fangirlingincamouflage

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Hi! Really like your story Blind Hope, are you having any plans on continue it?

I absolutely am. I am a work from home disabled person married to another disabled person, and between work and such it means I don’t have a lot of time. The next chapter is in the works, but I don’t know how long it will take me to write.

[fangirlingincamouflage]

She likes to hug him and he likes to look at her.

[fangirlingincamouflage]

265 Days of Drabbles: Day 13

Title: Dreams and Prophecy Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 2,503 Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader Story Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst,  Comfort, Nightmares, super powers, Disclaimer I do not own Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch, nor do I make any money off of this fanfic. Wanda is the property of Marvel/Disney. Author’s Note: This fanfic assumes that you have super powers, I used a random super power website to generate a power. I kind of love it. Also, out of all of my drabbles, this is the one I’d love to make into a multi-chapter fic.

Things float when she dreams. For the first couple of weeks that you lived at the Avengers compound it was a little disconcerting. You'd roll over, half awake, and see that the glass of water you'd left on your nightstand was hovering steadily alongside your cell phone and that paperback you kept forgetting to read. Then, after nothing fell, or broke, or got slung into your face, you just decided that that's just the kind of thing that happens when a wall is all that separates your room from that of a witch.

Witch? Was it okay to call her that? It fit, certainly. But sometimes people kinda liked to make it sound like a bad thing. Sort of like, Inhuman, which, as it turns out, is exactly what you are. Not that you'd known that. You'd been going about life, mostly content with your lot in life. And then, one fateful day, your entire world changed. It had been such a small thing; inconsequential at the time, important in retrospect. Your life hadn't been in jeopardy. You weren't in the middle of some life-changing, traumatic event. You'd just been walking down the street, feeling a little lost, and wishing you could read the sign; if only it hadn't been so damn bright. And then, like magic, the light had shifted. You'd felt it like a tickle behind your eyes, a heat in the tips of your fingers. You'd chalked it up to a bit of sun-sickness and went about your way.

But then it had happened again. And again. Subtle shifts in light gave way to full-on apparations that depicted your daydreams. Nothing like everyone at work knowing that you were totally thinking about smooching that hotty from Game of Thrones.

It hadn't taken long for Tony Stark to find you, and bring you into the Avengers Homebase for testing. Light-Manipulation, he'd called it. The ability to bend, alter, and control the visible spectrum of light. He'd dubbed you The Illusionist, slapped an Avengers stamp on you and set you up at the compound. Your days were split into two parts. The first was training, where you learned how to test and push the limits of your Inhuman power. You learned how to bend light in such a way that you vanished from view. And how to change your appearance and those of others. Your strongest skill, however, was the ability to create believable, if soundless, projections. You were trained physically, and mentally, to withstand all the crap that might happen to you while opperating as a masked vigilante.

You'd been doing just fine (mostly) until they'd decided to set you up with Wanda as a training partner. The moment she'd walked into the room you'd felt your mouth go dry. Your knees went squishy. No one, you'd decided, should look that good in jeans and a T-shirt. But there she was, with her hair pulled back into a loose knot, and green eyes that seemed to stare directly into you.

"Alright," Natasha Romanoff had said. "Let's train."

You'd done terribly. Steve and Nat had taken the two of you out into the real world. He'd put you in a busy street and both you and Natasha had taken turns trying to sneak up on Wanda. The assumption, of course, was that your ability to cloak yourself, paired with the ability to bend the light to change your appearance, would make you excellent at espionage and tailing. Problem was, every time Wanda even kind of looked in your direction your concentration had cracked and you started to glow.

Glow. Seriously. Like a lightening bug. A big ol' nimbus that screamed 'look at me'.

Fan-tastic.

That had been two and a half weeks ago and you hadn't got much better. But Natasha had taken it upon herself to turn you into the best spy she could, and Steve wanted Wanda to be more aware of her surroundings. So the pair of you kept getting forced into situations together.

It was a surprise you got any sleep at all, you think as you watch the water cup continue to hover. You reach for your floating cell phone and check the time. It was almost six in the morning. Early enough that you could get back to sleep if you try, late enough that you know that someone in the compound is bound to be awake.

You don't notice the glass shaking until a drop of water fell unto your cheek. It is lukewarm and dibbles down your skin, leaving a line of sensitive skin in its wake. Curious, your eyes dart up. The water sloshes around in a tiny whirl inside the cup, like a miniature aquatic tornado. It shakes harder and harder. With a tell-tale creak, a growing crack appears to one side. You dive beneath your blanket just in time. With a glassy scream it shatters. The nearly forgotten paperback goes whirling through the room, slamming into your bedroom window. The drawers of your dresser slap and creak. High tech blinds, resistant to all kinds of damage according to Stark, bend and shake. Streaks of chaotic light illuminate your room.

Then, amidst the steadily growing pandemonium of your room, you hear the sound of Wanda's cries. Before you can even think you yank your blanket back and charge the nine steps to her door. It takes all of your strength to pull it open, revealing the living horror scene within.

You know what an inescapable nightmare looks like, and it's written all over her. She's kicked the blankets off and she is twitching and groaning. Her face is twisted up with sadness and pain. The room mirrors her fright. Drawers of red and black clothing have been tossed like phantoms across the floor. Belts slither around like snakes. Cracks decorate picture frames and glass. The bed creaks in protestation, like some great, invisible weight is pressing down on it.

"Wanda?" you take a careful step into the room, ducking as a shoe flies out of the closet. You put what training Natasha has given you to use and treat the room like an obstacle course with Wanda as the goal. With agility you didn't have three months ago you duck, bend, and weave. You kept your eyes fixed on her as you navigate your way past hair supplies and leather jackets. "Wanda!"

The bedsheet seems to spring to life as you approach. It billows and pulses like it is breathing. It seems to shimmer with the red light of her magic, casting strange and lovecraftian shadows across the walls and you. You wish, not for the first time, that your ability had granted you something that let you attack. The best you'd managed was blinding so that you could run away. that required, you know, eyes. Bedsheets were notorious for their lack of eyes.

"Come on, Wanda," you mutter to yourself. "Wake up."

The next sound she makes is so close to a tear-filled sob that you swallow your fear, dive through the creepy sheet, and land on her bed. Your knee jabs against her leg. The external pain jerks her up and out of sleep, another cry caught in her throat.

"Hey," you say as soothingly as you can manage, "it's okay. I'm right here."

She makes a confused sound. Without her magic everywhere, it is dark. At last, something you can fix. You feel the heat of your own power rise and fill you, and you send it out through the room, casting a soft warm glow across the bed. The light illuminates her too-pale face and sweat-soaked features. It's her eyes that bother you the most. Their green depths are filled with some haunted truth that you can't even begin to fathom.

"Are you okay?"

She blinks, and swallows. "What time is it?" her voice, tinged with Serbia, is cracked and dry.

"Early."

She looks around the room. Her confusion gives way to embarrassment. "I was dreaming."

"You could call it that if you want." You want to reach out, touch her, offer some paltry show of comfort. But you hesitate. You aren't sure what she was dreaming, or if she wants to be touched. You've been working with her for weeks, thought about her in ways you wouldn't even confide to yourself, but you can't bring yourself to close that single gap without some kind of invitation. “Did you want to talk about it?”

The light of your magic turns her green eyes to glass. They peer at you, cool and empty. It's a trick of hers that you've noticed, this ability to put on a mask of absolute nothingness. Usually, it fascinates you. Right then you saw it for what it really was; protection.

“I'm sorry that I woke you,”

“Don't worry about that. Can I get you anything?”

She looks away, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. A little color has returned to her cheeks, but not much. Not enough that you'd be comfortable leaving her with whatever thoughts are haunting her dreams.

“I live in Stark Tower.” She says it like a curse, like it's some ugly, terrible thing. Since you don't understand it, you stay quiet, letting her speak at her own pace. “Growing up, Stark meant bad. It meant pain and weapons and explosions.”

To be fair, growing up Stark meant pretty much the same thing to you. But as you watch the way she continues to look off into the distant light, caught up in the memories of what was, you realize that the difference is that Stark, and everything that his company had stood for, had been the shield you'd been behind, not the weapon at your throat.

“He's given that up.”

“Has he?” Her gaze flicked to yours, a red light gleaming out of their depths. “He still makes weapons, he just gives them names and costumes now.” Her hand was like a phantom slicing through the air, encompassing the room and the destruction therein.

“Oh...Wanda,” you whisper. This time you do reach out and touch her shoulder. She does not move away. “You aren't a weapon.”

“Oh? Then what am I?” Her lips formed a grim line of defiance as if daring you to disagree.

You could tell her. You could use every word you know for amazing and beautiful, but it still wouldn't express exactly how you see her. Wanda has too much beauty in too many facets to be relegated to a few words. So you do the only thing you can think of.

With one hand you smooth out the rumpled bed sheets. With the other you beckon what little light is in the room and you start to twist it. A city street forms, reminiscent of the one where the two of you were paired together to fight. You recreate the people walking, the street vendors and their wares. You add in the cars and their bumper-kissing traffic. Every detail about that day that you can remember, you recreate. Then, when everything is just right, you add in a woman walking down the street. She is dressed in a pair of boots, worn to perfection, and an aged leather jacket. Every step is like a dance. The swing of her violin shaped hips is like music. Even the way the breeze catches her hair is an aria to her beauty.

“Wow,” she whispers.

Encouraged, you shift the scene. You add yourself to the moment, leaning against a light post with your face half hidden by your phone. You let the scene pick up the way you watched her that day, the fact that you couldn't keep your eyes off her. The way that the moment she turned and spotted you everything seemed to fracture and fall apart. Then you show her the next time it had happened, and the next.

“You are powerful,” you say, lost in your display, “but that's not all you are. You are also talented, kind, and smart. You could take your power and use it to rule the world ten times over, but instead, you sign up with the one and the only group that's trying their best to keep this planet spinning.” Your illusion shifts, focuses on her face. The rendering is nearly perfect. The way her eyes can go from flat and empty to angry to amused. The way her nose crinkles when she laughs. The flutter of her hair around the roundness of her lips. Every detail that has driven you mad in recent weeks. You don't even think about how honest you are being until she reaches out and touches your wrist. Her skin is cool against yours. Again, your phantom play shatters.

“I know,” she says softly, though there is an impish tilt to her lips. “I've known for a while.”

The way she says 'know' leaves no room for guessing her meaning. “Guess I've been kind of obvious. You make it hard to concentrate when we practice.”

“It's not that,” she answers. There is a softness to her. All that fear and self-doubt have evaporated. “Did you know that sometimes you bend light while you sleep?”

“Oh...oh no.” You hide your face suddenly behind your hands. Considering all of the dreams you've had about Wanda, you can only assume that she knows way too much. “I am so sorry.”

Her hand slides down your arm, tugging lightly until your fingers drop away from your face. When you open your eyes she is much closer than she had been, mere inches away. The red of her magic is shimmering around her.

“You came to my rescue tonight,” she says.

“I-”

She places a finger on your mouth, silencing you.

“I've always been the one saving others.”

She closes the distance between you slowly. You forget what it's like to breathe. or think, as her mouth presses ever so lightly against your own. Her hair brushes against your cheeks as she tilts her head, the soft press of her tongue slides against yours. You hear a moan, and are surprised when you realize it's coming from you. But when she returns the sound you melt into that kiss.

You shift your weight, pushing her down to the bed, riding her to the mattress in a slow, controlled motion. Her hand skips down your back as you taste her. The feel of her thighs wrapping around your hips sends electricity running to all the places that you like.

“Wow,” you whisper when you finally manage to pull away.

“I've been wondering.” She takes your hand, bringing your fingers to her lips, kissing the tip of each one in succession. “That heat that you give off when you do your projections...can you do that anytime?”

The weight of her words hits you like a hammer. “Well, there's really only one way to find out.”

[fangirlingincamouflage]

365 Days of Drabbles: Day 12

Title: Dream Wolf Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 2,642 Pairing: Solas x Reader Chapter Rating: R (Rates high on the steamy factor) Themes: Angst, Plot, sex, oral sex, Disclaimer I do not own Solas, nor do I make any money off of this fanfic. Solas is the property of BioWare/EA. Personal Note: I hate how much I love this character. I am fully aware that he has...uhhh...flaws. My personal preferences can usually be summed up to: I like men who seem like they would bake for the homeless and women who would kill anyone who got in their way. Solas is one of the rare few who fall outside of that and I don’t even know why I like him but I do.

It’s a dream. You know it’s a dream, but that doesn’t keep you from sinking further into it. The heady scent of water and ferns beckons, impossible to resist. You slip away from the familiar feel of your sheets, from the sounds of your room settling; and fall into the depths of the Fade.

The ethereal realm embraces you like an old friend, and why not? It is here where memories are made and they are all you have. Memories of hope, of war, of survival, but most of all there are memories of love. For a moment you let yourself be distracted by some of the better ones, the ones that make you laugh. Unable to help yourself, you walk through a field of what once was, lingering in the places you cared for most. You know that a spirit of kindness dances at the edge of your consciousness,  but you don’t mind. After all, he taught you to see the aspects of the Fade rather than the fear of it.

As if summoned, the field of memories solidifies beneath you. The murky land becomes a green grotto, filled with the scent that called to you in the first place. Ferns and grasses form a delicate hill. A waterfall feeds a pool of crystalline water. Mist forms on the surface. It is all too easy to kneel at its edge, touch the cool surface. Your hand disrupts the mist, and it curls around your wrist. For all it is a dream, it feels gloriously real.

A different spirit, ephemeral as a wisp, follows you here. The weight of its presence tugs at you, demands your attention. At the very edge of your vision a shape forms in the mist. A dog, you think at first, but honestly you know better. It is a Wolf, dark and proud and beautiful. It’s paws, twice the size of your hand with fingers splayed, make divots in the soft earth.

For a moment, your eyes linger on the bestial shape. Not out of fear, but hope. Your heart gives a painful lurch in your chest. You cannot count the days since you saw him last. Anger and hope war within you. Some days you wish you could forget him entirely. Some days you cling to his memory.

The mist coalesces. It grows thick and impenetrable. The wolf disappears behind its curtain. For a miserable moment you think he might, yet again, be gone.

“Wait!” you cry. “No!”

You surge to your feet, throwing yourself into the mist. Blindly, you run through it. Your feet cross water and grass and bark and rock. Curtains of mist give way to curtains of velvet. Natural rock becomes worked stone. When the mist clears you are back in your room at Skyhold, and you are alone.

Hope gives way to anger. Anger gives way to grief. You collapse on your bed and tears, unwanted and hot, stain your pillow. The soft light of day fades into deepest night.  

“Vhenan?”

The single word, softly spoken, rouses you from your turmoil. With a gasp, you roll over and stare into the night.

A long, lanky male figure stands there; silhouetted by the stars. He wears a simple, nearly translucent jerkin and green breeches, sewn to the very shape of his legs.

“Solas?” you ask, wondering if this too is a dream.

He steps forward, some trick of light reveals his face in inches. The dip in his chin. The perfect bow of his lips, ever curved in a knowing smile. The light of his eyes. On and on it goes, from ear tip to the hairless crown.

“Tell me your here, that this isn’t a dream.”

He tilts his head to one side, the wolf-jaw necklace slithers over his chest.

“Of course it is a dream,” he says. “But that does not make it worth any less.”

You kneel on the edge of your bed, much like you did the pool. You want to run to him, yell at him, kiss him. You want answers and promises. You want so many things all at once that it leaves you frozen in place.

“What do you want?” you finally ask. The words come out harsh.

His head dips. The light in his eyes fade, and the smile along with it.

“Forgiveness.”

You are so startled by the admission you lunge out of bed. Anger spurns your steps. You close the distance between the two of you in two long strides.

“Oh? Is that all?”

“Your anger is warranted, Vhenan. But I would like to remind you that I warned you. I told you that this would be easier if we didn’t.”

He had, but the ring of truth doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

“Easier for who?” you spit.  

“For us both.”

You aren’t sure if it’s his words or the single tear that comes with it that has your temper cooling. He had told you, he had resisted. You had pushed and what wolf can resist the love you offered.

“You left,” you say, shoulders sagging.

“I am here now.” His hand reaches up, the warmth of his fingers glides over your cheek.

“For how long?”

“As long as you can stay asleep.”

Your eyes close as his fingers curl beneath your chin. He tilts your head back and his lips glide against your own.

In your anger at being left you have kissed others, tried to tell yourself that it was just as good, but you know that you were lying to yourself. The press of Solas’ mouth to yours makes you melt against him. The flick of his tongue drives the strength from your knees. He wraps a slim, strong arm around your back, holding you to him as he deepens the kiss even further.

By all the gods, Forgotten and Old, his mouth tastes of rain and honey. His tongue dives against yours, retreats and dives again. The arm around your back tightens, pulling you closer. Your body flatbed against his as you feel the sweep of his teeth skim against your lower lip.

“Vhenan,” he growls against your mouth. “I crave you.”

It’s hard to open your eyes. You feel drunk, intoxicated by the feel of him so close.

“Then taste me,” you whisper.

You feel him tense and hesitate. Your eyes snap open and you see the glitter of his eyes at war. He wants to stay, you realize, but even now he is telling himself it’s the wrong thing to do.

Not this time, you tell yourself. Not tonight. If this is to be your dream, it will be one worth remembering.

With a motion you slide your hands down his chest, exploring the thinness of his tunic, and the hard body that lies beneath. For a moment your hands settle on his hips, your thumbs curling inwards to frame the shape of him beneath his breeches. You push the fabric down, tightening it as you go to your toes and muzzle against his neck like a beast.

“Do not leave me tonight,” you murmur. You close your eyes again, letting the tip of your tongue trace the line of his neck. “Give me what we both crave.”

With another sound he sweeps you up in his arms, carrying you the short distance back to your bed. You open your eyes in time to see his hands grip the edge of his tunic. In one fluid motion he peels it off and banished it to the other side of the room. Half naked, he prowls over you, his necklace skimming against your chest as he leans down to kiss you again.  

“You are to be my undoing then?”

You smile, and wrap your legs around his hips. “Since you’ve been mine, it seems only fair.”

He holds back for one more moment, his hands rooted to the pillows behind you. You see that struggle in his eyes light, and then, as his gaze sweeps across you, he relinquishes himself to his own need.

He falls upon you like a wolf. His mouth goes from your neck to your collar and down. With a snarl he yanks your bedclothes up and off, sending them to join his own. He allows himself one look at you laid out before him before his mouth dips to your chest. He tastes you like a beast, licking and nipping like a man gone mad.

“Solas,” you cry as the heat rises in your body. He seems to feel it, sense it, following it down the length of your body until he settles between your thighs.

“Do you still wish for me to taste you?” he asks, his breath spilling against you. An answer springs to your tongue but there is something about the way he looks up at you, eyes filled with animalistic hunger. It sends a thrill through you that has no name.

Your response is a moan, and lifting your hips towards him.

His fingers, which seem sharper than normal, yank the last of your clothing away, leaving you naked before him. Before your body can settle back against the bed his hands wrap around your thighs, shoving them apart. You have one mindless moment of being bare and exposed before his tongue descends on you.

The dread wolf can be a gentle lover, you are sure of it. But there is nothing gentle about the way his mouth savages at you. His tongue seems to make way for lips and teeth. A part of you knows that it ought to hurt, but nothing but pleasure rolls through you as he eats you like a beast.

You want to wrap your legs around him, but his hands keep you pinned to the mattress. The sheets catch and ripple beneath you as your back arches, as your hands fist in them. Your moans of pleasure mingle with his as he focuses on the apex of your need. He is relentless, and you can’t help but give in.

A wet, heavy weight builds in the place where his tongue and teeth play. His lips form a kiss and he sucks the tender parts of you between them as he releases one of your thighs. His fingers plunge into you, and he makes a satisfied sound at finding the depths of your wetness. He crooks his fingers, pressing against the wild heat that is building within you. He makes another sound, and you know that he is demanding you to give in.

You hold back. You want to give in, but he made you wait this long, it seems only fair that you make him wait too.

His eyes roll upwards, watching you from his place between your thighs. You see a question in them, and then realization. They narrow and he scoops his free hand beneath you, curling your body up as he tucks himself beneath you. With your legs over his shoulders he redoubles his efforts, and feasts.

It is a strange dichotomy, this precise man with his cunning intellect and careful speech. To see him worry at your most tender parts like a beast awakes something primal inside you. His font gets curve against your pleasure, and every move of your hips grinds against his mouth.

“Yes,” he growls against you. “Let me taste your need.”

You don’t know if it is the crook of his fingers, the lewdness of his words, or the way his mouth moves against you but that ball of pleasure within you shivers, cracks, and spills. Your high rips through you, primal and wild, drawing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you could make.

With a snarl of satisfaction he glares up at you.

“Withholding from me?” He asks.

You are to breathless to speak, your mind still dealing from the dwindling energy of your orgasm. You manage a halfhearted shrug.

“We shall see.”

His long fingers wrap over your hips. With one deft movement he scoots back and sends you tumbling to your knees. He seizes your legs and pulls, lifting your backside into the air. He licks across one cheek, ending with a deft bite. You make another sound and his hands slither over the lines of your body, sculpting as he lifts himself over you, licking a line up your spine.

“Need,” he said the single word like a growl, a prayer.

“Take,” you invite.

You feel him shiver, his breath in your ear as his body lowers over the back of yours. His lips run along the line of your neck as his hand darts between your bodies to yank at his breeches. You feel the hard length of him press against you. He rolls his hips, grinding against you. He curses in a form of elven so old that you can’t follow it.

“What?”

He pants and then sinks his teeth into your shoulder. “Wet,” he snarls, half desperate, half possessive.

The mattress shifts beneath your body as his hands slide over your hips. He slides back, lining the tip of him with the entrance of you, and then thrusts forward, sheathing him inside of you in one swift movement. There is no hesitation. His thrusts are deep, desperate, needful. He curls one arm beneath your body, hand over your shoulder, holding you in place as he shoves himself into you over and over again. But you know, even now, that he is holding back.

“Yes,” you croon. “Solas, yes!” You arch, pushing your hips back in ardent invitation.

“Vhenan,” he growls at you, holding you still. “Do that again and I will not be held accountable for how I react.”

With a smile on your lips, you shove against him.

“I said ‘take‘.”

He sits back, still rooted inside of you. His hands skimming their way down your sides. He grips your hips, fingers curling right enough to make you hiss. He moves back, pulling until only the tip of him is still rooted inside of you.

“As you say.”

Take he does. His hands hold you still as he starts to pound. He moved hard, taking his pleasure of you with a wild, primal joy. He mutters under his breath phrases to old and crude for you to understand. It’s hard to hold yourself against the desperate pillaging of his need. As you start to dip forward he grabs your hair, fisting it in one hand and pushing you against your mattress.

“Harder,” you moan into the sheets.

He lets out a sound, a growl and then a howl. The tips of his finger dig into one hip, leaving bruises behind. You croon your pleasure as he bottoms out inside of you. The very end of him reaching your wet depth.

“Vhenan!” He cries, letting you know that he is close.

You reach back, wrapping your hand around his wrist. You feel the tendons beneath your fingers flex as his wild rhythm reaches a new depth.

“Yes, Solas, yes!”

With a last wild thrust he empties himself inside of you. He throws his head back and howls like the wolf he is as his hips twitch with his own pleasure. He cries your name at the last of it, just before he sags over you.

Your legs, already pushed to their limits, collapse. The two of you tumble to the bed, getting lost amid the mess of sheets. You expect him to pull away, to leave now that he’s had his full and you’ve had yours. But instead, surprising you both, his arm slides tenderly around you middle, he curls behind you, placing a kiss on the shoulder that he bit.

“Forgive me,” he whispers.

“Whatever for?”

He hesitates. “There will be marks.”

You smile and curl closer. “Stay with me until the dream ends, and all will be forgiven.”

He pulls you closer, tucking himself in the curve of you. “Ar lath ma, Vhenan.”

“I love you too.”

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Blind Hope: Chapter 7

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1,232 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Chapter Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals, I make no money from this fanfiction. Dedication: @14readwritedraw96 and @thezucchini​ (For being so wonderfully enthusiastic) TW/CW Descriptions of pain, long term hospital stay

Previous chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 <~ You are Here

You are standing in the middle of the pasta isle at the grocery store when your cell phone goes off. It's that distinctive ping of an unknown number texting you. You sigh, roll your eyes, and wonder what is the easiest possible thing that you can make for dinner that night. In the past six days your workload has tripled. June and Em are on a much needed vacation and Nick is still unconscious at the hospital.

You know that because you called right before you left to go grocery shopping. You also called first thing this morning, and last night, and the morning before, and the night before that. You have called the hospital at least twice a day for the past thirty-seven days. You got the exact same information.

“Officer Jakoby is still in an induced coma, and he is not ready to be seen by friends or family.”

It was maddening.

Your phone goes off again and you set a jar of premade sauce back on the shelf. Your stomach isn't feeling red sauce. It isn't feeling pasta. Or oranges. Or any one of a thousand other things you were totally down for eating. You hadn't been hungry since the night part of LA went up in magical flames. Since Nick had been hospitalized.

With a sigh you eased into the snack isle. Is a bag of chips an acceptable replacement for dinner? Probably not, but you've had take out for the past two weeks and absolutely none of it has filled the steady, continuing ache in your heart.

Your phone goes off again.

“What?” you snarl loud enough to make the old lady with a basket full of frozen dinners blink with bewilderment. “Sorry. Not you.”

You pull your phone out and waive it at her. She doesn't look convinced, and doubles her speed to get into the next isle.

With a few swipes you bring up your new messages.

“This is Jessica, the Head Nurse at the Intensive Care Unit at the UCLA Medical Center.” The first message reads.

Your heard pounds so hard in your chest that your vision goes a little hazy. You grip your phone tightly enough to make the screen rainbow with protest.

“Nick Jakoby has achieved a state of continuing consciousness. One of my nurses made the mistake of telling him that you had stopped by.”

That hazy feeling turns to ash. You had wanted to see him yourself, to let him know what had gone on, and why you hadn't talked to him in six, not seven, months.  He must be angry, furious.

The third message is brief, and comes across as a little mad. “In order to keep him in bed, I promised him you would come see him tonight. Do not make me a liar.”

You desert your cart, and take the shortest possible trip to the hospital that you have ever taken. Which is impressive, considering all the times you driven up there in the past month, just in case something had happened between your morning and evening check-ins.

You don't stop at the front desk, you know where you are going. The elevator doors close as you turn the corner, and the wait for the next ones seems like an eternity. The moment the doors whoosh open, you surge inside hitting the buttons for the ICU floor. You don't even wait. You ht the close-door button and watch your reflection stare back at you as the lift starts to rise.

What are you going to say? Should you have gotten balloons? Flowers? A stuffed animal? Would he even be allowed those things? Did he want them from you? Did he want to see you to make up or to have a final talk? In the twenty-eight seconds that it takes to get to your floor, your mind plays out you greatest hopes and worst fears in a strange, overlapping loop that leaves you feeling a little lightheaded.

Though maybe that has something to do with the fact that you haven't eaten well in a month.

Your clothes don't fit right, you think as you tug at the fabric. You should have gone home to change. You were wearing your comfy clothes to go shopping. The fabric weird. Then you realize its not the fabric, its your own skin. You are so nervous that your skin feels like an electric current is running through it. With a huff you roll your shoulders, trying to settle your nerves. It doesn't help.

The doors slide open and as fast as you got into the elevator, you hesitate to get out. This could go wrong. What if his mother is there? His partner? What about Johnassen, the jerk who broke his phone so long ago?

It doesn't matter you tell yourself as you take that first step off the elevator. All that matters is he's awake. You'll be able to see him with your own eyes.

A stern looking woman with stark gray curls looks up from a desk as you approach. She tilts her head and inspects you.

“For Jakoby?” she asks like she already knows the answer. “Follow me.”

Your heart is in your ears as you follow in the steps of her worn out shoes. She swipes her badge, taking you through a set of secure double doors. The sounds of the hospital change. The ICU is bereft of human noises, but it isn't quiet. You can hear televisions on a half a dozen channels turned down low, doing what they could to preoccupy patients who were in layers of pain. The sound of breathing machines hiss and whirl. A man in green scrubs wheels supplies down the hall. There's no happy, warm chatter. Just a strange sense of desolation and pain.

You do not like it here, and you can't imagine Nick here. Nick, with his warm laugh and kindness. Nick who kisses you like the universe exists in your lips. You want to scoop him up and take him away.

The nurse stops outside of a door at the end of the hall.

“They are quarantined behind a see through partition,” she tells you in the kind of no-nonsense voice that must come from years in her work. “Do not attempt to breech this partition.”

She holds out a long medical gown. Confused, you shoved your arms into the sleeves. She spins you, and starts to tie it up, and then she puts another one on your back, spinning you again so she can tie it in the front. She hands you a cap, and a mask, and you put them both on as she helps your feet into medical grade booties.

“How dangerous is it?” You ask as she holds up a pair of gloves to slip on your hands.

“Unknown,” she tucks the end of the gloves over the wristband of the double set of gowns. “But you saw the news, you know where they were. Better safe than sorry.”

She types a number into the key pad. “You get ten minutes. No more, no less. I'm not being mean, but we need to minimize any chance of exposure.”

You nod your understanding. Ten minutes isn't much time, but you'll make the most of it.

“There are armed men in there,” she finally says. “Don't do anything to make them think you are a threat.”

It's the last bit of advice she gives you before the pad turns green and the door is opened.

The room is long, white, and empty save for what looks like a box made out of hanging plastic. Only a few of the lights are on, casting half the room in evening darkness. There are several beds, but only one of them is occupied. The long, lean body of a black male is visible beneath the harsh lighting. Three other people stand guard, dressed from head to toe, AR-15 clutched in their hands. The door closes behind you.

For a moment you stand there, frozen and unsure. A little, ugly thought makes you wonder if this is some weird trick. Then you hear your name.

Your eyes are drown to the shape of a man sitting in a chair. You hadn't noticed him at first because the dark lines of his body blend a little too easily with the pseudo darkness on that side of the room. But now that you've seen him, you can't pull your gaze away.

Nick. You'd know the shape of him anywhere. The broad, strong line of his shoulders stands guardian against the pitch black behind him. There's a blanket across his legs, and an IV in his arm.

“It's you,” he says softly, disbelieving.

“Nick.” You take one step, and then another, and before you know it your legs are carrying you across the room. You almost forget the plastic. When you foot hits it, you're startled. The guards watch you with cold glares. “Sorry.”

And once you start saying it, you can't stop. Over and over again you apologize. You don't realize you are crying until you taste the hot salt of your own tears. You are sorry you didn't call him. You are sorry you left. You are sorry you didn't answer him back. You are sorry for everything you ever did in the last six months because none of those things was going to him. You sink to your knees at the edge of the partition, the tears making it impossible to speak.

He says your name again, so soft you wonder if you dreamed it. You look up, and he's shaking his head.

“Please, don't cry.”

Slowly, unsteadily, he gets up. He doesn't look at you as he pulls the chair from one side of the plastic sheet box to the other. Right in front of you, he plops the chair down, and then lowers himself into it. His staccato motions belie how hurt he must still be.

The pair of you are silent as you look one another over. You see the bruises beneath his woad blue spots; purple and yellow and, in some places, black. You see the stitches in his arm, the thick swelling of his hands. The skin around his cheeks is slack with the lack of food he's gotten in the past month. But his eyes, those gorgeous eyes that are yellow and red and orange all at once, they are filled with pain that has nothing to do with being thrown half a football field by a magical explosion.

“You're here,” he says, his voice soft. “I thought-” He stop short, shrugging, and then wincing.

“I know,” you tell him. While you aren't sure of the exact words he must have thought, you know that it couldn't have been good.

“Why?” he asks.

You open your mouth to tell him, but the words wont come. You remember Elizabeth, his mother, and the way she had looked at you. You could tell him everything, but what good would that do? He might get angry at his mother, it might cause some kind of rift between them and how many people did Nick really have who cared that much for his safety? Not nearly enough, you think as you take in injuries you hadn't noticed before.

Instead you shrug. You can't bring yourself to lie, but you can't bring yourself to tell him the truth either, no matter how much it's burned inside of you. You turn the words that she said over in your mind, pulling an answer from them without revealing their source.

“You got hurt because you were with me.” Your voice cracks as you say it.

His eyes close and his shoulders sag. His body leans forward. You think he's about to slide out of the chair. The pair of you kneel on the floor, staring at one another. Emotions that you don't think have ever been named whirl through you. You want to touch him, you want to hold him, you want to vanish together into the night.

“No,” he said shaking his head. “No. You were just the excuse. When they saw me-” he cuts off, coughs, and shakes. “They'd already decided what they were going to do.”

He looks away. You can tell that there's more to say, that he's struggling. Rather than push you give him a moment. He deserves that at the very least.

“It wont happen again,” he says.

“Why not?”

He opens his palm, I can't see anything there, but he must because he's staring down at it like it's something special.

“I can't talk about a lot that happened that night,” he says. “I want to, I want to tell you everything but...I can't.”

You shake your head. “I just need to know you are safe.”

“I think I am. I mean-I gotta tell you, it was not a normal night. I was...I was blooded.”

Your eyes go wide. You can't help but stare at his lips. He smirks.

“It'll take a while for the tusks to grow. But I don't need to file them anymore.”

You sit back on your heels. “Are you okay with that?”

He shrugs. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?” you ask.

He takes a deep breath and looks at you. It's a long look, a scared and hopeful one. It's like he's weighing a thousand dreams as he watches you and all you can do is wait.

“I thought I was getting over you,” he finally says. “It'd been months. Long months. Really, really long months. My mom even set me up on a couple dates with some unblooded girls from other states.”

Your stomach twists.

“Yeah?” you say, hoping that he's not about to tell you that he has moved on and this whole thing was about him saying goodbye.

“They were nice, but they...they didn't understand me. They didn't like what I do. They didn't like my jokes and they all thought Alaska is stupid.” The two of you laugh and it feels so good. He shifts his position until the two of you are nearly the same height. “I wasn't falling for someone else but I was pretending really hard like I was getting over you.”

You nod, you know what he means. You'd been going through all the motions, acting like you were moving forward when all you were doing was playing the role and hoping.

“I was going to come see you,” he said. “As soon as my shift was over that night. I was going to go right to your apartment. Everyone said I shouldn't because I'd just get hurt, but I thought that it would be worth it. I just..”

Slowly he reached into the blanket still twisted around his legs. His thick, injured fingers shook with pain as he pushed the fabric around.

“Where-hold on-it's here, I swear.”

Your heart, which has already gone through far too much, pounds all over again. Your mouth goes dry.

“Nick...”

“I almost died you know,” he says as he lifts a corner, continues to look. There's a little wetness on his brow, and you wonder if it's fear, nerves, or pain that's put it there. “And not just once. I almost died like four times.”

One of the guards cleared their throats.

“I know,” Nick said, holding up his free hand. “I know. I can't tell her anything. But you only have to look at me to see that it happened.” He went still, and bowed his head. “I did die.”

It's not even a whisper, there's no sound. It's a breath of words that you are sure the guards couldn't hear. You pounding heart turns to ice in your chest.

“What?”

But he doesn't say it again. Instead he looks up at you and his eyes are bright with a hundred emotions. “And all I could think about, was you.”

He holds out his hand. Nested there is a black velvet box. Carefully, he opens it, revealing a ring. It's made of two metals, platinum and rose gold, twisted around one another to form a very simple braid, and right there at the center is a stone in the exact same shade of blue as his spots.

“All  I thought about every day has been you,” he is saying when your ears start to work again. “And I don't want to ever have to worry again.”

You swallow twice before you can speak. “Are you proposing?”

You aren't sure if he's blushing, but his ears twitch. “Only if you're saying yes.”

“You have to ask,” you say. “You have to...ask.”

“Is it a spell? A human thing?” he says.

You shrug, because it kind of is, but mostly you just need to time to stop your thoughts from making such a commotion in your head. There are a hundred ways this could go wrong, a thousand even, but even so-

He says your name and you find that he's shifted yet again, down on one knee in front of you. “Will you marry me?”

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Blind Hope Chapter Six

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: ??? (I can’t remember) Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Chapter Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer:  I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. TW/CW: Descriptions of pain, long term hospital stay Previous Chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

You Are Here

Chapter 7

Looking back, it was easy to ignore his messages for the first two weeks. You had work to get lost in and pain meds to dull everything. Between your cracked ribs, the stitches in your head, and fielding calls from people who meant well but took up too much energy to talk to, it was pretty easy to act like you had every intention of responding to Nick, without ever actually getting around to doing it.

"I'm awake," his first message said. "They said you already were released. What happened? Are you okay?"

It hurt. It hurt to read. It hurt even more not to respond. But you did it. You told yourself it was for the best. Being with you is what got him hurt in the first place. Sure, you could blame bigotry, and you'd be right, but that doesn't erase what happened, and that you were at the core.

"I know what happened was scary. Please, just talk to me." Another message says. "I just want to know you are safe."

You don't respond to that one either. You know what you'll say. You will tell him that you are perfectly okay. That it's fine. Just a scratch. Sure, your head got busted open and you are on some impressive pain killers. And yeah, you have to change the bandage twice a day because stitches are no joke, especially those on the head. And sure a chunk of hair is missing from where they shaved it to put said stitches in place. But does any of that really compare to what he went through?

"I'm okay if that's what you're worried about. It looked worse than it was."

You know exactly how bad it was. It wasn't like you just gathered your stuff and left after Nick's mother stopped in and delivered her bomb of truth. In fact, once the shock of her words had worn off you'd gotten yourself pretty riled up with a lot of thoughts that centered on how-dare-she. You'd gathered up[ all of your things, and stormed up to the Intensive Care Unit, you'd argued with a nurse, you'd begged and pleaded until they let you in to see him. And, if you are being honest, compared to Nick all you had was a scratch. Tubes were shoved up his nose, forcing him to keep breathing while needles fed him medication and hydration. The natural blue splotches on his skin did their best to hide the bruising, but it was too easy to see that the damage had been done. Gone was the coppery vest, all he wore was an ugly hospital gown and medical tape. One eye was swollen shut, one hand looked like it had seen the wrong side of a hammer. Or, more likely, a boot. He'd whimpered when you'd touched him, in pain despite being pumped full of who knew what.

That's when you had decided that Elizabeth Jakoby had been right. Being with Nick would have been selfish. Yes, he made you happy. Yes, his kisses made you light up. But was any of that worth the pain it put him through? No. Of course not. You needed to leave. And you needed to cut the relationship off. He'd get over you. He'd find a nice orc woman to settle down with. He'd be happy with his garden and his badge. He didn't need you. And he certainly didn't need another trip to the hospital.

So you called June and let her mother you into bed, and promised yourself that no matter what messages Nick Jakoby sent, you'd just ignore them. Sure, you knew it was bad form to ghost him. But you also knew that if you tried to actually break it off, it would kill something inside of you. Some tiny glimmer of hope that there were still good people in the world.

Those first two weeks were easy. They came before the new flower delivery, and the card that only had "I'm sorry," written in his hasty, blocky script. And then came the uber eats driver delivering from the Indian place you'd had your very first date. And then came the movie tickets and a little notecard saying "I'll be here, at seven this Friday. I hope you will be too."

You made yourself sick throwing the ticket in the garbage. You'd even poured week-old leftovers on top of it to keep yourself from digging it out. That night you invited June and her wife over and the three of you watched cheesy movies until dawn, if only to keep you from dwelling on where you rather would have been.

You got your stitches out. You were given a clean bill of health. Your hair grew back. Two weeks turned into two months, and then into half a year.

You went on dates. Some weren't too bad. Somewhere horrible. But no matter how nice the date was, or where you went, all you could think about was sharing a loaded waffle with a guy who saw the greatness in the universe. All you could do was reach up and feel that scar on your forehead and wonder 'what if?'.

"This is ridiculous." June flopped herself down on the couch. She was wearing her favorite orange and yellow pajama set. She had a plate of chocolate cake in one hand, and a fork in the other. She was eating her feeling since the love of her life was out to sea again. It made for a good excuse to buy a cake and have a sleepover. You are pretty glad that you have a best friend who still likes sleepovers. "You should call him."

"Listen, June, I know you thought we were perfect for each other but-"

June's demielf eyes narrow to cat-like slits. "Oh please."

"June, it was just two dates."

"And?"

"How much can you really know about a person in two dates?"

"You know when I decided I was gonna marry Em?" she asks.

"Well, you proposed on-"

"Date one."

You pause. "What?"

"I knew before the end of date one that she was the person I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. I knew it like I know the sky is blue and Versace does bold prints." She waves her hand through the air.

"That's not possible."

"Oh, it is. I realized I was doing everything I could to make her laugh because the sound of it was the best music I'd ever heard."

You can't help but remember Nick's laugh, and the way it came out too loud and honest. Your heart sinks into your stomach.

"And I wanted to keep ordering food, just so we could stay there longer," June continues.

After your first date, you and Nick just walked, walked until the only place you could go was home. You'd never wanted the night to end.

"But what really sealed the deal was how bad I wanted to see her again, even when we'd just said goodnight."

"But," you say, trying to ignore the feeling in your chest. "Couldn't it have just been an infatuation? Wasn't it just potential? Time and effort are what made it love, not your first date."

June shrugs. "Sounds to me like you are trying to convince someone in this room, and I'm pretty sure it's not me."

You lapse into silence as the words ring in your ears. Who are you trying to convince? You know that you had an amazing time with Nick. You know exactly what it felt like to laugh with him, run your hands across his shoulders, kiss him. You know that it was the exact mix of easy and heart tingling. You know that if ever there had been potential for something great, it existed in those two nights with Nick Jakoby.

"It doesn't matter," you say. "I wont get him hurt again."

June sets her plate aside and takes your hand in hers. "Sweetie, I get that. I do. But..." She takes a deep breath. "Listen, I don't know if you are ready to hear this but I'm going to go ahead and say it anyway."

She shifts her place on the couch until she is facing you, your hands cupped gently in her own. The look she gives you is one of kindness, but no-nonsense. It's a mother's look.

"I feel like you are about to ground me for doing something dumb," you say, trying to be light-hearted.

"Kind of. I mean, I do think you did something stupid."

You start to pull away. "June-"

She takes your hands again, more firmly. "You did. You did do something dumb. I love you, hun. I really do but this time? This time I think you screwed up."

"How? By protecting him? By making sure he never has to be in that hospital bed again? June, you didn't see him it was...it was-" You can't even bring yourself to say how bad it was.

June's hands tighten ever so slightly. "I know, sweetie. I know. It sucked. I know how seeing you hurt made me feel, and I can only imagine that it was worse seeing Nick like that. And I can only imagine how guilty it made you feel. But honestly? None of that matters."

"Why not?"

She blows out a soft breath. You can see a hard line of tension in her shoulders. She closes her eyes and when she opens them they are filled with a steady resolve. "Because you didn't even give him a choice. And hun, that was shitty." Since you rarely ever hear June curse, you know exactly how much she must mean this. "I know why you did it. I get it, but I don't really agree with it. You hurt yourself, which was your choice. But you hurt him too. You didn't give him an explanation, and you didn't give him closure." She holds up a hand before you can interrupt. "I'm not saying every person you go on a date with deserves a point by point explanation for why you don't want to see them again. But we both know that Nick wasn't just some date."

"I knew he'd try to talk me out of it."

June shrugs. "Maybe. Probably. But after getting hurt the way that he did, don't you think that he deserved the chance to try?"

Guilt drags at your stomach. You shake your head and pull your hands out of her grip. She lets you.

"I don't know that I'd have been strong enough to tell him no."

June shrugs. "Maybe because you shouldn't have."

You make a sound in the back of your throat and reach for the remote. "Come on, the show is-"

The words you were going to say die in your throat. The screen is filled with a news broadcast. A pretty woman you barely notice is talking about a fire downtown. The words Bright, officers down, possible magical terrorism hang like an ugly miasma in your ears. A picture of Nick superimposes itself over the fire.

You don't even remember getting up. You don't remember grabbing your coat. All you hear is the jingle of keys as you head to the hospital you ought never to have left him at.

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Because I Fangirl Too Hard

For reasons I don’t want to go into, I can’t have children. When the decision was taken away from me I cried. I wasn’t even one of those people who desperately wanted kids, but the fact that the choice was no longer mine was a heartbreaking one. I use FanFiction to cope, and mostly it works. A while ago I found out about Reborns. These are a unique, OOAK doll that an artist paints for you to create a baby doll that is completely yours. They are used, usually, for people who have had miscarriages or infant death or conception issues in general. I think it’s neat, but it took me FOREVER to find just the right artist to make the doll for me. The amazing Michelle can be found here

Now, for those of you who have been following my Blind Date/Blind Hope series the doll I commissioned will be of no surprise to anyone. But I felt a need to share him with you. May I introduce Alexander Bazog

Isn’t he precious!?

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Blind Hope: Chapter 5

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1376 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. 

“I don't want to get another scan, I want someone to tell me how Nick is doing.” Your voice is hoarse, and you aren't sure if it's because you are exhausted, because of the concussion, or if it's because you haven't seen Nick in five hours, and no one will tell you why.  

The nurse gives you a tight lipped look. Her badge dangles from a I-Heart-My-Veteran lanyard. A single pin thanking her for fifteen years of service is perched above a picture that is at least that old. She carries fourteen hours of work beneath her eyes and a viscous smudge on her Felix the Cat scrubs.

“The doctor wants to make sure that you don't have any internal bleeding.”

“I got hit in the head.” You motion to the large ice pack that you are still holding to the stitches there. “I am fine. I have all eleven stitches. I want to know about Nick.”

She doesn't look at you. Her entire world is the clipboard in front of her, and the orders printed on them. “If you don't want to receive any more care, I'll have to have you sign an AMA form.”

You toss the ice pack down. Your head still hurts, despite the pain relievers they gave you. The sound of the fluorescent lighting is like bees humming in your brain. The anesthetic is wearing off, and betadine has dyed your skin. The term 'over it' does not even come close to how you feel about this hospital. “Then will someone tell me where Nick is?”

“Ma'am, I can't give you that information,” she repeats. “If you want to leave, I'll have to get the doctor.” She turns, and something about seeing nothing but her broad back and her short, crimped hair makes you angry.

“We came in together,” you try to argue. Your heart is in your throat. The last thing you saw was Nick surrounded and beaten. Was he okay? Was he even alive? “We came in together, why can't you just tell me what's going on?”

She turns back to you, one hand on the door handle of your tiny, emergency room cubicle. “Ma'am, you have already stated that you are not family. You are not his emergency contact. Coming in from the same emergency doesn't give you much in the way of rights.” Forced politeness is etched into every weary line.

“Do you have a problem with me asking about my boyfriend's health?” Your mouth doesn't even stumble over the title.

If you hadn't been looking for it, you would have missed it. Distaste tugs at the edges of her lips. “I am not allowed to tell you about the status of another patient without consent of the patient or next of kin.” She holds up her hands. “Now, if you want to-”

“I want another nurse.”

Her cheeks, round and soft, concave for a moment. “Another nurse isn't going to tell you anything.”

At this point, you don't care. Everything has clicked, and you know that she's no different from the orcs who beat Nick. She might not be kicking or hitting. Her assault is one of ugly looks and pursed lips. She clutches her clipboard to her chest like it's armor.

“You're right,” you say. “Another nurse might not tell me anything. But another nurse might actually look me in the eye without sneering.”

Her cheeks go pink as she yanks the door open. “It may be a while before you can get a replacement.”

She disappears down the hallway before you can think of a witty comeback. You lay back against the stiff, gurney mattress and plop the ice pack back to your head, hoping it will do some kind of good. You pick up your phone and think about texting June. You put your phone back down. June is the kind of person who would give up the rest of her night to come and take care of you, and worry over you, and probably snap that nurse into pieces. You don't want to put her in that position, You might be willing to tell a bigot nurse that you don't want her near you, but imposing on your best friend feels like crossing a line. You pick up the remote for the tiny television and promise that you'll tell her first thing in the morning.

You flip absently through the channels, unable to concentrate on anything. You pick up your phone again, and try to call Nick. It's futile. It goes right to voicemail. You throw the phone down again.

“C'mon, Nick,” you mutter. “Please be okay.”

An hour goes by, and another one. You watch half an episode of some crime show you can't even remember the name of before you give up and crawl out of the bed. The floor is cold beneath your feet, and your head gives a plaintive throb. You can't just hang out and wait for something to happen anymore.

“Excuse me,” you say, poking your head out into the hall. The entire emergency area is shaped like a big U, with L shaped desks perched every five rooms. Half a dozen hospital personnel are moving from one task to the next with all the grace of a ballet. A nurse looks up from her computer and notices you.

“Yes?” she asks. Her face is kind, youthful, and perhaps a dash naive. “Can I help you?”

“Can anyone tell me if Nick Jakoby is okay?”

Her eyes flick down to her computer. “Jakoby?” she confirms. When you nod she starts to type. “He's in surgery.”

Your heart sinks. Your head goes light. You can feel every stitch on your brow. “Surgery?”

She reads the screen in front of her again. “Yes. It looks like he went in about an hour ago. Do you want me to let you know when he gets out?”

“I...yes...I...are you sure?”

“Ma'am?” she surges up from her seat. You didn't even know you were stumbling until her arm wraps around your back. “Ma'am you need to get back to your room.”

“I need to see him. I need to see Nick.”

“You must be the date.” A woman's voice says. It's not the nurse, or the other nurse, or even June.

An orc woman, her spots pale with age, is standing just outside the door to your room. Her height and bulk is enough to fill the entire doorframe. Pale brown corduroy pants and a dark button down shirt do nothing to hide the thickness of her.

“I...excuse me?”

“I'm Elizabeth Jakoby. I'm Nick's mother.” She steps up and takes your other arm. “I've got her, thank you.”

The nurse doesn't question it, and you are too shocked to say anything until you are back in your room, and she's tucking the hospital blanket around your legs.

“Well now, let's have a look at you.” Warm fingers turned satin with age grip your chin. You find your head turning this way and that. Her face is round, with sloped cheekbones and sharp eyes. “I bet without that bump you've got a fine face.”

“Uhmm.” You fumble with your words, not entirely sure how to respond. You hadn't expected to meet Nick's mother anytime soon, much less under these circumstances. She looks so much like him, you think. The same eyes, the same nose. “Thanks?”

“Employed?”

“Yes.”

“Married?”

“No!” You blink, wondering what is going on. “No, I'm not married. I've never been married.”

The look she gives you is not entirely kind, but it's not angry either. Resignation tinged with confusion. Quietly, she pulls up a chair and takes a seat at your side. You aren't sure if she is more or less intimidating sitting down. “When they called me, I assumed my son had been hurt on the job.” She settles a massive bag in her lap. “Imagine my surprise then when I show up and he's not in uniform.”

“We were on a date.”

“Yes, I gathered that much. Especially since when I showed up to offer my son comfort before they took him into surgery, he couldn't do anything but ask me how you were doing.”

You can feel your blush burn all the way up to your stitches. “He was worried about me?”

She sighs and sits back. “Do you know how I met Nick's father?”

“I don't.”

“It was easy. We were the only two non blooded orcs who had no direct relation. I married his father, and his sister married my brother. Do you understand?” The look she gives you is direct, and silently demanding.

“It was convenient.”

“In the beginning,” she admits. “But we grew to care for one another, and respect. Respect is important.” She sighs and looks you over. “There is little about you that seems worthy of my respect.”

“Excuse me?”

She shrugs, completely unmoved by the hurt in your voice. “I was hoping, when I walked in this room, that I'd see a good orc woman. Blooded, if possible, not if necessary. But instead I find a soft toothed human. And worse, it seems my son is...attached.”

You sit there, stunned to speechlessness. For a moment all you can hear is the lights, and the sound of something beeping in the distance. “I'm sorry?”

“Don't be,” she says, standing. This close you can see just how incredibly tall she is. “Just end the relationship you have with my son.”

“What? Why?” You sit up, anger making you forget that you are supposed to be rest. The bigoted nurse was bad enough, but hearing this from Nick's mother is something else entirely.

The look she gives you is withering. “They just wheeled my son into a surgery room and you have the audacity to ask me why?” She shakes her head. “Not only are you human but your are an idiot too.”

You swallow around a lump in your throat. Her words hurt, even more because they are true. Even through the haze of pain meds and a mild concussion you remember what the orcs said. They hadn't been happy to see Nick, but they'd been even angrier that he was out with a human. Had it been your fault.

“I never meant to-”

She holds up a single hand “I know you didn't. You just didn't think.” Annoyed she stands up. “It would be better for everyone if you let this situation break you apart. I don't want to see my son hurt.”

“You think breaking up wont hurt Nick?”

She doesn't answer until she's already halfway out the door. “Maybe, but at least he'll be alive.”

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Blind Hope: Chapter 4

NickTitle: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1376 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. TRIGGER WARNINGS: Assault and Battery, Injuries, unwanted sexual advances.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Dinner is a stop at a food truck just outside the theater. As the cold night closes in, you order streetside tacos and bottled drinks, he goes for tortas. His arm slinks shyly around you and you lay your head on his shoulders as the nights of the city flicker on. The movie is formulaic, and riddled with tropes, but you find yourself not caring because he is right there beside you. The broadness of his shoulder skims against yours as you both reach for the same pile of snacks that he insisted on picking up. Every now and then you turn your head to catch him looking at you like you are priceless, and he can't believe that you are here.

The smile you give him tells him that you can't believe it either.

“Is the date over?” he asked when the credits rolled.

“It doesn't have to be.”

Desert came next, stopping by yet another late night food truck where massive waffles were piled high with sugar and jellies and whipped cream. There is not clean way to eat it, you realize as you two take a seat on the edge of a drizzling fountain.

“Of all the places you'd want to go for vacation,” you say as you navigate the best corner to attack your late night waffle from. “And you pick Alaska?”

“I like the cold,” he admits, swirling a practically useless fork through sugary foam.“And the snow.”

“What are you doing in LA?”

“Eating waffles.”

You laugh, and he smiles.

“I like your laugh,” he tells you. “You laugh like you mean it.”

“With you? I do.”

The look he gives you borders on awe.

“What?” you ask. “What is it?”

“I think you are magic,” he whispers, like he's afraid to say it out loud. “I don't mean like wands or elves or Brights, I mean like...like-” He looks down, and you don't even think he's seeing the slow escape of a single strawberry. “Like the kind of magic that comes from a perfect BBQ or piles of snow. It's...it's all natural.”

You bite you lip. “You need to stop asking your partner for advice, Nick. You make a person feel special all on your own.”

“Yeah?” He perks up.

“Yes.” His ears flick as he smiles and you barely resist the urge to reach out and touch them. “So. You like the cold, and the snow.”

“Yeah, I mean, can't you just imagine it? Waking up one morning to a deep gray sky, a fire roaring in one of those big cast iron stoves. A pile of blankets and-” He cuts off, seeming to realize he's rambling. “I just like the idea is all. Why? Where would you go for a...a dream vacation?”

You find yourself thinking about Alaska. It was not number one on your list of potential vacation destinations, but now that you have listened to Nick describe it you find you can't quite stop thinking about it. “Well, Alaska doesn't sound horrible.”

“You don't have to say that.”

“You're right, I don't...but I just did. I mean, okay, so, sure. Most people might choose Disneyland or Milan, or Japan as their dream vacation destination, but you, darling, you went for non traditional. And that? I like.”

Nick leans in for a kiss. Your body goes warm, tingling from lips to toes in anticipation. Your eyes are already half closed when you realize that he isn't moving in any further. In fact, he's pulled away. Confused, and a little embarrassed, you open your eyes again and look around.

“What's wrong?” you ask.

His gaze is fixated not on you, but behind. The warmth from them is gone, replaced instead by something distant and uncomfortable. There is a line of visible tension running through his shoulders. A spike of uncertainty spears through you.

“Nick?”

“I smell gunmetal.”

Your uncertainty devolves into fear. You freeze, uncertain what to do, if anything. Just having a gun can't be a problem, right? It's America. Lots of people own guns. You try to comfort yourself with this, but there is something about the look on Nick's face that tells you the comfort of statistics is not going to help much in this situation.

“Jakoby,” a deep, guttural voice says.

“Hello, Isaac.” Nicks words are stilted. His fingers flex around the cup of waffle that he holds.

“You know this Unblooded?” a lighter, but no less guttural voice asks.

Nick's lips form a stark, empty line. He remains still as stone.

A group of orcs saunters around you. At first glance there is a distinct similarity about them, not just in clothing choices; though they must all shop at the same place, but in the pattern of their spots, and the shape of their eyes. They are related, you decide, and, by the length of their sharp teeth, blooded.

“We all know this one,” another orc says. “He's the cop.”

A hiss of contempt ripples through the group. Blue lips peel back to reveal chomping teeth.

“Unblooded and badged,” the smallest of them says. Her eyes, lined with the brightest blue you've ever seen, flick up and down Nick dismissively. The thick, golden earrings that dangle from her lobes glitter as her head tilts in your direction. “And mixing.”

You hear a sharp intake of breath. It's your own. Anger, unexpected and hot, flares through you.  You don't know who these people are, but they are making Nick uncomfortable and you do not like that. The only thing that keeps you in your seat is knowing that at least one of them is carrying a gun.

Nick shifts his weight, and somehow you find his shoulder is in front of yours. It's not much, the smallest of movements, but it speaks volumes on its own. Other than that, he remains completely still. They notice.

“Look at that,” Isaac snorts. “Showing some teeth.”

“Come on guys. We don't have to do this.” Nick shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Shara, how bad does an orc have to be that he can't even get another round tooth to look at him?”

Shara's runs her tongue across her teeth. “Pretty bad.”

“Can't even shoot for elf flesh. Gotta settle for human.” Isaac makes a sound that comes out like a snarl. “But it's always been like this for you, hasn't it Jakoby? Always chasing after humans. Trying to dress, like them, act like them. Even tried to take one to prom. What was her name?” Isaac steps forward, his eyes glittering and angry. There is a chip on the side of one of his long teeth, making it look jagged, and sharp. A thick lattice chain with a symbol you don't recognize glitters around his neck. “Laura? Barbra?”

“Becky.” Nick says, growling out the name. “Her name was Becky.”

“You know,” one of the others says, reaching out with a thick fingered hand to tug at the collar of your shirt. “This one isn't so bad for a human. Nice skin.” He brushes his finger over your cheek. You yank back.

Nick surges to his feet, and it's this action that everyone seems to have been waiting for. A circle forms around him, shoulder to shoulder, blocking you out. You stumble, your waffle falling to the ground.

“Hey!” you shout.

“What are you going to do, Unblooded?” Isaac demands, ignoring you. “You gonna show teeth?”

Nick's jaw clenches until the speckles on his cheeks go pale, but he says nothing. You can see his hands clench and unclench. There is a trembling anger there and you wonder what would happen if it snapped.

“Course he wont,” Shara's voice drips with disgust. “Not even for his piece of flesh.”

Your name leaves Jakoby's lips. He says it softly at first, barely more than a whisper.

“What was that?” Isaac demands, “What did you just say?”

“That is my date, not a piece of flesh.” Jakoby's lips twist upwards. “And my date has a name.” He repeats it again, and this time it comes out as a snarl.

“What the fuck do I care what your date's name is? All that matters, Jakoby, is that you made the mistake of walking down this street, dressed like a fucking elf, with a piece of human flesh-”

You aren't sure who is more surprised by the strike; you, Nick, or the gathered orcs. But Nick's swing connects with Isaac's cheek with a resounding strike. Isaac's head snaps to the side. A spray of blood gets caught against his teeth, turning them from pearl white to angry red.

There is a moment of absolute motionlessness. You forget to breathe. You don't completely understand the complexities of what's going on, but you know enough to know that what Jakoby just did broke some kind of rule. The circle of orcs all look at him like he just stepped on a mouse for fun.

“You drew my blood,” Isaac says, disbelieving.

Nick's eyes are wide. He looks at his still closed fist and the spattering of blood that dapples the leaden blue. He looks up. Your gazes meet and you can see the regret that fills them.

Isaac's strike catches Nick in the stomach, doubling him over. A second hit to the back of his head sends Nick to the ground. Someone's foot flies out, connecting with his jaw. Blood and spittle come out in a high arc, landing on damp concrete. Shara's fist slams into Nick's ear. After that the strikes come in quick, ugly succession. The sound of fists slamming into flesh becomes a terrible drumming. You keep waiting for Nick to fight back, but he doesn't. He takes every hit without more than a grunt of pain.

“Stop it! Stop!” you cry, but they don't hear you. No one seems to.

You spin in a circle, looking for someone, anyone to step in and help. But all you see are uncomfortable looks and diverted gazes. One lone teen is capturing the entire incident on his phone. When he sees you looking he smiles, abashed, and runs off.

“Remember your place, Unblooded!” Isaac is snarling as his fist come down again and again on Nick's back. “Remember what you are.”

Nick can't answer, there is blood spilling from between his lips. His hands are planted on the ground, his head bowed as if he is receiving benediction rather than a beating. A heavy foot slams into his back, driving him flat against the ground.

“Nick?” you call, unable to help yourself. “God, Nick!”

He doesn't look up. You dive for him, and Shara catches you. With incredible strength she shoves you backwards, her lips twisted into an ugly grin. Unable to stop yourself, you throw your body towards Nick again. Shara, faster than you expected, catches you for a second time. Her hands dig into your shoulders, giving you a hard shake of warning.

“This one has more fire than Jakoby.” She turns and spits at him. Her eyes meet yours. “You deserve better than an unwanted round tooth.”

She shoves you back before you can answer. You stumble, landing hard on the ground. Your head connects with the side of the fountain, and all you can see before your vision starts to go blurry is a single, whip cream dappled strawberry falling into the fountain.

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Rosie Speaks

Because this is a side blog and Tumblr is weird, I’m gonna respond to some super nice people who have been giving me compliments here. I’m sorry that these have taken so long to get to, I’ve been in and out of the hospital.

@tiredwritersworld You are lovely, and I really hope that you like chapter 3 as well. Also, I adore your blog in general. So there’s that. I love seeing your comments. Orc luv 4 life.

@quietspontaneity​ There is! There is also a chapter 3 found here I have no idea how many chapters there are going to be, only that there are going to be at least a few more. Thank you for your comments. I’ve been diving into all the orc lore currently available and it is so much fun!

@wandarific Thank you for calling my work on the Poe Dameron fanfic poetic. I squealed out loud when I read that. Several cats were startled.

@horribly-limited I am 99% sure that is a good Oh. If not don’t correct me. <3

@sebbymylove16 And both of my Haldir fics love you too. Okay, no, I love you for showing your appreciation. Seriously, thanks.

If I missed anyone, I’m super, super sorry. I seriously do appreciate each and every like, comment, and message I get from the people who read my work. It gets me through the worst days.

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Reblogging to update

Table of Contents

Since I’m starting to accumulate a bunch of fics I’m going to start collecting them in this post. I’ll reblog it from time to time for the benefit of my followers (y’all rock my world) and myself (my own worst enemy.) For the record I didn’t really intend for this to be a blog of 99% youfics…but here we are?

Youfics and Drabbles

DC

Never Fear Part 1 (Diana/Reader)

Never Fear Part 2 (Diana/Reader)

The Best Laid Plans (Selina Kyle/Reader)

MCU

Boo! (Bruce Banner/Reader)

Good Morning, Darling (Sam Wilson/Reader)

A Taste of Candy (Sam Wilson/Reader)

Elementary

Girls Day Out (Joan Watson/Reader)

Bright

Blind Date Part 1 (Nick Jakoby/Reader)

Blind Date Part 2 (Nick Jaokby/Reader)

Blind Hope (Sequel to Blind Date)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Star Wars

Just a Drink (Poe Dameron/Reader)

LOTR

Idle Kisses Part 1 (Haldir/Reader)

Idle Kisses Part 2 (Haldir/Reader)

Long form Chapters

Ghosts of Coruscant Chapter 1 (A murder mystery story set in the Star Wars Universe that puts the worlds worst Jedi and the universes most awkward soldier at the center of a serial killer’s nightmare)

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Blind Hope: Chapter 3

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1376 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. 

Your life takes on a happy rhythm the next few days. The stark familiarly of eat, sleep, work, friendly chats with June, and quiet evenings at home intermingle with the rush of getting to know Nick. You wake up every morning with a text from him, usually something short, simple and awkward. But, in their own strange way, they give you an insight into orcs in general, and Nick in particular.

Hope you slept well, one says, I know that humans like long sleep.

You, with curiosity piqued, decided to research orc sleeping habits. According to Wikipedia, being the best/worst place for information, orcs prefer to sleep twice a day, for four hours at a time. When you ask Nick about this he says that its true, but some orcs have to shift their sleeping schedules for work.

Another day he sent: Dreamed of you. You were dancing to -----

What followed was a series of letters that you recognized as Vukht from your orc language lessons. Orcish, more traditionally known as Bodzvokhan, had its own alphabet, Vukht, though it intermingled with Russian. Not surprising, you think, considering that orcs came from the Pripet Marshes. You, after getting home from work that evening, pulled down your old notes and rooted through them in order to do some amateur translations.

Megzor you decide after shifting the letters from Vukht to Cyrillic, and from there you determine that he is saying Bad Blood. Feeling like a sleuth of the highest caliber you type Bad Blood and Orc into your search engine and come up with a popular band. Ten minutes later you have a playlist. They aren't half bad, and, after surprising him with some of the lyrics, he confesses that they are his favorite band.

Do you dance? You asked that night.

Only if you ask really nicely.

Are you bad at it?

Horrible.

You fall asleep later imagining dancing with Nick Jakoby. In your dreams he isn't horrible, not even bad. In your dreams, he's perfection.

~~~~~~~~~

“Hey stranger!” A familiar face calls as you are locking your door Saturday evening. You are on your way out the door, ready for your date. You find yourself staring into the face of Alex Finn, your neighbor. Once upon a time, just after Alex moved in, the two of you had tried to date. Alex had seemed like a perfect match in that cute, educated, and financially secure kind of way. Too bad that neither of you had felt even the tickle of a spark.

“Hey, Alex!” You smile.

His big brown eyes sweep you over from crown to toe and back up. “You are looking fantastic.”

You brush your fingers over a pair of fitted slacks and buttoned down top. “Really? Promise?”

“Would I lie?”

“If you thought it meant getting my corner apartment you might.”

He chuckles. “Wont argue that. Date?”

“Yeah, date number two. It's been a while since I had one of those.” You pause, and notice that Alex is dressed up too. “You?”

“Dinner with mom. Pretty sure she's setting me up.” He rolls his eyes to the sky. “Again.”

You find yourself thinking back to being set up with Nick. The anxiety, the frustration, the sudden, unexpected interest.

“Give her a break,” you find yourself saying. “You never know who she might bring.”

He holds up hands in mock surrender. “If I ever make it to a second date, I might agree with you.”

Your conversation falls into safer topics as you share the elevator on the way to the first floor. You ask about Gimli, his dog, and he asks about good books you've read lately. It takes you all the way to the sidewalk, and, once there, your heart stops.

You aren't sure if it's the carefully pressed charcoal gray slacks, the dark, crimson red button down top, or the coppery three-button vest that catches your eyes first, but taking the way the outfit clings and breaths has your mouth going dry. A pair of thick, dark rimmed glasses are perched on his broad nose. They shift as his ears give a little wiggle.

“Hey,” he says, half breathless.

“Hi,” you respond, once you remember that you are supposed to speak.

“You...you look great.”

You almost laugh. How can he even notice how you look when he's standing there, looking like he walked off the cover of some women's interest magazine.

“You too.”

For a second you just stand there, staring into one another's eyes. The whole of the city seems to fade away, leaving just the pair of you. Even from the distance of a foot and a half you feel utterly aware of him. It would be so easy to reach out and touch him, run your fingers over the curve of his ear, or down the line of his chest. How easy would it be to flick open all of those buttons and leave him bare chested and-

“I'm Alex Finn, I'm just a friendly neighbor.”

Nick's eyes tear themselves away from yours. A strange flicker runs through them as he takes in Alex.

“Neighbor?” he asks.

“Alex, this is Nick. We're dating.”

Alex's face goes through several stages of feelings, and not all of them you understand. Confusion is easy, then something that you might call fear, and then, finally, settling on concerned amusement. Alex extends his hand to Nick.

“You must be something special to land this one.”

Nick looks down, his ears twitching. “I don't know about-”

“He is,” you say, taking Nick's hand. “He definitely is.”

The look Nick gives you is enough to turn your heart into half formed jelly. His fingers lace with yours and all the days that you spent worrying about imagining something just melt away.

“Have fun you two,” Alex says, waving you both goodbye.

You turn to Nick, prepared to do just that, but find that Nick is hesitating. His sunset colored eyes are focused on the retreating back of Alex.

“Hey,” you say, tugging gently. “You okay?”

“You two dated?”

You blink, surprised. “We went on a date, once, almost four years ago. It was uncomfortable. Why?” You tug again until he looks at you. “Are you jealous?”

His lips draw back over his teeth for just a moment. His nose twitches. “I...smelled...you when you walked off the elevator.”

It takes you a long minute to figure out exactly what he is saying. And then you laugh. “You smelled...lust.”

He shrugs, and looks away again. You have two choices. You could be annoyed that he was jealous about Nick, or you could be amused. You settled for something between the two and give a tug on his copper colored vest.

“Well, that could be because I shared a thirty second elevator ride with a friend and neighbor, someone I've never had any sexual feelings for. Or, it could be because the first thing I saw when I stepped off that elevator was the hottest guy in this entire city wearing...” You tug on the top button of the vest. “...all of this.”

His eyes find yours, and you know by the twitch of his nose that he is sniffing the air again. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” You go up on your toes, and place the lightest kiss you can manage on the corner of Nick's mouth. His lips move as he swallows. When you don't immediately move away his head turns to yours.

You wondered if that first, and only kiss, had been a fluke. That a perfect storm of events had culminated in the way your lips met. You know now that it wasn't. The way his mouth glides across yours sends shivers down your spine. His hands rise automatically to that spot just above your hips, turning you until your chest is against his. Heat sparks in all the places where your bodies touch.

“So,” he says when your lips part, his voice uneven. “Movie?”

You lick the taste of him from your lips. “Let's...get some food first. Then movie.” You finally open your eyes and find that he's starring at your mouth like he wants another taste. “Maybe I can talk you into dancing.”

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Blind Hope Chapter 2

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1508 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. Chapter One Found Here

“I'm sorry-” he starts.

“I wanted to-” you say at the same time. His words and yours overlap, mingle, and fall apart. The laughter that follows is tight, like the both of you are afraid to be amused or angry or something in between. But, beneath that, hope blooms.

If you can laugh about something so simple as talking over one another, then maybe there is more between your than apologetic flowers and wasted days.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, softly. It's amazing how someone with such a gruff voice can sound so gentle.

“You go first.” You pull your legs beneath you. When that's not enough you pull a blanket across your legs. It's soft, and the feel of it as you brush your fingers anxiously back and forth offers a little comfort. A sliver of moonlight turns the fabric silver. “Please.”

“I should have found a way to call you sooner.” He lets out a breath that you can almost feel through the distance of the telephone.

You chew on your lip, twist the blanket between your fingers. “Why didn't you?”

“I broke my phone.” There is something about the way he says it, like he's practiced the words a thousand times that makes you uncertain of their authenticity.

“It's a funny thing,” you say, plucking at a piece of invisible lint. “You're a pretty careful guy. I noticed that during our walk. You seem to be pretty aware of your strength, Nick.”

The silence stretches again, this time it's heavier. Anxiously you tug the blanket off your legs and readjust your legs. It's like you've suddenly forgotten how your body works, like you can't remember how you like to sit.

“Well, I didn't break it. Johannson broke it.”

You raise your brow and go still. Your limbs don't matter anymore. “Johannson?”

“A co-worker. He was...he was messing around.” The words are flat, the amusement forced. You think the huff of air that follows is supposed to be a laugh but it is empty of amusement.

“Like a joke?”

“Yeah. A joke.”

You chew on your lip for a moment. There is a weight in your chest that you can't put a name to. “Hey, Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“You aren't a very good liar. If you don't want to tell me everything, you don't have to. But don't lie. Please?”

The sound of his pacing echoes through the phone. That feeling in your chest grows heavier. Had you said too much? Pushed too hard? After all, one date didn't necessarily mean he had to explain everything in his life to you. And yet, you think as you slide from the couch to do a little pacing of your own, it seems really important that you know what happened, and understand. Nine days felt like forever, and you want, maybe even need, an explanation.

“I'm sorry,” he says again.

“I know.”

“It's like that thing that frat houses do to new members. You know, to make sure they are letting the right people in.” You wonder if he's trying to convince himself, or you. “It's normal. It's...funny.”  

“Breaking your personal property?” You come to a stop in the middle of your living room and swtich the phone from one ear to the other.

“Well, he thought it was funny,” Nick finally says.

There was a universe of hurt in those few words. It staggers your heart in a way you did not expect. You suddenly wish he were right there, rather than halfway across the city. Though, to be fair, you have no idea what you might do to fix the pain you heard.

“Oh, Nick-”

“It's fine. Really.”

It's not, and you know it's not. You are pretty sure he knows that too.  Anxiety and frustration carry you into the kitchen. Your eyes land on the roses. Their colors really are striking. The more you look, the more you notice. Pink petals have veins of blue and green weaving their way through them. The yellow ones have the slightest hint of silver dappled along the stems. The orange blossoms are tipped ever so slightly with red. They remind you of his eyes. Your lips curl ever so slightly. Slowly you reach out and touch one. For a moment nothing happens, and then, as if by magic, the petals deepen in hue. It's like a blush.

“Ward told you to send me flowers?” you ask. It's an olive branch. He doesn't want to talk about it, and you don't want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already is.

“I didn't know what to do for a human woman.” He pauses. “That sounds terrible.”

Curiosity has you tilting your head. “What would you do if I were an orc?”

“Well, three hundred years ago I'd have pillaged the home of someone who had trespassed against you and stolen something that you wanted.”

“Well that's both illegal and romantic.”

The laughter that rings through the phone is warm. It fills you from your ear to your toes. You pluck the orange blossom from the bouquet and run it over your lips. You remember the way he kissed you and that warmth becomes a tingle.

“Today,” he says, “if you were an orc woman, what I'd want wouldn't matter.”

“Why not?” The moment the words are out of your mouth you know they are the wrong ones to ask. “I'm sorry, that was rude wasn't it?”

He sighs. “It's okay. I just...”

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Nick. Honestly.”

“No. No, you deserve to know.” He clears his throat. “Do you know what Clan Law is?”

Not really, you want to say, but that's not ultimately true. You've heard about it on the news. Journalists toss the phrase around whenever there is a confrontation in orc heavy locations. It's a theme in orcish music, and during your orc language studies it was only lightly touched on because, as the teacher explained, humans just couldn't understand. Moreover, you tried to do a little research after your first date with Nick, but the thought of admitting that makes your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“I know a little,” you finally admit. “But I'd prefer to hear your explanation.”

“Clan Law is...it's important,” he tries to explain. “No, that's not right. Hold on. I haven't tried to explain clan law since I was a kid.” He clears his throat. And, when that isn't enough, he coughs. “For most orc, nothing matters more than your clan, and the stories of your clan. Being able to trace your blood back to someone who did something great is the best thing an orc can offer to his clan. More than that, those same great heroes set down our Laws. Telling us what we could and couldn't do and more.” His words, which had been picking up speed, come to a sudden halt. “Clan Law is supposed to decide everything an orc does.”

“Okay.” You turn the words over in your mind. You think you understand, at least the surface idea, if not the complexities.

“Laws can change a little, from one clan to the next. But, you know, if you can't trace your line back, if you've never done anything heroic or great, you aren't blooded.”

He says blooded like it ought to be capitalized, like it needs its own definition in a dictionary.

“You are going to have to explain that one to me too.”

“Blooded is something I'm not,” he finally spits out. It's a toss up if this bothers him more or less than Johannson breaking Nick's phone. “My father's not, my mother's not. We aren't welcome among most clans because of our round teeth.”

Your heart feels heavy. A piece of the puzzle that is Nick Jakoby falls into place. Here was a man who wasn't accepted by humans for being an orc, and yet wasn't orcish enough for that either. Here was a man who had clung to the idea of being a cop, and yet there was at least one man on the squad who wasn't making Nick feel welcome there either. Suddenly the fact that he hadn't called no longer matters to you.

“Well, on the plus side,” you say, trying your best to sound light, “You send excellent flowers.”

“You mean it?” he asks.

“Enough that I am seriously thinking about asking you out on a date this weekend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, something extra cheesy, I think.” You run the rose across your own cheek. “I mean, we covered the traditional dinner date. Maybe a movie next?”

“I could do a movie,” he says. “I do the night shift this Friday.”

“Saturday night? Or Sunday morning?” you offer.

“Saturday night.” He nearly pounces on the offer. “I'd really like that.”

“I would too.” You realize you are grinning. You spin the rose through the air. “And Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Feel free to call me every day between now and then.” Chapter 3 Found Here

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Blind Hope Chapter 1

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 2299 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction.

Authors Note: This was supposed to be like...five hundred words. I don’t know what happened, but here you go. I put in a break so that this didn’t take up anyones feed too much. Also, sorry I got so moody with this. It had a bad anxiety day.

You are engrossed in work when you hear someone call your name. By the sound of it, it isn't the first time they've tried getting your attention. You look up from your desk and see a courier in a red and blue uniform holding up a bouquet that can only be described as extravagant. Roses of every available color mingle with babies breath and other, smaller flowers that you don't know the names of.

“If you could...just sign here?” The courier is doing their best to sound professional, but you get the feeling that the flowers are heavy and there are other delivers to make. Stunned, you sign for the flowers. Relieved, the courier puts them on your desk and absconds.

Transfixed, you run your finger across one of a petal so dark blue it's nearly purple. It's like dewy satin beneath your touch. The bloom opens and a soft floral scent fills the room. It brings with it a gentle, silvery chime. These aren't just flowers, you realize, they are elven roses. They'll continue to bloom for a whole year, maybe longer with a bit of care, and they carry song as well as scent.

They are also, ridiculously expensive.

“What...on earth?” June's voice cuts through your reverie. Bashfully you whirl around, hoping against hope that you can block out the sight of your unexpected gift. “I...uhm...” But June's already there, manicured fingers on her lemon yellow hips. You decided long ago that June was pretty much the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth. An amalgam of American genetics mingled with a dash of magic gave her rich brown skin and hazel eyes and hair so dark and curly that the sun could get lost in it. Her eyes narrow and then go wide “Are those what I think they are?” she asks in a voice made for radio. “Maybe?” She rolls her eyes and skims past you. Gentle as can be she bends to a blossom that matches her outfit and takes a deep whiff. Her lips, glossy and bright, curl into a cat like smile. “Entarnian,” she says in perfect elfish. The tiniest points in her ears, nearly invisible beneath the wealth of her hair, belie a distant heritage. “Oh, sweetie, these are incredible.” You assumed as much, but getting June's stamp of approval means that these flowers are pretty much exactly as expensive as you thought they were. “I was afraid of that.” June blinks. “Afraid? Why?” She pulls away from the arrangement. “Who are they from?” You bite your lip. Honestly, you aren't sure. You've been on a lot of dates in the past few months, and only one of them went well. No, you admit, it was perfect. Sure, it was just dinner, and a walk, but you'd really felt something. You thought he had too, but then he didn't call. He didn't text. It's been nine days since you heard anything from Nick Jaokby and you are pretty sure you aren't going to hear from him ever again. At first you were angry about it. Now you're just confused. “I don't know. I went on a date with that banker last night.” June's nose wrinkled. “The thrice-divorced? Oh...sweetie.” You shrug. You hadn't really wanted to go on the date either, but you had hoped that dinner and a show would pull you out of this five day funk you've been feeling. It hadn't. Mr. Peter Prescott was pretty much everything you dislike in a potential partner. It wasn't his looks, those were plastic perfect, it was everything else about him. He'd spent the first ten minutes of your date demanding to know if you'd even slept with an elf and it had pretty much gone downhill from there. You desperately hope that the flowers aren't from him, but they seem like exactly the kind of thing he might send in the hopes of guilting you into a second date. The very thought of it makes your stomach turn sour. “I don't know,” you repeat. “Well, only one way to find out.” Quick as a lash June's hand dives into the greenery. The roses chime merrily, creating a delicate music. Moments later her hand reappears, clutching a tiny, pink card between her fingers. “There we are.” You see your name written in hurried script. It's not the fine, practiced hand of a florist, but there is something charming about it all the same. June passes it to you. “Open it.” You raise your brow. “You aren't the boss of me.” It's not true, and you both know it. June, who is your best friend, is also your direct superior. She just crosses her arms and gives you a long, deadpan look. “Alright, alright.” You tug at the envelope flap and a little card spills out. It's not particularly large, but you think it's bigger than the average floral notecard. You hesitate to open it. Right now the note, and the flowers, could be from anyone. Right now they are Schrodinger's flowers, and you kind of like them that way. Perhaps someone from your family is celebrating, and everyone you are related to got a bunch of overpriced, musical flowers. Maybe they are from a secret admirer who is practically perfect in every way. Maybe...just maybe they are from who you'd really like them to be from. You don't even realize you are holding your breath when you open the card. I wanted to say I'm sorry The note begins. Your heart gives a hopeful leap. Ward told me that I wasn't supposed to call for three days or I'd look stupid. I looked stupid anyway because I broke my phone when putting my warbag into my locker. I didn't know how to say I'm sorry. Ward said to send flowers. I didn't know what kind. I hope these are okay. At the very bottom of the card, hastily scrawled in what little space was left, is a phone number. “Well now. That explains it.” You bite your lip. You want to believe it. You really do but there is that tiny, ugly voice in the back of your head screaming at the top of its anxiety crafted lungs that breaking a phone doesn't delete all the information. He could have found another way to get your number. Right? And yet, maybe he couldn't. Or maybe he was nervous. Or maybe... “Stop it,” June says. You look up from the card. “Stop what?” “Stop thinking whatever you are thinking that's putting that look in your eyes.” You close the card. “What look?” “The one that says you are going to overthink whatever that card says until you make yourself sick.” Gingerly she plucks the card from your grasp. You let her take it. As she reads it her lips curve. Her eyes go bright. “Awww!” You roll your eyes; part amused, part annoyed. You wish that you had the same reaction. You wish the only thing you felt was the sweet joy that is practically beaming out of June's demielf eyes. “He could have called you, could have gotten my number all over again like he did before.” June's smile wilts. “Don't do this.” She sighs and deposits the note on your desk. “I am begging you not to do this.” “Do what?” You cross your arms. The turmoil of emotions that's been stirring in you for nine days bubbles up inside your chest. “Not take what some guy I went on one date with says happened?” “Nick isn't just 'some guy' and you know it.” “I had a four hour conversation with him.” You aren't sure if you are telling her or yourself. “I was a nice conversation, but that's all it was.” She narrows her eyes at you. June, despite being no more than two months older than you, has this amazing mom expression. Its that particular mix of I-care-about-you and you're-being-dumb that only the most nurturing of people can master without even trying. She crosses on Jimmy Choo clad foot over the other and takes in a slow breath. “Call him.” “What?” “I know you are already talking yourself out of it. You are already coming up with seven different excuses of why it can wait until later.” “I'm working.” You point at your desk. “No you aren't. You are officially on break.” “I already-” “I swear to god if you don't call him I will fire you.” You return her direct look with one of your own. “No you wont.” She sighs. Her shoulders drop an inch or so. She reaches behind her and picks up the card. “You're right. Bluff called. But darling, I love you nearly as much as I love my wife and I am telling you that by second guessing and overthinking you are going to do nothing but hurt yourself.” She presses the card to your hands. “You don't have to call him right now. Take what time you think you need but please, I'm begging you.” She touches a single finger to your forehead. “Stop thinking the worst of people.” She squeezes your shoulder, and walks away to leave you with your own thoughts. You don't think the worst of people, honestly. You just know that sometimes people are the absolute worst. Some more than others. It's printed clearly on the front page of newspapers, emblazoned across social media. It's all there, plain as day. You aren't Nick, you aren't sure that everyone is just trying their best. Your thoughts come to a crash behind your eyes. Nick. The memory of him saying those words with the fervent tone of a true believer rolls through you. He said it so honestly, with such genuine hope that you found yourself looking at the world a little differently. You started to notice things, nice things. At least for the first few days. Then he hadn't called and you'd stopped looking. You sigh to yourself. So what. So he didn't call. It was only nine days, not the totality of your existence. Nine days was nothing. Even so, that ugly voice wont shut up. You spend the rest of the day at your desk. At five o'clock you gather up your things, including the flowers and take the trolly home. You stop at your favorite deli and pick up a sandwich for dinner. You give half of it to the little old lady who lives in the apartment next to you. She comments on your flowers, asks about who sent them. You give a vague “oh, no one” answer before retreating to the sanctuary of your apartment. You read and reread the note a thousand times. You come up with worst case scenarios and fairy tale solutions. You binge watch a television show and think about adopting a pet. You eat your sandwich. You smell the roses. “Damnit,” you mutter as you pick up your phone. You dial the first four numbers and then erase them. You dial the first five and erase those two. You toss your phone down and pull your laptop into your lap so you can look at pet adoption sites and social media pages. The sandiwch in your belly starts to feel like lead. If it had been someone else you might have been amused, maybe flattered, But this wasn't someone else. This was Nick Jakoby. You spent four hours in his company and started to see the whole world differently. You saw more kindness and hope than you ever expected to. You saw a glimpse of what it might have been like to see things the way you think he does. And then he didn't call. Oh, you'd think about calling him. You'd even picked up the phone. He'd said that he'd get in touch with you and you had believed him. After all the liars and the idiots and the buffoons and thrice divorced bankers you had wholehartedly believed him. You had believed he'd want to see you. That you would wake up and there would be text asking you for coffee, or something later asking if you wanted to go for another walk. But nothing had happened. One day turned into two, and two had turned into nine and by the end of it all you hated him for not keeping his promise. But more than that you'd hated yourself for not sucking down your own anxiety and reaching out to him first. “Damnit,” you snarl and pick up the phone. Before you can stop yourself you are jabbing his number into your phone hard enough to make the screen rainbow. Ring This is dumb, you tell yourself. You are in a bad mood. You should not call him right now. You should hang up. Wait for your mood to settle. June is right. You overthink things. You drag yourself down. You let your hope for the best get drowned out by your expectancy of the worst. Ring What are you even going to say if he picks up? That you've missed him? It'd be the truth. You have missed him. But that's not the point. Maybe you should tell him you are angry that you haven't heard from him. You've been worried. That would be true too. But is it the whole truth? Nothing but? Ring The call connects with a brief click and smoke sound. The first thing you hear is his breath, a sharp intake of air that sounds hopeful. He says your name like a prayer. You sag against your couch, pull a pillow into your lap and push your phone harder against your ear like that can somehow bring him closer. “Nick?” you ask. “I am so glad you called.” He says it the way he says everything. Like he means it. “I am too.”  

Chapter 2 Found Here

[fangirlingincamouflage]

CanonxOc ships are good high quality ships.

No seriously, you wan to ship your OC with a canon character, do it.

You want to write a fic where your OC, or OCs get with a fictional canon love interest, go for it. You wanna draw fan art of your OC with said canon love interest? Do it! want to post it on the internet, be it a fanfiction site, tumblr or deviantart? yes go for it!

if people act rude to you about it, just ignore them, you’re having fun and it isn’t their business. 

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Table of Contents

Since I’m starting to accumulate a bunch of fics I’m going to start collecting them in this post. I’ll reblog it from time to time for the benefit of my followers (y’all rock my world) and myself (my own worst enemy.) For the record I didn’t really intend for this to be a blog of 99% youfics...but here we are?

Youfics and Drabbles

DC

Never Fear Part 1 (Diana/Reader)

Never Fear Part 2 (Diana/Reader)

The Best Laid Plans (Selina Kyle/Reader)

MCU

Boo! (Bruce Banner/Reader)

Good Morning, Darling (Sam Wilson/Reader)

A Taste of Candy (Sam Wilson/Reader)

Elementary

Girls Day Out (Joan Watson/Reader)

Bright

Blind Date Part 1 (Nick Jakoby/Reader)

Blind Date Part 2 (Nick Jaokby/Reader)

Blind Hope (Sequel to Blind Date)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Star Wars

Just a Drink (Poe Dameron/Reader)

LOTR

Idle Kisses Part 1 (Haldir/Reader)

Idle Kisses Part 2 (Haldir/Reader)

Long form Chapters

Ghosts of Coruscant Chapter 1 (A murder mystery story set in the Star Wars Universe that puts the worlds worst Jedi and the universes most awkward soldier at the center of a serial killer’s nightmare)

[fangirlingincamouflage]

365 Days of Drabbles - Day 11

Title: Blind Date pt 2 Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1977 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Blind Date, awkward conversation, shyness Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. Author’s Note: This is Part 2. Part One can be found HERE

The condensation on your glass is turning into water droplets. They hand on the brim before running down the stem in slow, lethargic rivers. Nick has been looking at the menu for ten minutes. You, who know the menu by heart, have been looking at him.

“Tikka....tikka,” he mutters under his breath. “Curry...”

It's probably the tenth time you've heard him say random words from the menu.

“You don't know what any of this is, do you?” you finally ask. You feel a twinge of guilt. You know that orcs have different dietary needs than humans, but you honestly don't know what they are. If you'd known who your date was going to be, you might have done some research.

He looks up, eyes wide. Then his shoulders jut near his ears and he seems to turtle into himself.

“No,” he says. “I don't. I've never been...here.”

You chew on your lip and mull over your choices. Apologize, which is pretty much your knee jerk reaction to any situation. Or tease him. Which you don't think will go over very well for either of you.

“Would you like help?”

He almost sags with relief. “Yes, please.”

After trying to talk across the table you give up and slide around to the seat next to him. His knee brushes yours as you drag your finger down the menu, explaining what you know about each item. You barely remember what you say, since all you can think about is the feel of him as he leans in to listen. Un unexpected, but not unwanted, tingle starts low in your belly. He doesn't try to touch instead his hands remain folded anxiously between his knees.

“Are you nervous?” you ask.

“Hmm? Oh, no. No. I'm fine I just-” He cuts off as he sees the look you give him. “I don't...date.”

“Like...recently? Or....”

“This is my first one.” His eyes stay riveted on the menu, as if he suddenly finds the laminated letter illumination utterly fascinating.

“Ever.” You know the clarification is unnecessary, but you can't seem to help yourself.

He continues looking at the menu like he will find the secrets to the universe written somewhere between the palak paneer and the vegi korma. To be fair, the paneer is pretty divine. Tension radiates off of him and you find you aren't sure what to say.

“I'm sorry. Maybe I should go.” He shifts his chair back. Before you can think your hand grips the sleeve of his shirt. The flannel is soft beneath your fingers. He goes still. There is six inches of space between you, and for all that it feels like a chasm.

“Listen, I've been on like...thirty pretty terrible first dates in the past few months and so far this is going really well.”

His head snaps around. “Really?”

“The last person I went out with decided to spend the first forty minutes talking about their mother and how perfect she was.”

Nick's nose wrinkle. “That seems...excessive.” He settles back into his seat next to you. His shoulder brushes yours.

“Oh, it was,” you promise.

“I don't think I could talk about my mom for forty minutes.” He thinks about it. “I'm not sure I could talk about anything for forty minutes.”

You laugh, and the light returns to his eyes. He moves and you realize that you are still holding onto his sleeve. Gently you let it go.

“Are you ready to order?” That's what you say, but what you are really asking is if he wants to continue the date. His eyes, those incredible firelit eyes, fix on yours.

“You said that all the dishes come out together, right? Like...family style?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“How about you order for both of us?” He shifts his shoulders and his hand brushes against yours.

“Best date ever.”

And it is. After ordering more than your weight in food, and watching as he tries everything that isn't beef. You talk for what feels like hours and minutes all at once. You cover all the usual first date topics; friends, family, and work. You talk about favorites, and about dreams.

“All I ever wanted to be is a cop,” he says as you split the last bits of dessert. “From the time I was a kid.” He sits back and with a contented smile.  “It's the best thing ever.”

“I don't know that I could do it.” You shake your head. “I mean, I studied it in college, along with like, five thousand other things. But I don't know that I could carry around a gun and try to figure out who is right and who isn't and all the inbetweens.”

He shakes his head. “It's not about that. The right and wrong. It's just about doing the best you can do.”

There is something heavy in his words and you can't figure out why.

“I feel like that's you all over,” you say. Easily you push away your empty plate. “Trying to do your best.”

He hunches his shoulders shyly. “Isn't everyone?”

You find your hand wrapping over his. There is so much warmth there. He is utterly gentle as he turns his palm over to press against yours. “No, Nick, not everyone. Lots of people, I'm sure, are but not everyone.”

The pair of you split the check, and rather than go home, start to walk down the not quite snowy streets. While it was cold enough to snow, it wasn't cold enough to stick. It almost never is. His hand laces with yours like it was always meant to be there. His gait is slow and easy, and you find your steps matching easily with his.

You aren't sure if either of you really pick a direction, you just start walking.

“I think everyone is trying their best,” he says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “I just don't think we all agree on what best means.”

“Oh?”

His fingers twitch against your wrist nervously. It takes him a moment to answer, but when he does it's blunt, honest. “For some people, doing their best means going to the places in this world where things are the worst and trying to fix them. Don't get me wrong, that's really important. But for other people, doing their best means that they aren't yelling at the people who annoy them.”

“You say that last part like you know.”

He smirks. “My partner likes to yell a lot. It's how he relieves stress.”

You laugh and your arms swing as the two of you stroll. It's never been this easy before. You've always hesitated before holding hands with someone, like it's some big step that you could never take back. But here, with Nick, it's like it was always supposed to happen.

“How do you relieve stress?” you ask, realizing a second late that it sounds like a bad pick-up line. You quickly rephrase. “I mean, what do you do for fun?”

“Oh, uhm.” He shrugs and looks down the nearly empty street. “I mean...I don't know.” When you don't immediately respond, he continues. “I spent years trying to get on the force. Being the first orc to get a badge wasn't easy.”

“That feels like an understatement.”

“I had to work hard. Really hard. They have all these tests and trials. Some of them felt like they were put there just to make sure I didn't make it.” He says it without anger, which is a surprise. You wonder if you'd be angry in the same situation.

“But you made it,” you say, bumping your shoulder to his. “You're a cop.”

“Yeah,” he says with reverence. “I did. But I didn't really learn how to not get stressed out.” He looks up suddenly. “I garden.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah. I do my own composting and everything. I like to grow things.”

You smirk. It sounds very not-orcish. Or maybe all orcs like growing things. Honestly, school never really taught you much about them other than the facts that they sided with the dark lord and aren't very fast.

“I'd like to see it.”

“Really?” he asks, his steps slowing. “You'd like to see me again?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly. Your hand tightens ever so slightly on his. “Do you want to see me?”

“Oh yes.”

The pair of you lapse into another, longer silence, but it doesn't have the awkward weight that it might have had. The presence of Nick at your side feels easy, comfortable. “I think I know why June set you up with me,” you say after a while. “You have optimism.”

“Is it optimistic to hope for a... a goodnight kiss?” he asks as you come to a stop in front of your apartment.

Your heart speeds up in your chest. “You want to kiss me?”

“I..I mean. If you don't want to, that's fine. I just...it's only...Ward said that if you have a good date then you'll know because of the kiss and I just-” He cuts off. “I'm not great at telling when someone is playing a joke. Human jokes are different from orc ones.”

You tilt your head to the side. “How do orcs joke?”

His face is utterly deadpan when he says, “Weapons are usually involved.”

It take you a full ten seconds to realize he's just made a joke. When you laugh he joins you. His laughter is a little loud, and a little awkward, but it's honest all the same. The moment the last chuckle eases from his lips you fasten your mouth to his.

He goes absolutely still against you, like marble. The speckled blue lips are warm and soft. Then his hand slides around your back. Fingers tremble against your skin as his lips start to move. Slowly, deliberately he tilts his head, pressing the tip of his tongue to yours. A surge of heat sweeps through you and your body leans a little harder to his. Your hand slides over the shoulders you've been eyeing all night. The way they bunch and shift as he eases you even closer is hypnotic.

Solid. That's the first word that comes to mind. Nick Jakoby is absolutely solid. The heat of him radiates through you as your kiss turns from gentle to hungry. It's all to easy to imagine him scooping you up and carrying you up the three flights of stairs that separate you from your bed.

He doesn't.

You are both disappointed and intrigued.

“I had...I had a really great time tonight.” His words are breathless.

Yours aren't any better when you respond. “Does it have to end?”

He makes a sound, nearly a growl. The fingers on your back flex with desire. His hips arch towards you and you are already forming the words to invite him up when his phone goes off.

It's not orcish music this time. It's a high, shrill sound that cuts through the moment with all the precision of a blade.

You step back, startled. Apology already fills his features as he looks at the screen.

“That's work,” he explains.

For a brief breath of a second you feel disappointed, but then you remember the look in his eyes as he talked about being a cop. Instead you put your hand to his cheek and place your lips very lightly to his.

“Go. Be a good cop.” Your eyes are filled with playfulness. “And then maybe you can come be bad with me.”

He growls again. His body presses hard against yours and you feel everything that the clothes he wears tries to hide.

“I'll...I'll call you.”

When he turns away you watch him go. You feel a sudden shock of worry about him going off to do whatever it is that work is calling him in for.

“You better call me, Nick Jakoby,” you whisper to yourself.