. All Dean Winchester has is anger and unprocessed grief slowly metamorphosing into sadness, hate, and bloodthirst. Even when he killed the fucking werewolf right after he laid his teeth on you, it wasn’t enough. He needed to make someone hurt as much as he did.

It was supposed to be an easy hunt, but isn’t that life with this job? It's usually supposed to be a quick thing, and then you are choking your own blood like it's tequila.

“She is in a better place now.” Sam is the first to speak, utterly doubting that his brother would make a noise if he didn't first.

Sammy was always full of faith, but this time it made Dean furious. “You don't know that.”

“Dean.”

“Don't, Sammy. Don't even fucking try. You know who we are and what Billie thinks about us. Do you think (Y/N) won't get the same destiny as we will? Alone in the empty, going crazy for years, decades!?”

“We can find a way—“ 

“No, we can't! We all signed her death sentence the minute we asked her to move in. And she—“ Dean cuts himself off with the sharp knife of silence, staving any hope left with harsh thoughts. The living room is maybe the most similar it’s ever been to the old glory days now: men of letters used to get frustrated there all the time, usually with a bottle of whiskey and a dead body on the floor, full of holes from experiments. 

The eldest Winchester wants to scream, throw a chair, break a lamp. He’d do anything to get this heavy sensation out of his veins, as if every single drop of blood weighs 500 pounds.

Still, he doesn't fall on his knees.

An inconsistently wry smirk consumes Dean’s face, warped with grief. “I had to put her guts back in her body, you know? To carry her in the car.”

He lifts his hands. They are stained red. Sam purses his lips together, trying to find something to say that would have helped him when Jess died. Nothing but an annoying little voice saying time comes to mind. It's gonna be hard, but they will make it. They always do.

Sammy doesn't tell that to Dean, though. He isn't ready yet. And neither is Sam to vocalize the words.

We are gonna be okay because we always do. And the dead bodies end up like frightening memories and nothing else.

That would sound too cold, like most truths for hunters. If Sam says those words, it becomes real. Not even the bloodstained picture of murder is stronger than words of farewell. Besides, you were his best friend. He had to recompose and convince himself that everything would be okay before he helped Dean. For once, he had to be the brother who shut all the turmoil in to take care of the other

“I'm sorry, Dean.”

And then, Sam does the only thing that he could think of as useful for making the ache bearable. He hugs his big brother.

Dean struggles to get away from the hold, even with every fiber of his being screaming to remain there. “Let me go! Sam, I'm serious. Fucking let me go!”

“It's gonna be okay, Dean.”

“Let me go, Sammy! Now!”

“You are not alone, Dean. I'm here. She will be okay, too.”

“Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!”

Until he finally gives in, collapsing in Sam's arms like that little kid in Kansas who didn't want to cry in front of his dad after seeing his mom get killed.

There is blood on Sammy’s favorite shirt now, but he doesn’t care. He just tightens his embrace around Dean while his brother is lost into racking sobs. 

His grief is just as expansive as Dean’s, their ragged souls laced with a sickening kind of sweetness that can only show up when someone you love needs help. It squirms and crawls in their guts to make a home that sticks. It’s their tiny comforts— the good feelings always show up in defiance of the ache like a plant growing on concrete. They just have to get the energy to look for them.

Everything is still the way you left it in Dean's bedroom. He didn't put your clothes away. You left your book on the shelf and kept your perfume in the wardrobe. Your pillow is still scrambled as if you had left for a couple of minutes to grab a cup of water and would soon come back to snuggle up to him. Well, it could always be from the fact that he's holding onto that piece of cotton for dear life. If he had long nails, his floor would be a complete mess now.

He's glaring at the wall, mind trying to come up with ways to cope with the growing ache in his whole body. Yes, the books and poets and films speak fondly about heartbreak, but he already threw the last glimpses of his bruised heart on the fire, burning with your body to the point no one could say it was ever in his chest to begin with. What could he do? There's always a way for the Winchesters. If Dean thinks hard enough, maybe he can defeat death. Maybe he can have you back.

Dean puts the pillow away after another sniff. The smell of your pepper shampoo is almost fading — he shouldn't have hugged it. Nonetheless, the green-eyed hunter focuses on coming up with ideas, and it's a stupid, humanly behavior when his mind goes to what desperate people usually seek.

Dean was never a pious man. The fact his mother died while angels were too busy watching over him to help her didn’t do it any good. Yet in stolen moments like these, he, like most humans, would bear his soul in a peace offering to all the holy things he doubted. The Winchester never prayed for himself, though. Who would answer his cry for help? He never deserved to be saved. So, he put his hands together and closed his eyes for who he cared about. As the Layla woman who told him to have faith or Sammy as something scandalous happened. It was rare, but Dean did that sometimes. He used to hope someone was listening. He doesn't pray anymore, not even now. Because he knows someone is listening, and he doesn't care.

Can an empty room seem crowded? Yes, when touch-starving grief is piled inside, begging to be seen. Why can't he allow himself to feel it? Why can't he cry? Why can't he just stop using anger as a comfort? Dean doesn't know. It used to be easier to cry before. He'd say he's lost his emotions, but the all-consuming anger and his ferocious barks to keep the hurt is burning proof he isn't yet.

Y/N died, and it's his fault. Y/N died, and it's his fault. Y/N died, and it's his fault.

His nostrils are opening, the wrath that swaths him as comfortable as his own skin. It’s not natural enough that he doesn't feel the burn, and you know he's going to break again. Your Dean doesn't break easily, but when he does, it's in a million little pieces that he wouldn't allow people to help pick them up. He’d rather shove them under the bed with his childhood monsters or bruising his hands as he exasperatedly tries to get them all by himself. You know he's going to shift into a storm and start breaking things. You know it's a temporary morphine, and the sickness will remain in the morning.

That's the incentive you need to try harder, to flash yourself into this plane of existence long enough to be seen. You force every fragment of yourself and light and whatever other pieces you are made of now to appear. To be heard. To show Dean he isn't all by himself again.

An image starts glitching in front of him. It’s rapid enough for Dean's reaction to come as a frown and his hand to snake around to the gun at the hem of his pants. 

And then, he blinks and a heart-stopping joy hits him. He can't believe the unbreakable heaven that he's being blessed with. Every feeling that should be burrowed under his skin is fighting to come to the light, and God, he wants to. For the first time, he doesn't want to hold back because what was trying to come together finally is you.

You. You are standing right before his own green eyes. There is a soft look on your face. It’s laced with that pretty smile that’s always spread happiness to him as well. You are here, standing in his room, clean clothes and blood in your veins. Guts inside your body! He never imagined he'd be happy to think that.

Is this his heart? Oh God, it is. And it's beating. No, no. It's racing. His heart is working again and now he almost falls on his knees. The pain was never able to break him, but he had forgotten how strong happiness could be. He's relieved.

Dean's eyes burn when he looks at you. Maybe it’s because he’s too shocked to even blink or perhaps it is all the tears that were flowing. Who cares? That man would allow his entire body to collapse in flames if the smoke signaled you back home. 

He takes a few steps, having the nerve to touch you — probably the most daring thing he has ever done. He is ready for you to dissipate, for that to be a dream, anything. And you don’t. You remain there. You don’t leave him too. Your usually warm body is gelid, but Dean doesn't care. It's an honest warning, yet he's happy to ignore those for once. You're here. 

“Dean, I—“ Your voice. It's your voice saying his name. He recognizes the importance of a name now. For a brief moment, he's confused. What the fuck is happening? You purse your lips and Dean chortles in dismay, unable to discern his inner state of being. “I don't know what to say.”

“I thought I had lost you. I was so fucking scared, Y/N. I thought you were gone for good.” He's found the words for you, exhibiting his vulnerability so quietly. Your entire soul feels it— it's not true what they say. You don't stop feeling when you are dead. You start to feel everything deeper because after leaving your meatsuit, all that is left is your soul. And what's a soul but the patchwork of emotions? “I thought you'd never come back again. That I'd have to go on without you. I'm so sorry. It was my fault. I should have saved you.”

“No, Dean. Don't start self-loathing and all that. It wasn't your fault. What happened to us could've happened to any hunter. And if it happened to me, there is a reason for it.”

“A reason for you to be ripped apart?” He scoffs at your belief of fate. You always had a graceful heart in you, even after you met Chuck. 

“I'm back, right? I told you I'd always be with you, and I'm here. Always.” You intertwine your fingers, and he watches your hands for a little while. While it’s difficult for him to grasp anything but pain nowadays, he accepts the rush of joy in his chest. Dean looks up, and you're still here, big eyes offering him a loving gaze. “I'm not going to leave you. You're never going to suffer by yourself again. I promise.”

He kisses you, and it feels like your emotions have finally found a perfect body to rest in when yours is a little bit tired — a place to call home. He kisses you, and everything is worth it. Because he kisses you. And you kiss him back.

Dean Winchester is a marvelous hunter. He should know that the cold his tongue experiences in your mouth while you two make out ferociously isn't quite right. You should feel fervid, and you are warm in every way of being but skin. He should pay attention to that. He should stop trying to make you come alive with love. Still, he can't bring his rational side to care. That man was always guided by emotion, anyway. What could matter more than you on his arms? Worries could be postponed because you did what no one else ever could.

You came back to him.

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