#Glances Cavort

[wickedzeevyln]

Free of This Distance

My heart is calling out yours. One can hope never to reach the bottom of the cup filled with steaming coffee, lost in trance, luxuriating in a conversation wrapped in ribbons of evoking thoughts and decadent flavors. One second after another, the veil is peeled, unmasking secrets until they are naked and the heat floods the senses, charcoal eyes running against the seconds and face tightening…

[hotchscoffeecup]

from across the bar

summary: an observation here and a sarcastic retort there is a sure fire way to catch agent hotchner’s attention at the hotel bar. after sharing a drink, he invites you to his hotel room where he gives it you just the way you ask for it: rough.

tags: light bondage, minor self-degradation, hand sex, oral sex, p in v sex, ass slapping, rough sex

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

rating: m, mdni

word count: 4.2k

Goosebumps bristle across your skin; the sharp bite of winter’s wind whipping against your cheeks and tossing your hair about your face. You fold your arms across your chest, tucking your hands beneath your biceps and thinking you ought to have worn a thicker coat. The thin suede Calvin Klein duster you’re wearing flutters about your ankles as the doorman tips his head in greeting and pulls the door wide. Heat rushes out to greet you and you smile in thanks as you cross through the threshold.

Friday night at The Ritz-Carlton is as busy as any bar or restaurant in DC. Men and women dressed in exorbitantly priced suits and dresses mill about, laughing and cavorting over drinks; standing at cocktail tables or seated at the bar or sleek leather seated areas interspersed throughout the modern space. Recess lighting creates a dim ambience that gives Hollister a run for its money. Your lips twitch and you have to fight to school your facial expression. The opulence is unnecessary, but you roll your shoulders back and situate yourself at the bar anyway, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you do so.

“Something to drink?” a bartender asks, placing a drink menu in front of you.

You smile politely and push the menu away. “A riesling, please.”

“Riesling? That’s awfully sweet, isn’t it?”

Your brow arches in response to the deep tenor rumbling a few seats down from you. You spare a glance in his direction and note the way in which he swirls the scotch in his hand. You’re half convinced that no one actually likes scotch; that it’s more about men establishing dominance around other men while they all pretend to enjoy a drink that tastes like paint thinner.

He is quite handsome though; from the strong set of his jaw to the dark slash of his brow, everything about him exudes leadership and power. A lawyer, perhaps. His suit is tailored to fit his lean frame, an expensive watch peeking out from beneath the cuff of his dress shirt.

You thank the bartender as they place a long stemmed glass in front of you. You take a long slow sip, enjoying the crisp white wine.

“Careful, big shot” you warn, not looking in his direction. “Sweetness often masks the taste of poison. You ought to know,” you say, inclining your chin toward the glass in his hand.

He chuckles wryly and sips his whiskey, “Scotch is an acquired taste.”

You roll your eyes and check your phone, noting the lack of text notifications or any sign of a missed call and slip it back into your coat pocket.

“Not the message you were expecting?” he asks and he seems genuinely curious.

“It’s the lack thereof,” you grumble and take another sip of wine. Five minutes late is one thing, fifteen is a different matter altogether without any attempt to reach out.

“Stood up on a Friday night,” the man arches his brow and blows out a slow breath. “That’s rough.”

“I was not stood up!” you counter defensively. You take a quick breath and actually turn to face him. Your heart stills momentarily as you take in the amused look in his dark brown eyes and the smirk tugging at his lips. Quickly coming back down to Earth, you blink several times and cross one leg over the other.

You feel his eyes level on you and you struggle to come up with some quippy retort. As he sips his whiskey, you can’t help but notice how strong his hands look; his wide palms and long fingers dwarfing the glass in his hand. For a split second you wonder what it would feel like to have those fingers wrapped around your throat or tangled in your hair.

“Wedding ring,” you almost blurt out.

His brow furrows and you point to his left hand, indicating the tan line on his fourth finger. His hand flexes around the cup before he sighs. “Divorced.”

“Ah,” you say, taking another sip of your wine. “So, that’s why you’re drinking alone on a Friday night?”

“I’m not alone,” he replies coolly, arching a brow as he regards you.

His keen stare forces a rush of heat to flush to your cheeks. A smirk tugs at his lips in response to the obvious scarlett trailing across your face and neck.

Taking a deep breath, you finish your glass of wine, stand, and shuffle down to occupy the seat beside him, your high heeled boots clacking against the tiled floor. With a newly emboldened confidence, you place your hand flat against his thigh, boosting yourself up onto the barstool as you level your gaze on him from beneath curled lashes.

His eyes widen slightly, but you see a spark of a challenge flare to life inside them. “What’s your name?” he asks.

You reach for his tie, gently tugging on it. You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. “Forget my name,” you say coolly. “You clearly came out tonight looking to meet someone and it looks like my plans have changed.”

“I have a suite on the 7th floor,” he says.

You offer him a wicked smile, “Then what are we still doing here?”

•

As the elevator doors pings, signaling its arrival in the lobby, the man extends an arm, holding them open for you to enter first.

“A gentleman too,” you remark as you slide past him letting your body brush against despite the ample room to avoid doing so. The heady scent of his cologne sticks to you and you wonder if you’ll be smelling it on your skin here soon.

He steps inside and presses the button for the seventh floor. As the elevator doors begin to close, someone rushes toward them, trying to get on but the man doesn’t move to hold them. “Take the next one,” he says as they seal shut.

He pounces the second they do, one hand curled around your waist and the other tangled in your hair; your combined body weight thudding against the paneled wall of the elevator. His lips crash against yours, and your lips instantly part for him; groaning into his open mouth. This only seems to drive him further and you feel his erection pressed against your thigh.

“Eager, are we?” you breathe against his lips before nipping at the shell of his ear.

His left hand curves around your ass to cup it in his large hand as his other curls around the back of your neck, using his thumb to angle your chin up towards him. “You have no idea,” he says, voice husky as he moves to suckle the hollow of your throat.

You fist the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer to you. You moan against his mouth eliciting a deeper one from him. As the elevator dings, signaling your arrival at the seventh floor, you peel yourself off of him and slip through the doors right as they open leaving him panting and aching for more.

Giggling to yourself, you don’t wait for him as you head toward his room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he calls after you seductively. With a breathy laugh he adds, “You don’t even know which room it is.”

“Oh, don’t I?” you tease. Without turning back, you raise your hand in the air, his key card tucked between two fingers. “You really outta keep better track of your belongings.”

The sound of him slapping his pockets and grumbling curses brings a cheeky grin to your lips. You slap the key against the keypad and buzz inside the hotel room, slamming the door shut just before he reaches you.

A dark laugh rumbles from beyond the door and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. Undoing the belt at your waist, you shrug out of your coat and toss it over the nearby sofa. He knocks on the door and in a voice just above a whisper he starts to detail what he’s going to do to you once you let him inside. Your black high waisted trousers accentuate the curve of your waist, the black lacy corset teddy you’re wearing underneath pushes your breasts up and out.

As you move to open the door, you swipe his badge from your coat pocket, the other item you’d managed to swipe from his suit jacket.

He opens his mouth to chastise you, but instead he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as his eyes drop to the swell of your breast. He leans into his arm that’s stretched up above him where he holds onto the doorframe.

Pouting, you fold your hands behind your back and rock back and forth on your heels. “I’m sorry for locking you out,” you say coyly. “Tell me though,” you say, leaning forward, looping your arms around his neck. “Do you have a pair of handcuffs somewhere on you to go with this badge, Agent Hotchner?”

Pulling your one hand free from around his neck, you flip open the leather bifold and dangle his own photo in front of his steely gaze.

His lips press together in a firm line as he looks from his badge to you, though the smile doesn’t slip from your mouth. He pushes his weight against the door frame and peers over both shoulders before taking his forearm and pushing it into your chest, forcing your back against the doorway and knocking the air from your lungs. Your chest heaves and your abdomen clenches as you bite your lip, eyes flicking from his mouth to his eyes. He dips his chin so his lips are level with your ear.

“I don’t need my cuffs to keep you at my mercy,” he growls.

The breath in your lungs stills and you feel your pulse increase, thrumming inside your neck. Wrapping his tie around your knuckles, you gently tug him towards you. “Then give it to me, rough, G-man.”

He wastes no time. Releasing the door frame, he drops it and loops it around your waist before yanking you against his muscular frame. He walks you into the room, kicking the door shut behind him and the door automatically locks.

His grip on your hips is bruising and you love the ache of his hands on you as he guides you to the bed. His lips seek yours out and when they find them, you slip your tongue between his lips. You can still taste the scotch on him. As you fold your hands into his hair, you gently suck on his lower lip, grazing your teeth along it and savoring the moan that elicits from him.

When your ass touches the edge of the bed, he pushes his pelvis against your hip, his erection digging into your thigh. You yearn to feel that hard length inside your pussy, but you know it won’t be that easy. You’ve played too many games with him tonight to win him over that easily. You lower your weight onto the bed and wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him closer.

“So?” you ask, offering a flirtatious glance whilst skirting the toe of your boot up the length of his leg. “What’s the verdict on those cuffs, Agent?”

His fingers curl around your bare shoulders and toy with the straps of your teddy. “I’m not carrying them tonight,” he says after a while. He moves to loosen his tie and your belly clenches as you wonder what he plans to do with it.

“Hands out,” he orders, and the authority in his voice is so natural you immediately feel compelled to listen.

He slips his tie from around his neck and winds it around your wrists, tying them together snugly, but not so much to cut off feeling to them. He grips the loose end and aggressively tugs you towards him so that your chest is flush with his.

You splay your fingers out against his chest and try to reach for the collar of his shirt to start working on the buttons when he yanks your wrists away.

“Not so fast,” he murmurs. He releases his hold on your makeshift restraints and shifts both hands under your ass. With a grunt, he picks you and shifts your weight so that you’re sat fully on the bed.

“Lay down,” he commands. “Arms above your head.”

As you slowly do as he asks, your lips curl into a wicked smile. “Yes sir, Mr. Hotchner.”

He emits a low groan as his name tumbles from your mouth and you know his cock is straining in his pants. Again, you try to tease him through his trousers with the toe of your boot, but his reflexes are too quick and his hand snaps out to catch your ankle. He arches one dark brow at you before focusing his attention on unzipping each one at a relentlessly slow pace. Your pussy throbs in anticipation of what’s to come and you bite your lip as he straddles your waist, one knee on the bed as his other foot remains on the floor. His eyes are fixed on yours as his fingers make quick work of the buttons of your pants. As his fingers curl around the hem and begin to wind them down your waist and hips, you can’t help but reach up and try to run your fingers through his hair.

Immediately, he snatches your wrist from midair and slams it into the mattress. You gasp and try not to giggle, excited by this show of brute force.

“Don’t move.” His voice is low. “If you can’t follow instructions, there will be consequences.”

You push your lower lip forward, “And I hate to suffer those at your big,” you enunciate each word, “strong, hands.”

Hotchner keeps his obsidian eyes, sharp as knives, daggered on you for a second longer, before releasing your wrists and sliding your pants down and off your legs.

“Now this,” he says, trailing a finger down the lace up front of the corset styled teddy. “Makes accessing want I know you so desperately want me to touch a little difficult, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe, you should check again Mr. Hotchner,” you reply with a flutter of lashes.

He regards you curiously, but there’s a dark amusement glinting in the depths of his irises. His hand slinks around your calf, and that alone elicits goosebumps up and down the length of exposed skin. As his hand trails up the inside of your thighs, your muscles quake as you allow your legs to fall open for him.

His lips part as he discovers the missing fabric between your legs. His brow curves as he regards you with keen interest. “One way or another you knew you were getting fucked tonight.”

“One can never be too prepared, can they?”

“No,” he purrs, leaning down to kiss your inner thigh. You squirm as he presses his hand flat against your belly, fingers splayed out as he slowly drags them down toward your center.

“Now let’s see just how ready you are, shall we?.” He sinks one long finger inside you and you groan. “So wet,” he murmurs, slowly sinking another finger inside of you. You feel the moisture pooling, how quickly the torturously slow rhythm of his fingers heightens your arousal. When his thumb presses against your clit and begins moving in slow circles, your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“Oh, Aaron,” you say, dragging out his name. Your hands fumble to grip onto the sheets as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, maneuvering his fingers each time to strike your g-spot in rhythm with the circular motion around your clit. The wet sounds of his hands wringing pleasure from your body alongside him murmuring filthy things is too much. You need more.

“Please,” you say, arching your back against the mattress in an attempt to draw his fingers in deeper. “I need more.” You hook a leg around his waist and pull him against the edge of the bed, not missing the way his throat strains and eyes roll back at that thought. He increases his speed and without warning withdraws his fingers. You immediately miss their presence, but then suppress a scream as he dives face first into your pussy. His tongue delves into your center, devouring your pleasure. His slick tongue finds your clit, swirling and sucking on the sensitive nub and your pleasure centers are firing on all cylinders.

You dig your elbows into the mattress and push your hips into the air, pressing yourself against his mouth and he moans against your pussy. You feel the deep tremble reverberate against your walls and cry out as it becomes too much to bear in the best way possible.

He grips your hips and you kick you legs up around his neck, drawing him in as if he could get any closer to you. You clench the sheets above your head and cry out, his name on your lips as pleasure builds in your abdomen, pulsing through you all the way to your core. He shifts then, and before you can wonder what he’s doing, he takes a breath and sucks your clit between his teeth. You hiss at the unfamiliar sensation and swear you see stars when his fingers plunge deep into your pussy.

You come instantly, your orgsam surging through you like electricity. You feel it through every inch of your body, from the tips of your toes to the ends of your tousled hair. The aftershocks are still coursing through you as Hotchner tightens his hold on your hips and with a grunt of effort, flips you onto your stomach and yanks you closer to the edge of the bed. The sound of a belt unfastening and zipper coming down is all the preparation you receive before he slaps your ass and the hard length of his cock slams into you. You cry out with ultimate ecstasy as he fills you.

Turning your face into the mattress, you gasp and grunt with each forceful thrust. Your pussy clenches around his thick girth. The slap of flesh on flesh is all that can be heard as he pumps himself in and out. He releases a sharp breath and winds his fingers into your hair, tugging on it. You cry out and moan as you turn to look at him over your shoulder, finding great satisfaction when you watch him melt under your sultry smokey eyed look.

“Come on, baby,” you urge and you see his restraint crack. “Take what you want.”

His brow pinches and unfurrows as his grip starts to falter.

“Use me,” you push, delighting in the way his lips press together as he fights to hold on to his release.

You press your ass higher into the air, allowing him to plunge deeper into your core as his thrusts become less controlled and his pace becomes erratic.

“You don’t,” you grunt and moan as he strikes your g-spot again and again, “even know my name.” You breathe out and groan as you turn over your shoulder once more. “Let me be your whore, Agent Hotchner.”

Hot, thick ropes of cum erupt from his cock into your pussy. He holds onto your hips so tightly, you know you’ll have bruises in the morning. You relish in his pleasure as much he relished in yours. When he stops shaking, he slowly lowers your hips onto the mattress and smooths his fingers over the tender flesh there.

Easing you on to your back, you feel his cum slip down your inner thighs as he clambers over you and tenderly kisses your face and neck. When his lips brush yours, you taste yourself on him.

You reach up and hands still bound, brush the hair from his forehead. He smiles as he reaches up and undoes the knot with one swift move. The tie instantly unravels and he casts it aside. You place your hands on either side of his face, thumb stroking the sharp curve of his jaw.

“Let me help get you cleaned up,” he says gently, eyes soft.

You nod, “I think I’d like that.”

He cradles you into his arms and carries you to the shower where he places you on the tile floor and cranks the water on. As steam begins to fill the room, he helps you out of your negligee. Without words, you turn and push his blazer off of his shoulders. You do the same with his dress shirt and let him kick out of his shoes and socks before curling your fingers around the hem of his pants and underwear and kneel to draw them down over his ankles.

He loops his arms around your waist as you stand and kisses you slowly as he guides you back into the walk-in shower. The warm water cascades over your skin, soothing your taut muscles. You close your eyes as he tilts your head back and smoothes your hair away from your face. He places feather light kisses along your jawline as he pumps body wash into his hand from the dispenser on the wall.

“How do you feel?” he asks as he lathers the soap between his hands and smoothes it over your shoulders.

You release a moan of a different sort as his fingers massage the soap into your neck and back. You turn around and lean against the wide plane of his chest as he curves his hands around to wash your breasts and stomach.

His voice is amused when he speaks. “That good, hmm?”

“Mmhmm,” you confirm.

He laughs softly in your ear before pressing a kiss to your temple. He continues to wash your body, treating each limb like a holy object the way he handles you with such delicacy and adoration. When he finishes with you, he washes himself quickly and exits the shower to retrieve two plush towels from beneath the sink. As you work to try yourself off, he fetches the robes provided to each guest from the closet in the main room.

You admire the softness of his stomach contrasted with the hard angles of his face and lean musculature of his arms and legs. He really is a beautiful man.

“Thank you, Agent.” You say with a wink as you take it from him.

He laughs. “You and titles. I thought we’d agreed on no names.”

“I said you didn’t need to know my name. I never said anything about yours. What can I say? I love a power play. After all, you must be used to that in your big, bad FBI office, hmm?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Something like that.”

You continue to towel dry your hair and smile back at him. “I guess this game of ours has reached its end. I gotta say, I had a wonderful time.”

“It doesn’t have to end,” he says with a suggestive arch of his brow.

Tilting your head back and forth, you weigh your options. “How about this?” you say, taking a measured step toward him. His eyes widen, surprised by your sudden prowess. “You and me,” you say slowly and stand on your toes so you can purr directly into his ear, “drop the ruse, order room service, and watch a movie on Netflix?”

He pulls away, expression unreadable for a moment. You keep your eyes on him, waiting, and then smile when his posture visibly relaxes. “Honestly, that sounds great, babe, I’m exhausted.”

A grin pulls across your cheeks as you dash into the room and grab your purse. Returning to the bathroom, you reach deep into your bag and unzip the pocket in the inner lining. You fish out your wedding rings and place Aaron’s in his hand before slipping yours back onto your finger.

“The crotchless lingerie was a nice surprise,” he says as he adjust the simple gold band on his finger.

Your lips quirk into a grin, “Yeah, I thought you’d like that little surprise.”

He smiles and leans down to kiss you. “Seriously though, how’d I do?” he asks. “I’m not used to using my office persona around you. It’s a lot harder than I thought it’d be. With you, it’s so easy to leave work at the office and relax.”

“Well I certainly hope you don’t do that at the office.”

He chuckles. “You know what I mean!” He waves his hand absentmindedly. “The hardened exterior, the stern, hard voice, expressionless. Dominating. I’m never like that with you.”

“Naturally,” you tease, voice light. “I’m so full of fun and whimsy. It’s hard not to come back down to Earth from your Bureaucratic cloud of murder and mayhem when you’re with me.”

He loops his arms around you, hands flat against your back. “Five years of marriage and you still manage to keep me on my toes, more so than some of the men and women I’m paid to track down and put away.”

You pull back and look up at him. “You love the sex bucket list, be honest.”

He can’t fight the grin that tugs at his lips as he nods. “Role playing as two strangers that meet at random is definitely up there with the things we’ve done so far.”

“More fun than when we played naked Twister with the body paint?”

“Ooo, don’t make me choose.”

He dials room service, ordering plenty of food and desserts to refuel after your exciting adventure into role play and as you climb into the California king bed with him and snuggle against his chest, you silently thank whatever divine forces exist in the universe for every opportunity you get to spend with him like this; your lover, your husband, your everything.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: we vibing.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Jazlene comes to with a wispy sigh. You back up and stand as her mother helps her to her feet. The king is back at the table, unbothered by the overcome maiden. Lord Dustan hovers between, torn by loyalty to his liege and his family. New liege, that is. Only yesterday, he was toasting to good King Waleran. 

“My apologies, your highness,” Jazlene fans herself with her hand, “I was only surprised. I didn’t... How could I expect this? To marry a king?” She reaches down to grip her mother’s arm, shakily stepping forward towards the king who doesn’t even glance up from the table of maps, “I promise to you, your highness, I will be a good wife to you.” 

The king tilts his head, tracing a finger along a ridge of mountains, then leans in to examine the riverbeds below. Jazlene looks at her mother, an expression of concern on her pretty features. She is rarely ignored, if at all. She will make sure that she isn’t. 

“Lord Dustan, I expect the dowry will be served along with your men and my kingdom,” the king declares, “but now, I find myself fatigued. A hard day’s ride sees me in need of bath and a bed.” 

Dustan bows his head, “and so you will have it, your highness. I will send down for water--” 

“Have the maid see to it,” the king waves his hand vaguely in your direction, “certainly a servant is a servant.” 

“Yes, your highness, how wise,” Dustan simpers, as he often does to men with titles above his own. “You,” the duke turns and snaps his fingers, “you heard the king. He requires hot water in his chamber.” 

You keep your head down, “yes, my lord.” 

You spin without hesitation. You’re all too happy to be free of the noble intrigue. It is rather easier to be unseen and unthought of. It has ever kept you from envying these ladies and their silks and these lords and their golden signets. 

Your flight is fleet. You rush down the corridor and to the wide stairwell. You descend with your mission and pass Merinda as she paces listlessly outside the kitchens. She stops you with an arm across your path. 

“There are whispers,” she says lowly, “of who visits. Is it true?” 

You look at her. You don’t know if you should say. It isn’t her place and you don’t know what they say. There is rather much gossip in castles. 

“It is,” she hisses, “you don’t need to say it. You are a poor liar and when you say nothing, I know that is the reason.” 

Your lips pinch and you give her a look, “I have been sent to draw a bath.” 

“Oh, is the lady in need of her evening boil?” Merinda snickers. 

“Not her.” 

Merinda quiets and tilts her head, “...him?” 

“The king,” you answer thinly. 

She nods and steps closer, “is he... I don’t understand. His soldiers, they mill about with our own, they cavort together. Not as enemies. Are they not invading? Do they not mean to take the castle?” 

You tear your eyes away. She’s right, you are a poor liar. You lean in, lips right by her ear, you whisper, “Lord Dustan has new allegiances.” 

She claps her hand over her mouth as you back up. She stares at you with wide eyes. She slowly drops her arm and her lip quivers, “he means to get us all killed.” 

You push your shoulders up, “think only of today. It’s all we can do. Oh, do you know where the king’s chambers would be?” 

“Mm, they took his saddlebags to the ivory room. I think there,” she answers, “do you require assistance?” 

“Stay here,” you gird, “he is a brusque man.” 

That only seems to worry her more as her face twists. You can’t help but feel the same inside but you do your best not to let it show. You leave her and carry on to your task. 

You put the kitchen hands to boiling water and send a few others to find a tub to bring to the king’s chambers. You help where you can and take the first bucket up. You pour it into the large tub in the ivory room and return for second, a third, a forth, and fifth. There will be many more even as your arms ache and your nap slickens with sweat. 

Upon the eight, when the tub looks near halfway, the chamber is not empty. You’re surprised by the king’s presence as the door remains ajar. You pour the water with a low apology and diligent ‘your highness.’ He doesn’t respond. 

There is much to go still. Back down, up again, hot water splashing on your sleeves, singing beneath, dumping it over the edge as you keep your eyes on your work. Do not be more than a piece of furniture. You are only air. 

At the last bucket, you pour slowly, careful not to slosh over the edges. As you right the empty pail, you hear a metal chink. The king growls into a long exhale. You turn towards the door. 

“Close it,” he commands, “you will remain.” 

You’re happy he cannot see the look on your face. You obey and close the door. You turn back, standing by the pillar of the door frame, as you often do, and begin your vigil. It should not be unexpected that he may require you to fetch something further for him. 

Your eyes catch the bottom of his mail as he lifts it over his head. No, don’t look. He undresses, leather creaking, fabric rustling, pacing as he strips away each piece. You grip the rope handle of the bucket. He circles the long tub and nears you. You cower, bracing. You are not noticed, you are not approached, unless it is for rebuke. 

He grabs the bucket by the brim and tugs. You let it go. He turns and sets it on the floor away from you. You push your hands together, stilling a tremble. He wears only his breeches and you catch a glimpse of the thatch of hair along his thick stomach. You gulp and twine your fingers through each other. 

He turns away and crosses the room. You listen to the fabric fall from around his hips. Your eyes bore into the floorboards. The water shifts as he climbs into the tub and you listen to him groan as he lowers himself into the depths. The steam mingles with the tension of his silence. 

He sighs and stirs the water. The lull persists as you wait. He will need wine or food.  

“Come,” he bids and your eyes flick up. The tub conceals much of his lower body as his thick shoulders and arms stretch around the brim. “I have a knot.” 

You approach hesitantly, unsure where to aim your eyes the closer you get. He gestures around his head, “stand behind me.” 

You do as he tells you. 

He sits up slightly and bends his head forward, lifting his white hair out of the way, “here.” 

He points along the muscle beside his neck. It’s thick, just like all of him. You’ve never seen a man built like that. There are stringy barn boys and tubby cooks.  

You stare and raise a hand, hovering it over his muscle. Are you supposed to touch him? He is a king and you are a servant. You are a servant sold out of pig shit into servitude. 

His large hand reaches for yours and he guides it down. You shake before he lets you go. You feel the muscle, almost curious, and rub lightly. He makes a noise but you’re unsure of its tenor. 

“Harder,” he demands, “squeeze,” he shows his hand, making a kneading motion, “you cannot hurt me.” You do as he says. You squeeze and he rests his hand against the tub, “harder,” he repeats. 

You obey. 

His head hangs as his long strands touch the water. You bring your other hand up as your efforts make your tendons sore. He lets out shallow breaths and hissing groans. Your chest thumps at the sounds that rise from him. 

“Your master has broken his oath and sworn a new one to me. And you, does that make me your master as well? If I am your master’s master?” He asks slyly. 

You focus on your hands, “your highness?” 

“Answer, don’t be afraid. Liars bore me.” 

You sniff and mull your reply. You don’t know. You don’t have much of a choice in the matter. 

“Lord Dustan is my master. I am bound to serve him.” 

He snorts and lifts his head. You rescind your touch but he reaches back to latch onto your again. He tugs you forward, placing your hand back on his shoulder. 

“Softer now,” he instructs. You rub his damp flesh as he bends a leg, his knee poking above the water. “You, a servant, so low, and you are more loyal than any man with a title.” 

“Your highness, I must serve.” 

“As he must. Did he not swear himself to the old king? Eh? War does muddy the waters,” he muses, “coin does test old ties.” 

You say nothing. Your comment isn’t warranted or wanted. You know better. Jazlene taught you only to answer when asked. 

“Very well,” he taps your fingers, “I feel better. You have a kind touch.” 

You back away and wipe your hands on your apron. He hangs his head back and puffs. He closes his eyes. You watch the white waves made wilder by the humidity of the bath. 

“I hate sleeping in strange places,” he says, “you will stay for the eve.” 

You tuck your chin down and fold your hands together. Your scalp sweats beneath your cap, your shorn locks itchy with the heat. You wet your lips and force out the air trapped in your chest, “yes, your highness. As my master bid, I will serve you.” 

He says nothing more as he leans back against the tub completely. His large arms frame the metal and his hands wrap around the edges. He closes his shining eyes in recline, the water still and steaming. He stays that way until the damp heat dissipates. You stand locked in his thrall. 

He sits forward suddenly, the water stirring with his movement. He turns his hand and beckons with his thick fingers. 

“A bath sheet,” he demands. 

You go to the chest in the corner and open it. You retrieve a folded swath of fabric and bring it to him. He stands as you unfold the length of linen to obscure his form. Your eyes are on the ceiling as the water slakes from his figure and he looms large above you. 

He steps out, close to you, and puts his hands over yours. He pulls the sheet around his body, your arms too. He releases you only as he adjusts the fabric around his waist and you retract with humiliation nipping in your cheeks. You lean back on your heel as you shrink in his shadow. 

“Your highness, do you require refreshment? Wine? Sweetmeats?” 

“I did not ask for it,” he says, “I am tired.” 

“Apologies, your highness.” 

“Do not apologise for doing your duty. Would be a fairer world if more were so diligent.” 

He turns and strides away. There’s a knapsack and bedroll against the wall. He keeps one hand on the sheet and unbuckles the flap, reaching within and tugging out a bed shirt. He drops the sheet away and your eyes flit away from his nakedness. He has no shame but you are merely a servant. He shouldn’t care for your witness. 

He swipes the fabric over his head and it falls just to his thighs, concealing just enough to have him decent. His thick legs are trimmed in dark hair and the muscles are taut beneath his skin. He faces the bed and pulls back the quilt and linen. He pauses and looks up at you. 

“Will you sleep afoot then?” He wonders. 

“Your highness?” You wince. “I must...” you peer around, “empty the bath.” 

“Must you? Stagnant water can wait,” he insists. “Come.” 

You waver, skirts rippling around your legs. You step forward and stagger. 

“The lantern, your highness?” You inquire. 

“Douse the light if you will,” he allows. “And come.” 

You do as he bids and snuff out the flame. Your vision is left blackened and formless. You reach out blindly, realising your error too late. You can’t see much as you walk warily towards the bed. The heavy curtains are shut and block out the sliver of moonlight. 

Your knees hit the bed and you gasp. You catch yourself before you can fall forward, leaning against the mattress. You’re stuck like that, uncertain if you should go forward or back. Something wraps around your wrist, a stolid heat. 

“I often sleep with my horse,” the king says as he draws you onto the bed. “I need a warm body close.” 

You go rigid as you let him command your body. He guides you to lay down and tugs the bedclothes over you. The damp specks on your dress and apron cling to your skin. He leads your head over his thick arm as he lays on his back neck to you. You stare into the endless void of the canopy. 

“The horse smells much worse and snores,” he muses, his arm curling around your shoulders, offering a more comfortable rest for your head and neck. You quiver at being so close. It is an odd request but you daren’t decline it. “Be still,” his other hand comes to touch your sleeve, “and sleep. I only mean to ease my own unrest.” 

You close your eyes and exhale. Your heart is pounding and your body is tingling. You don’t think you can sleep with the surge flowing through you. He sighs and shifts slightly. You lay there, in silence, only the noise of his breath and yours to fill the castle walls. 

“I am awake,” he says. “Speak to me, maid. Tell me, where do you lay your head on nights where a king does not trouble you?” 

You wiggle slightly. Your spine is uncomfortable at the flatness but not worse than your usual fare. You bring your hand over your chest and fist your fingers tight. 

“On a bag of hay with Merinda,” you utter smally, pushing your legs together as you arch your back slightly. Your hips are tight. 

You’re startled as the bed jostles and he grips your hip. He rolls you onto your side, his touch lingers as he pulls you against him. He is as hot as a hearth. 

“Merinda?” He repeats. 

“Another handmaid, your highness.” 

He hums and drags his hand away from your hip. He blows out a great heavy and grunts. His arm curls around you snugly. 

“I hope I am preferable to that bag of hay,” he mutters and the tension seeps away from his form. “Though perhaps just as prickly.” 

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

Summary: You and Bucky take his niece to the park, but things become tense when another parents confronts Bucky about his past.

Word Count: 4.9k

MASTERLIST

Finding Peace

As the sun beat down mercilessly on the crowded park, you realized with a growing sense of concern that the drinks you and Bucky had brought along were quickly dwindling. The hot, sultry air seemed to sap the moisture right out of your mouth, and you knew that Winnie, Bucky's seven year old niece, would need to stay well-hydrated if she was going to continue frolicking happily on the sweltering playground. Glancing down at the tiny, solitary juice box in your hand, you couldn't help but glance at Bucky, knowing full well that it would do little to quench his or Winnie's thirst in this heat.

“Hey baby, we're out of drinks.”

“We are?” Bucky looked at you in surprise.

“Unless you want to stay hydrated with this tiny juice box?” You smiled playfully, waving a tiny carton of apple juice at him.

Bucky's eyes widened in surprise at your statement, clearly not having anticipated the drinks running out so soon. As the three of you had set out for the park that morning, you had packed what you'd thought would be an ample supply of refreshments, but the combination of Winnie's boundless energy and the sweltering summer temperatures had made short work of your provisions.

“Uncle Bucky! I need a push!” The little girl's excited calls rang out above the din of the playground, her infectious enthusiasm a testament to Bucky's skill in making her feel loved and cherished.

“Duty calls!” He smirked, getting up. “Coming!”

You gave him a quick kiss. “I'll be back in a bit,” you called after him, chuckling at his eagerness to spend time with his niece.

As you watched him go, you couldn't help but feel a warm glow of affection, both for the way Bucky doted on the little girl and for the way his dedication to her well being seemed to radiate from every step he took. Your heart swelled with joy at the sight, knowing that you were truly blessed to be a part of this family.

As Bucky emerged from the cool, shaded area and stepped out into the open, he was immediately struck by the oppressive sunshine that seemed to radiate from every direction on this bright, summer day. The intense warmth enveloped him, causing him to instinctively push up the sleeves of his shirt as he made his way across the grass towards Winnie.

“Hey Munchkin!” Bucky's face broke into a wide, affectionate smile as he gazed down at Winnie, this small child who had managed to melt his heart in a way no one else ever had. He remembered vividly the day they'd first met - the way she had shyly smiled up at him before suddenly throwing herself at his legs, wrapping her tiny arms around him in a fierce, fearless hug. There had been no hesitation, no apprehension in her expression, only pure, unabashed joy and trust, and in that instant Bucky had been completely smitten. Now, as he drew closer, that same adoring smile still plastered across her features, he couldn't help but feel a profound sense of tenderness and protectiveness towards this precious little girl who had so effortlessly won him over.

The pair were a cheerful sight, with Bucky's usually brooding demeanor softened as he watched Winnie dart between the colorful equipment, her laughter ringing out. But unbeknownst to Bucky, the other parents in the park had slowly begun to take notice of him, their eyes narrowing with suspicion and fear. A few had heard the stories of the Winter Soldier's deadly exploits, the trail of bodies and destruction left in his wake. And now, here he was, in their peaceful neighborhood, cavorting with a child as if he were an ordinary man. Surreptitiously, the parents began to herd their own children away, ushering them towards the exits with murmured warnings. Soon, the once-bustling playground had fallen eerily silent, save for Winnie's carefree giggles. Bucky looked up, brow furrowed in confusion as he realized the other families had dispersed, leaving him and Winnie the only two people in a ten yard radius.

“Where did everyone go, Uncle Bucky?” Winnie asked innocently, her bright eyes shining with childlike wonder.

“I don't know, Win,” Bucky replied, his voice tinged with a mixture of bewilderment and growing unease as he scanned the park, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

It was then that a burly, imposing figure stepped towards them, the man's stance radiating a threatening aura as he approached the former Winter Soldier and his unsuspecting young charge.

“Hey, you there! What do you think you're doing with that child?” the man barked, his voice harsh and accusatory.

Bucky's muscles tensed as he instinctively moved to shield Winnie from the stranger's looming presence. “She's my niece. What's it to you?” he replied, his tone slightly defensive.

The man sneered, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I've heard about you, Winter Soldier. You think you can just waltz into our neighborhood and play happy families? We don't want your kind around here, definitely not around our children.”

Winnie, sensing the tension, clung to Bucky's leg. “Uncle Bucky, who’s that man?” she whispered, her voice quiet.

Bucky knelt down, placing a reassuring hand on Winnie's shoulder. “It's okay, Win. Just stay close to me,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving the man who stood before them.

The man took a step closer, his fists clenched at his sides. “I'm warning you, Winter Soldier. Leave now, or there will be consequences.”

Bucky stood up slowly, his jaw set in determination. “I'm not that man anymore. I'm trying to make amends for my past. Please don’t threaten my family,” he declared, his voice firm and resolute. The words were laced with a protective edge, Bucky unwilling to let this confrontation escalate any further.

Yet the stranger remained unmoved by Bucky's resolute stance. He scoffed at Bucky's words, unconvinced by the former assassin's claims of redemption. And just as the confrontation seemed to reach a boiling point, the fearless young Winnie suddenly launched herself forward, her protective instincts overriding her fear. “Leave my Uncle Bucky alone, you… you big bully!” she cried, her voice shrill with determination.

It was only thanks to Bucky's lightning-fast reflexes that he was able to catch her before she could reach the imposing stranger, his arms wrapping around her small frame to hold her back. Winnie kicked and squirmed for a moment, her frustration evident, but Bucky's soothing whispers soon calmed her down. “Come on, Winnie,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving the unyielding man before them. “Let's leave these Neanderthals to their playground. We can go find Auntie Ace and find somewhere better to play.” With a final, pointed glare, Bucky turned and began to lead the girl away, determined to diffuse the situation before it could escalate any further, his protective instincts shielding his beloved niece from the judgment and hostility of those who refused to see him as anything more than the Winter Soldier.

As they walked, Winnie looked up at Bucky, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Uncle Bucky, why did that man call you the Winter Soldier?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Bucky let out a weary sigh, steeling himself to have a difficult conversation with his young niece about his troubled past - a past that still haunted him, even as he strived to redeem himself and forge a new path forward. His vibranium arm whirred softly as he clenched and unclenched his fist, as though the movement might dispel the stress and anguish he felt about the situation.

Little Winnie was truly a remarkable child, possessing a level of perceptiveness and empathy that far exceeded her young years. As she gazed up at her Uncle Bucky, her eyes shining with compassion, she instinctively understood the complex and troubled history that lay behind his stoic demeanor. With a gentle touch, she reached up and cradled his face, her small hands conveying a wisdom and tenderness that belied her age. “It's okay, Uncle Bucky,” she murmured, her voice soft yet unwavering. “I will always love you.”

Bucky felt his expression soften as he met Winnie's penetrating stare, his heart swelling with a mix of pride and sorrow. “Well, Winnie,” he began, carefully selecting his words, “the Winter Soldier is a name I was given a long time ago, when I was a different person.” He paused, the weight of his past deeds palpable in the air between them. “I did things that I'm not proud of, things that… hurt a lot of people.” The admission was laced with regret, a heavy burden that Bucky had carried for years, haunting his every step on the path to redemption.

Winnie's eyes widened in surprise, but there was no judgment in her gaze, only a profound understanding that belied her tender years. Reaching out, she reverently traced the contours of his vibranium arm, a physical reminder of the trauma he had endured. “But you're not that person anymore, right Uncle Bucky?” she asked, her voice filled with a hopeful innocence that tugged at Bucky's heartstrings.

Bucky smiled sadly, his love for his niece evident in every line of his face. “No, Winnie, I'm not that person anymore,” he affirmed, his voice tinged with emotion. “I've been trying to make amends for my past, to be a better man.” It was a constant struggle, a journey of self-discovery and atonement, but Bucky was determined to honor the memory of those he had wronged by striving to become the hero he knew he could be.

Winnie nodded, her young mind processing the weight of his words with a maturity that belied her years. “I believe in you, Uncle Bucky,” she declared, her eyes shining with unwavering admiration. “You're my hero, just like Captain America.”

Bucky smiled back, his heart swelling with love for his young niece. “And you're mine, Win,” he said, taking her hand as they walked away, leaving behind the judgmental stares and whispered rumors of the other parents in the park.

Winnie's eyes suddenly sparkled with unbridled excitement as she tugged urgently on her Uncle Bucky's sleeve, her small finger pointing eagerly towards the glistening waters of the lake in Central Park. "Uncle Bucky, look!" she cried out, her voice brimming with the infectious enthusiasm that only a child could muster.

Bucky couldn't help but smile as he followed the direction of her gesture, taking in the serene scene before them - the tranquil surface of the lake, dotted with the toy racing boats currently drifting lazily across its calm expanse. He knew in that moment exactly what had captured Winnie's attention and ignited her boundless energy.

“You wanna go see the lake, Win?” Bucky asked, his tone gentle and indulgent, for he could never resist the allure of Winnie's bright-eyed wonder.

“The boats! I wanna see the boats!” she exclaimed, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, her pigtails bobbing with each eager movement.

Bucky felt a surge of affection for his spirited young niece, her pure delight at the prospect of watching the boats glide across the water a poignant reminder of the simple joys that can be found in the world around us, if only we have the eyes to see them. Without a moment's hesitation, he knew he could never deny Winnie this chance to explore the tranquil lakeside and marvel at the graceful vessels that danced across its surface, for to do so would be to extinguish the very spark that made her so special.

"Of course we can," he reassured, his voice carrying a hint of the gruff, good-natured tone that was so characteristic of him. With a chuckle, he continued, "Just give me a minute, I've gotta let Auntie Ace know where we're headed so she doesn't worry." He dropped you a location pin, not saying much else in the message. He knew you would worry.

Bucky was right, you were worried. As you hurried back to the park, the melting ice pops in your bag dripped down your arm, the sugary liquid leaving sticky trails in their wake. You clutched the bag tightly, determined not to lose a single treat before you could deliver them to Bucky and Winnie. Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your phone, fully expecting to have to call Bucky to get their location - but to your relief, you saw that he had already sent you their coordinates. With a grateful sigh, you followed the map on your screen, weaving through the crowds of people enjoying the beautiful day at the park. The path led you to the edge of a picturesque lake, where you found Bucky and Winnie excitedly cheering and gesturing at the water.

A group of children had gathered around a small makeshift racetrack, where tiny motorized boats were zipping back and forth across the calm surface of the lake. Winnie was leaning forward, her eyes alight with excitement as she shouted encouragement to one of the red boats. "I bet you two ice pops that the red one wins!" she cried to a boy standing next to her, who scoffed in response.

“Nah uh, the blue one is better. Plus, you don't even have any ice pops!” he retorted, sticking out his tongue in a childish display.

Bucky chuckled at their lively banter as they continued to watch the race unfold. Smiling to himself, you hurried over to join them, the cool, refreshing treat of two vibrant ice pops clutched firmly in your hands. With a warm, grateful smile, Winnie accepted the offered popsicle, the bright blue hue a stark contrast against her delicate fingers. Turning to her new companion, she couldn't resist a good-natured tease. “Still think the blue one is better?” she quipped, her eyes dancing with mischief as she took a delighted lick of the sugary confection.

The boy, Sonny, let out a sheepish chuckle, his hand instinctively reaching up to scratch the back of his head. “I don't have any,” he admitted, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. Casting a longing glance towards the pops, he couldn't help but whine to his nearby father, “Daaaad, can we get some ice pops?”

The father, clearly distracted by the attention of a scantily clad woman who seemed to be on her daily jog, waved off his son's request with an annoyed, "Later, Sonny!" His irritation at the interruption was palpable, and you couldn't help but look at him with narrowed eyes, silently pleading with him as you waved the extra ice pops you had purchased, hoping to secure his permission to share them with the disappointed boy.

Sensing your unspoken plea, the father gave a curt nod, and Sonny's face immediately lit up with joy. “Thanks, lady!” he exclaimed, his grin spreading from ear to ear.

Clearly delighted at the prospect that you had given her new friend the cool, refreshing treat, Winnie turned to Sonny and proudly proclaimed, "That's my Auntie Ace. Isn't she cool?" to which Sonny replied with a grateful smile, “Yeah, pretty cool.”

“So, why did you guys leave the playground? Get bored?” you asked casually.

Bucky didn’t look at you, so Winnie removed the popsicle from her mouth, revealing a bright blue tongue, before explaining, “We left because some mean man was yelling at Uncle Bucky.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion and concern at this revelation. “What?” you responded incredulously, turning to Bucky for more details.

Bucky's broad shoulders rose and fell in a weary shrug as he recounted the incident as succinctly as only Bucky would. “Someone recognized me,” he said simply, his gaze downcast as the painful memories resurface. A familiar frown crossed his rugged features, the lines on his forehead deepening as he stared out at the serene lake before him.

Your heart sank as Bucky recounted the unsettling incident at the playground, his typically stoic demeanor betraying a deep well of pain and anguish beneath the surface. You could see the haunted look in his eyes, the way his broad shoulders slumped with the weight of the traumatic memories being dredged up. Winnie's innocent revelation of a ‘mean man yelling at Uncle Bucky’ now took on a much darker, more sinister tone, and you felt your blood boil with righteous indignation on Bucky's behalf. How dare someone accost this gentle, kind-hearted man simply for being who he was? A victim of circumstances beyond his control, forever scarred by the horrors of war and his past as the Winter Soldier.

A thousand scathing retorts and furious tirades bubbled up within you, a fierce protectiveness surging forth as you yearned to confront this callous individual and give them a piece of your mind. But one glance at Bucky's downcast gaze, the furrowed brow and pained frown etched into his rugged features, and you knew that your anger would only serve to further upset him. This was his burden to bear, the cross he had been forced to carry, and you sensed that he had long since resigned himself to the cruel judgment and unwarranted scorn of the ignorant masses.

So instead, you bit your tongue, swallowing your righteous fury, and focused on offering Bucky the comfort and support he so desperately needed in that moment. Your heart ached to see him so visibly shaken, the trauma of his past still haunting him even as he strived to build a new life filled with love and happiness. With a gentle hand on his arm, you conveyed your unwavering solidarity, silently letting him know that he was not alone, that you would always be there to shield him from the cruelty of the world and help him find the peace he so deserved.

Winnie’s new friend, Sonny, called out enthusiastically, inviting Winnie to come join him and his friends in exploring the nearby statues, an adventure that no doubt promised to be thrilling and captivating for a curious child such as herself. Winnie's eyes lit up at the prospect, and she immediately turned to Bucky, silently seeking his permission to venture off and partake in the outing.

You could see the clear internal conflict on Bucky's face as he wrestled with the instinct to keep his beloved niece glued to his side versus allowing her the freedom to explore and make new friends. As Winnie gazed up at him with those wide, pleading eyes, you subtly nudged Bucky, silently conveying your confidence that she would be perfectly safe in the company of the other children. Yet, Bucky remained uncharacteristically silent, his protective nature clearly at war with his desire to grant Winnie's request.

“Go ahead, Winnie.” You gave her permission.

Sensing his hesitation, Winnie wrapped her small hand around Bucky's waist and looked up at him imploringly, once again asking if she could go join the others. Torn between his love for Winnie and his overarching need to shield her from any potential harm, Bucky found himself at an impasse, his heart and his head at odds as he struggled to make the difficult decision of whether to let his precious niece venture forth on her own or to keep her firmly by his side, where he could ensure her absolute safety. Eventually he nodded and a delighted Winnie skipped off to explore with her new friends.

As Bucky tugged self-consciously at his sleeve, trying to conceal the gleaming vibranium of his prosthetic arm, you couldn't help but notice the subtle gesture. When you suggested finding some shade to sit in, you hoped the change of scenery might help him relax, but as you reached for his right hand, he pulled away, mumbling something about feeling too warm to hold hands. You knew that wasn't the real reason. Undeterred, you shifted closer to his left side, tentatively taking his metal hand in yours. You knew he couldn't feel temperature or pain on that side, but the simple contact seemed to bring him some comfort. He sighed heavily, refusing to meet your gaze, but you could see the tension slowly leaving his shoulders. For so long, he had kept people at a distance, terrified that they would be repulsed by the very thing that made him different. But with you, he was learning to let his guard down, he trusted that your acceptance of him went deeper than surface appearances. It was a gradual process, filled with small victories, and you were determined to be there for him every step of the way.

Though he had worked tirelessly to redeem himself, to become a force for good, the specter of his violent history continued to haunt him, casting a shroud of unworthiness over even the most tender moments. As he sat on the sidelines, observing the carefree laughter of the children, Bucky couldn't help but wonder if he would ever truly be accepted by society, if he could ever be seen as anything more than the brainwashed assassin he had once been. The vulnerability he felt in that moment was almost crippling, a raw, gaping wound that threatened to swallow him whole. He wondered if he deserved the unconditional love and acceptance that his niece had shown him. Bucky knew, deep down, that this wouldn't be the last time he would be made to feel unworthy, undeserving of the warmth and connection he so desperately craved.

“Bucky?” you called him gently, your voice a soft, soothing balm. “Can we talk about what happened?”

“What's to talk about?” He answered gruffly, the defensive edge to his words belying the vulnerability that lurked just beneath the surface. “People still think I'm a dangerous man. It's all I'll ever be.”

But you knew, deep in your heart, that this was not true. You had seen the gentle way he interacted with Winnie, the pure, unadulterated love that shone in his eyes whenever he looked at the little girl. Not because of who he had been, the Winter Soldier, the merciless assassin, but because of who he was now - a man struggling to atone, to find redemption, to reclaim the humanity that had been so cruelly stripped away.

“But why do they matter?” you asked, your gaze steady and unwavering. “Look at how much that little girl loves you,” you pointed at Winnie, the pure, innocent adoration in her expression as she waved at you from the statues, a testament to the man Bucky had become. “Not because of who you were. All she knows and sees is the wonderful uncle who loves her unconditionally. That's who you are.”

You gently reminded Bucky that this behavior was not unique to him. Even the revered Avengers, heroes who had risked everything to save countless lives, faced similar backlash and rejection from some quarters.

“Look at Zemo!” You used the man as an example of someone who had harbored a bitter hatred towards Steve and the other Avengers due to the destruction in Sokovia. Yet the world at large still celebrated the Avengers as champions, symbols of hope in the face of darkness. “The reality is, in this imperfect world, no one - no matter how good their intentions or noble their actions - can please everyone. There’ll always be those who judge, who refuse to understand, who cling to their own narrow-minded views. But Bucky, you can’t let the hurtful words of a few define your worth or your place in society. You’ve overcome so much, fought so hard to redeem yourself, and you deserve to walk tall and proud, even if not everyone is willing to see it.”

Bucky's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as he grappled with the weight of the situation. Your words of reason had struck a chord within him, their logic undeniable, yet the venomous words uttered by the stranger continued to linger, casting a heavy shadow over his soul. He could not escape the sting of those cruel barbs, their poisonous tendrils sinking deep into his psyche. You watched his internal struggle with a mix of empathy and concern, unwilling to pressure him to process these turbulent feelings before he was ready. But you knew there was something you had yet to share with him, a revelation that you hoped would shift the course of his thoughts, though the trepidation of revealing this news held you back.

As Bucky contemplated the implications, a troubling realization took hold. “Maybe I shouldn't be bringing Winnie out alone anymore,” he murmured, the weight of responsibility bearing down upon him.

You understood his hesitation, yet you also knew that avoiding the issue would only prolong the pain. Gently, you broached the subject, acknowledging your own reluctance to push him, but emphasizing the importance of not letting this incident affect his actions. “Bucky? I'm sorry, you know I'm not normally one to pressure you with this sort of thing, but I'm going to need you to not let it affect your actions.”

His hackles raised at your words, and he shot back, "You think it's ok to just let my niece be exposed to this kind of thing."

The raw emotion in his voice was palpable, but you refused to back down, reminding him, “She's my niece too, Bucky.” Your quiet, slightly upset tone caused him to pause, the shame evident on his face as he recognized the impact of his words. And then, the gravity of the situation truly sank in, as you asked, “And what happens when it's our kid?”

Bucky's expression crumpled, the weight of that unspoken reality settling upon him like a lead cloak. “I don't know, Ace,” he admitted, his voice laced with sorrow.

You sighed, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill forth, your heart aching at the thought of having to have this difficult conversation in such a charged emotional context. You didn't want to tell him you were pregnant, not like this - but now, more than ever, you knew you had to. “I'm going to need you to figure it out,” you implored, your tone tinged with a quiet desperation.

“Give me some time,” he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion.

You knew in that moment that he was grappling with the enormity of the situation, the implications of which would reverberate far beyond just the two of you.

“You have eight months, Bucky,” you told him, your words laced with a quiet urgency. The clock was ticking, and the decisions he made in the coming days and weeks would shape the future you would share together - a future that now held the promise of new life, and all the joy and anticipation that came with it.

As the gravity of your words sank in, Bucky's expression shifted from one of confusion to dawning comprehension. The realization that you were carrying his child seemed to wash over him in waves, his vibrant blue eyes widening with a mix of shock and wonder. You found yourself unable to meet his gaze, anxiety gripping you as you waited for his reaction. Your hands clenched into tight fists, knuckles turning white as you fought to maintain your composure, unwilling to break down in the middle of the park where your young niece was blissfully unaware, playing just a short distance away.

The weighted silence between you felt thick and palpable, the tension nearly suffocating. But then, ever so gently, you felt Bucky's vibranium arm encircle your shoulders, providing a comforting, grounding presence. With his flesh hand, he tenderly cupped your face, guiding it to turn towards his own. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as he searched your features, seeking confirmation of the life-altering news you had delivered. “Ace, are you…are you saying that you're… we're… are you pregnant?” The words tumbled from his lips in a hushed, almost disbelieving whisper, a myriad of emotions playing across his rugged countenance.

The tears streamed down your cheeks as you finally confessed your pregnancy to Bucky, your frayed nerves and mounting anxiety causing you to break down in his arms. But Bucky's reaction was nothing like what you had feared - instead of recoiling in shock or disapproval, he immediately scooped you into a warm, loving embrace, whispering soft words of reassurance and comfort into your ear. His voice was low and soothing, radiating pure happiness and excitement at the news, and you could feel the tension and worry melting away as he held you close. In that moment, all your anxieties about how he would respond seemed utterly unfounded, replaced by a profound sense of relief and joy.

As you clung to Bucky, Winnie suddenly came running over, her young eyes filled with concern as she noticed your tears. “Auntie Ace, what's wrong? Why’re you crying?” she asked innocently.

Bucky's face broke into a wide smile as he quickly reassured the little girl, telling her that you were actually crying tears of happiness about something special. When Winnie pressed further, wanting to know what the secret was, Bucky gently told her that she would be the first to know when the time was right, eliciting an excited nod and a sparkle in her eyes.

“I promise that you’ll be the first person we tell when it’s time. Is that a deal?” Bucky held his pinky finger out to the girl, who wrapped her tiny digit around his in a solemn promise.

Bucky then playfully shooed his niece back to her friends, wanting a moment alone with you to bask in this momentous news. Gazing into your eyes tenderly, he pressed his forehead against yours and uttered the words you had been longing to hear.

“I've never been happier, Ace.”

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Blue and Fire Engine Red Pt 9

“Are you sure you want to do this? I won’t go easy on you.”

Lena’s voice is light in its challenge, but edged with true competition. 

It’s been more than a month since their confrontation, when they’d mutually agreed to keep things going. For much of that time, Lena had existed on tenterhooks, waiting for some other shoe to fall. But Kara was patient, and when nothing happened to threaten their happiness, Lena had finally relaxed, bringing a return to her playful confidence.

Kara bares her teeth in a grin. “Bring it.”

Today is the day of the intramural baseball championships, pitting the best of FDNC and NCPD against each other. They’d thought it would be fun to participate, neither thinking they’d ever manage to face the other in an actual game. Yet here they were, Precinct 42 facing off against Station 13. 

“Hey!” Nia calls from the bench area. “No cavorting with the enemy, Lieutenant!” 

Lena’s face creases into an exasperated eyeroll. Kara cherishes the sight, the memory of her girlfriend’s guarded features still fresh in her memory.

“Duty calls,” she drawls, leaning in for a final pre-game kiss. 

“No smooching the enemy either!”

Lena huffs as Kara guffaws, giving Lena a swat to the butt as they split to return to their respective teams. Kara hears Lena say something about psyching out the competition, but Nia’s disbelief is equally audible.

“Sure, Jan.”

Kara jogs a lap around the diamond, doing her best not to stare at Lena’s legs as she does a series of lunge stretches. When Lena moves to side bends, the edge of her jersey rides up to expose a slice of skin that makes Kara nearly trip over her own feet. When Lena turns and bends backwards, stretching her spine, her grin tells Kara that she knows exactly what she’s doing. 

Suddenly, Lena pauses mid-stretch. Though she straightens casually, Kara sees her eyes scan the field, then the bleachers, searching for something. Concern flashes through Kara, but before she can approach Lena, Winn Schott trots towards her. 

“Hey Danvers. You ready to crush your girlfriend?” 

His smile is broad and bright, and Kara automatically smiles in reciprocation. She hadn’t spent much time with Officer Schott before joining the team, but over the course of the season she’s learned that he’s a good sport, playful yet dedicated. She likes him.

“You know Lena,” she returns, “she’s not one to do things halfway.”

Winn’s nose wrinkles. “Okay, did not need to know that about you guys.” He earns a smack to the shoulder, and breaks into giggles. “Okay, okay, you know I’m joking!” 

Glancing back over the field, Kara sees that Lena has been similarly wrangled, circled up with her teammates. Her focus seems to be entirely on the huddle, so Kara lets her shoulders relax. 

“Come on,” she tells Winn. “Let’s get going.”

The game is close. Too close. It comes down to the final inning, with two outs and the bases loaded. The Hot Shots are at bat, trailing by one, but the Moody Blues need only one more out to end the game. From her position at shortstop, Kara swallows with anticipation as Lena steps towards the plate. The rest of her team cheers, while Kara’s jeers. Kara remains silent, mentally calculating how Lena might play it. She’s been hitting hard all game, making Kara’s team work to collect the ball and wing it back towards the bases before doubles and triples can turn into full homers. And in this suspenseful moment, Kara wouldn’t put it past Lena to fire a line drive directly into Kara’s knees.

She settles in, watching Lena’s relaxed strides to the plate, casually knocking the bat against her cleats to dislodge the packed dirt. Then, she settles into her ready stance, and waits. The pitcher winds up and drives the ball over home plate. Lena doesn’t swing. On the second, she even dodges as the pitch careens too close to her, much to the Hot Shots’ outrage. After a warning from the umpire, the exhausted pitcher takes a beat, spits, then readies himself.

The pitch is so fast Kara barely registers it’s been thrown, but the answering crack of the bat is unmistakable. Kara traces the arc of the ball up, up, and away, across the field and over the scoreboard on the far end, out of sight. Home run. Lena takes her victory lap at a trot as the other runners cross home plate one after the other, picking up her pace when she sees her team surging towards her in celebration.

While Lena gets showered with praise and gatorade, Kara laughs as her team groans and curses, sprawling on their backs in the dirt, exhausted. It’s been a tough one, giving as good as they got, but where the other officers wallow in disappointment, Kara feels exhilarated. 

“Jesus,” Winn says, panting as he crosses to her from second base. “Is she superwoman?”

Kara shoots him a cocked grin, and after a beat of staring his eyes go wide. “Oh! God– Danvers, I did not mean it like that!”

Slapping him on the back, Kara chuckles. “Later, Schott!”

She trots over to the other team, wading into the crowd of bodies until she’s planted herself in front of Lena. She grips Lena’s face with both hands and kisses her soundly, dust and sweat and all. It surprises Lena, evidenced by the slight glaze in her eyes when Kara draws back.

“Good game,” Kara all but shouts to be heard. As Kara smiles up at her, she sees the tiniest wrinkle appear between Lena’s eyebrows. Green eyes lift to scan the area around them, her chin even swiveling to check behind her. Kara’s hackles lift; she knows that look– the sense of being watched. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Lena doesn’t respond, and Kara realizes that she hasn’t heard between the din and distraction. She touches Lena’s arm, pulling her girlfriend’s attention back towards her. 

“Everything okay?”

Lena blinks, staring for a long moment before she shakes her with a disarming smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Hey lovebirds!” Nia calls. “Come on! We gotta treat the losers to pizza and ice cream!”

“It is tradition,” Brainy confirms. “To ease the sting of failure.”

Kara turns back to Lena, smirking. “Oh darn. Guess I’ll have to wait to give you your prize at home…”

Lena’s gaze sharpens as her words register, her previous distraction swiftly turning to hunger. “You know, I have some ice cream in my freezer–”

“Nope!” Kara chirps. “Come on, babe. Pizza and ice cream wait for no man.”

Under the din, Kara hears a plaintive whimper. Her insides melt as she settles her hand into Lena’s hand and gives a promising squeeze.

All in good time, it says. All in good time.

—

Later that night, Kara wakes up deliciously sore, and not just from the game. She lengthens her body under the covers, stretching some of the ache away. It’s a few bleary moments before she understands exactly what’s woken her. 

Lena twitches and jerks in the bed beside her, her brow furrowed with anguish. Her lips move indiscernibly, silenced in sleep. A nightmare. Kara reaches to shake her awake, but retracts her hand at the last moment. She’s heard stories of unsuspecting partners trying to rouse their loved ones awake, only to be made part of the nightmare itself. She knows Lena would never consciously attack her, but in sleep? With a monstrous trauma and undisclosed past hanging over her? Kara knows better than to believe she would be an exception to the possibility.

Suddenly, Lena spasms, lashing out with a long arm. Kara only just manages to dodge before rolling out of bed and onto her feet. “Shit,” she hisses. She flips on the light on her bed stand, casting a glow throughout the room. Lena’s movements are more noticeable now, rocking to either side as though to dislodge something sitting on her chest. Her arm flails again before clenching the sheet in a white-knuckled grip.

Kara considers her options, but before she’s able to make a decision, Lena bolts upright with a sharp gasp, so suddenly that Kara flinches back in surprise. Lena’s head whips back and forth frantically, scanning the room. She jumps when she sees Kara standing beside the bed, eyes flying wide before recognition hits. For a brief moment they can do nothing but stare at each other. Kara’s sure her eyes are as wide as Lena’s which soon glaze with tears. Finally, Lena sighs, deflating a little as she wipes a hand over her face. 

“Fuck,” comes the inevitable mumble. Kara watches tentatively as Lena scans the room again before slowly sliding her legs over the side of the bed, turning away from Kara. Her night shirt clings to her in cold sweat, and her hair hangs limp around her shoulders. 

“You okay?” Kara asks, clearing her throat. 

Lena nods without looking up. “Yeah.” Her voice is little more than a croak, and does nothing to reassure Kara. In the end, Lena sniffles huskily and swipes again at her eyes. “I’m going to get some water. You can go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.”

With that she slips out of the room as quiet as a wraith. Kara stares after her, at a loss for what to do next. In the quiet that follows, she realizes she’s also trembling, her body stiff with adrenaline.

“Fuck,” Kara echoes Lena’s sentiment. She drops onto the side of the bed, resting her elbows heavily on her knees as she rubs her cheeks. She doesn’t feel afraid, but her body does. Only when her hands stop shaking does she rise and venture from the bedroom. Lena doesn’t look up when Kara enters the living room, but doesn’t protest when KAra settles down next to her.

Her shoulders are hunched, arms crossed around her middle, a glass of water forgotten on the coffee table. They sit in silence for several long minutes– Lena not ready to speak, and Kara loathe to break the quiet. Finally, Lena forces herself upright, lifting her head to reveal solemn features. 

“You were smart,” she says roughly. “Getting out of bed.”

Kara takes it as an invitation to take Lena’s hand, who allows their fingers to intertwine. Clearing her throat, Lena looks at her. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Kara promises, shaking her head quickly. “I’m good. Are you good?”

Lena doesn’t respond. Tension still limns her frame, her breathing almost shallow as they sit, as though Lena can’t pull in a full breath. An idea pops into Kara’s head, and she gives Lena’s hand a squeeze. “Hey. Wanna go for a walk?”

The offer is accepted with a quiet nod. After pulling on their sweatpants and sneakers, they step out into the night. They’re the only ones on the street at this hour, and they hold hands as they silently walk towards the nearby park. When the scent of sleeping trees drifts across their senses, Kara finally feels Lena start to relax. The air isn’t quite chill, just cold enough to bring a tint of pink to her partner’s cheeks. 

Halfway across the bridge spanning a small creek, Lena draws to a stop against the wrought iron rail. Kara watches her turn her head to the sky, eyes reflecting every star peeking through the cloud cover. Soft moonlight dapples across Lena’s skin, and Kara feels her heart lurch, stuttering a little with an emotion she can’t quite describe.

“Thanks,” Lena murmurs. “This was a good idea.”

Kara slides closer, until the warmth of Lena’s shoulder melds with hers. “It always helped me, when I had nightmares. After the shooting, there were nights I felt like I was still in that bathroom stall, with the walls closing in.” She smiles thinly. “Sometimes a little breeze is enough to ground a person.”

“Or blow them away entirely.” Lena’s voice is even, but low. Vulnerable.

Kara gazes at her. “Is that how you feel right now? Like you might blow away?”

Lena sighs, then turns her gaze from the sky to Kara. “Let’s just say it’s not the breeze keeping me grounded.” Her thumb brushes the back of Kara’s hand in soft circles, sending a thrum of something deep through Kara. She leans her head against Lena’s shoulder, gazing out across the trees lining the creek while Lena returns her attention to the sky.

“It’s actually one of the things I miss about the desert,” Lena says gently. Kara hums a low question. “The sky. You could see the whole Milky Way out there, painting the entire sky. It was… breathtaking. Even on the most miserable days, it still awed me.”

You awe me, Kara longs to say. You are breathtaking.

She doesn’t.

“Maybe we could go camping,” she suggests instead. “Chase the open sky.”

Lena grunts, but the sound of it doesn’t completely nix the idea. Kara bumps her with a hip.

“I could see you on a Harley for sure.”

Finally, Lena laughs. “Nah,” Lena returns. “We’ll take the truck– sleep in the bed.”

“With all the rust mites? Psh.”

“All right, fine. Just some bedrolls around a fire. Like Xena and Gabrielle.”

Kara grins. “Can I be Xena?”

“Nope. You’ve the soul of a poet, Miss Artiste.”

It draws a chuckle from Kara. When Lena lifts her arm, Kara tucks herself against her, soaking in the proximity. 

I love you, she wants to say. I cherish you.

She doesn’t.

[freesia-writes]

Ch 16: Foreign Contaminant

~ Master List ~ Previous Chapter ~ WC: 2.8k

Hunter let out a slow exhale, finger steadying on the trigger as the animals milled about near the river below. There were far too many young males in the herd, which had resulted in a great amount of fighting for dominance to determine the social hierarchy. While it was sometimes entertaining to watch, it gave him all the more reason to thin out the kod’yok as the females huddled nearby, ears flickering in mild irritation at the pervasive atmosphere the males had created. Their meat was always in demand at the butcher shop, so Hunter was grateful for the situation he now found himself in. 

One male mounted another, bugling triumphantly before being quickly headbutted by another ambitious adolescent. The ruckus spooked everyone for a moment, scattering them for a few moments before they slowly reconvened. Hunter sighed, finding himself too distracted to just take the shot already. 

“We could have been done an hour ago,” came Crosshair’s slithering words from beside him on the grassy knoll where they’d both posted up. “Do you always make it so miserably drawn-out?” 

“Sorry,” Hunter mumbled. “Stuff on my mind. You didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I told you I wanted to shoot something.”

“Well, when that one singles himself out again,” Hunter replied, nodding toward the largest male, “You can go ahead.”

“I thought you have your process,” Crosshair remarked snidely.

“Yeah, well… Let’s just get it and go.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the herd mingle and squabble, neither willing to admit how much they truly enjoyed the waiting. It was peaceful and quiet, the breeze bringing a hint of warmth that suggested an upcoming return to the more temperate weather on the island, and the sun had poked out from behind the clouds to provide a toasty blanket of light across the entire scene. 

“How’s the observatory?” Hunter finally asked, voice barely audible in their shared space. 

“The work is fine. The people are loathsome.”

“Naturally.”

“The Xyloan keeps praising me for following the island’s will and has tried to ‘read my face’ about fourteen times now. I’m going to smack her if she tries it again.”

“You are not.”

“Maybe not,” Crosshair said with a small smile, indulging in just the thought. 

“What’s the deal with the Zygerrian?”

A visceral sound of disgust. 

“That bad, huh?” 

“He’s nothing like the rest of his people. Must have been dropped on his head as a baby.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing…” Hunter observed, tilting his head to sneak a glance at the side of Crosshair’s face for a second before returning his focus to the herd. 

“It’s unnecessarily complex,” his brother explained, hissing his words with a particular vitriol. “He somehow broke free from their brainwashed sort of herd mentality and is just full of love and rainbows for all living creatures. He thinks everyone he crosses paths with is just wonderful.”

“Ah, yes. Sounds terrible.” 

“It’s annoying.”

“Mmm.”

Silence fell for a while, Hunter mulling over all that his brother had been through and fighting a smirk at the sniper’s purported repulsion toward any sort of optimism or ebullience. But the Zygerrian’s positivity certainly seemed refreshing in comparison to the bitter, cynical types Crosshair had typically entertained since arriving on the island. Hunter didn’t think he was legitimately attracted to such harshness, but he still seemed to be working through the weight of his past and his own perceptions of his self-worth. Hunter was privately holding out hope for his brother to realize and accept the deep desire to care and be cared for.

“How’s your girlfriend?” Crosshair asked, putting just enough emphasis on the word to make it a verbal jab. 

“Don’t call her that,” Hunter said, pushing aside the immediate questions in his mind. “And… it’s weird.”

The sniper remained silent, eyes lazily flickering from animal to animal as they cavorted about the hills below. Hunter was grateful for his unobtrusiveness that masqueraded as disinterest, giving time to gather his thoughts. 

“I just have this nagging sense that she’s hiding something… Or… I don’t know. It can’t be as simple as it seems.”

“Why not?”

Now it was Hunter’s turn to be silenced, turning it over in his mind for a while before answering, “It just feels like there’s more to it.”

“Hm.”

“Little things,” he continued, “Like… Her past seems so… plain. Or she hints at stuff that happened but doesn’t share all of it…”

“And I’m sure you’ve shared everything with her, right?” 

“No, but I have reasons not to,” Hunter deflected, “Would you go telling everything to your little Zygerrian friend?”

Crosshair sniffed, rolling his toothpick to the other side of his mouth in response.

“She finally invited me to her house,” Hunter started, interrupted by a click of the tongue from his brother.

“Nice.” 

“Not like that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We just had dinner. But I could swear she had a bunch of stuff hidden… in the walls or another room or something… Metal, electronics, weapons maybe…” He saw Crosshair staring at the side of his head out of the corner of his eye and turned to face the sniper fully. “I know it sounds crazy. But something was there. And I didn’t know how to ask about it, but she said the house was just old… But that wouldn’t explain it at all…”

“No, it sounds completely reasonable,” Crosshair said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Honestly Hunter… It sounds like you’re the one who’s hiding everything. Your own paranoia is tinting the way you see everything.” It was judgmental and dismissive, but it did give Hunter pause. Crosshair was uncannily insightful at times, but he could also be too quick to make up his mind without considering all the possibilities. Still, he’d been having a similarly difficult time when it came to adjusting to civilian life, leading Hunter to wonder if their struggles were not so different at their core. “It’s like you want to find skeletons in every closet because you’re too scared to just let yourself be happy.”

“Kriffing hell, Crosshair. You’re one to talk,” he exhaled, absolutely skewered by his brother’s words. 

“We’re not talking about me, are we?”

“Fair enough.”

Crosshair turned back to the herd of kod’yok, who had stilled enough to provide a clear, clean shot at the big male. “You know what I think?” he asked, flipping a tiny switch on his rifle before lifting it to his eye. The gun shook a little, provoking a frustrated huff from the sniper, who quickly squeezed the trigger with a snarl. The animals sprang into action, scattering in alarm, and the target hobbled a few steps before collapsing beneath the quick follow-up shot from Hunter. An awkward moment passed between the two of them, Crosshair flinging his Firepuncher across his back in irritation before turning to Hunter to finish his thought. 

“I think you two just need to bone.” 

[end of scene, but this is absolutely the same vibe we’re channeling here, LOL]

* * * 

.

Butcher duties wrapped up early, Hunter arrived at the school a little while before Omega’s class let out. He knew she didn’t need escorting to or from the school, but he’d missed her over the last month, and now he chuckled at how things had flipped since the start – sometimes he’d visit Lyra at her work with the excuse of seeing Omega and walking back down the mountain together. Venturing down the quiet hallway outside the administrative wing, he came to the back door of the offices and knocked quietly. 

“Well hellooo,” Lyra said as she answered, inviting him in. Her office was in the back corner, wedged between some closets, conference rooms, and archives, with one small window that barely let enough light in. The office door was dark wood and usually kept mostly closed, and she’d made her inside space cozy enough with a few small lamps and plants that brought some life to the otherwise drab setting. Everything was a rich, deep brown, from her large L-shaped desk to the shelves all around it, and the two small chairs that sat across the open part of her desk were a drastically different color from the monotony of everything else (they were a dark burgundy). 

“Hi,” Hunter said placidly, quickly hiding his surprise as he saw a man sitting in one of the two chairs when Lyra moved aside to return to her desk. Standing up a little straighter, he gave a curt nod to the fellow, who was sprawled out in quite the leisurely recline. His feet were stretched out straight in front of him, up against the front of her desk, and one arm stretched across the back of the other chair beside him while his other hand toyed idly with a small decorative cube that usually sat on one of her shelves. 

“Afternoon,” the man said, barely flickering a glance in Hunter’s direction before returning his eyes to Lyra, who had sat primly in her chair with her shoulders angled away from both of them, toward the wall side of the desk where her folders and screens were. “So anyway, she keeps sending me all these comms, and they keep getting bolder and bolder, and pretty soon she’s totally naked, right? Hah. But then I see her the next day and she’s pissed, and I don’t know why because I was all about her… uh… exhibition. Turns out she’d sent one more, in an even saucier position… to the wrong person!” 

“Oh no,” Lyra said halfheartedly, offering a small smile and empathetic expression while Hunter’s eyebrows crawled downward. This did not seem like normal work chatter, nor did it seem like something Lyra would be particularly inclined to hear. But the man continued, oblivious to the clear disinterest as he straightened his smart suit and ran a hand over his neat, wavy blonde hair. 

“I know, right? Not like that was my fault. Silly little whore…” Hunter’s mouth fell open at that, and the man turned to him, throwing a look of camaraderie that shocked the clone even more. “Ya feel me?” he laughed, rolling his eyes before turning away. Too speechless to respond, Hunter was distracted by a tiny snicker from Lyra, who had snuck a peek at him over her shoulder and was reveling in his reaction. “So what, you got a meeting with this guy or somethin?” the man continued, tossing the wooden cube back onto her desk and shifting his position into a different yet equally man-spread arrangement. 

“Ah… Yes,” Lyra nodded, turning to face the two and rising to her feet as though she’d just realized the solution to her problem. “Yes… This is the parent of one of our students. We need to sort out some details for the remainder of his daughter’s internship year.” 

“And you’re not even gonna introduce me?” the man said, standing up with a grunt and thrusting a hand at Hunter. “Mullet,” he announced, grabbing Hunter’s hand from his side and shaking it obnoxiously. “Mullet Hanker.” The cough that came in response was a quick cover for the laugh that surprised even Hunter – he’d heard plenty of odd names over the years, but for some reason the particular sound of this one, which contrasted starkly with the man’s suave appearance, struck him as odd.

“Hunter,” he answered, stepping back as the man pushed past him to stand beside Lyra, taking her hand just as quickly and holding it for a second, brushing his thumb across her knuckles before giving it a little farewell shake. “Just ‘Hunter’, eh?” said Mullet, giving Lyra a wink before turning back to him, snapping him out of the intense focus he’d suddenly had on their hands. “Mysterioussss.” He winked and bumped Hunter’s shoulder jovially before heading for the door, giving Lyra a quick second to shoot an apologetic glance before turning back to Mullet. “Catch you later, Vetty.”

“See you,” she said, waving as he disappeared around the corner after pointing at her for a long moment with a waggle of his eyebrows. Hunter and Lyra stared at each other for a moment, speechless in the cavernous silence that remained after Mullet’s departure. With a quiet sigh, Lyra returned to her seat, leaning her forehead into a hand while her elbow rested on her desk. Hunter remained standing, alternating between cautious glances down the hall where the man had headed and curious looks at her. 

“Uhh,” he began, realizing he had no idea where to go from there. 

“I know,” was all she could say. 

“What… What was that?”

“He oversees the administrative wing. So he pops in from time to time.”

“For… those kinds of updates?”

“Yep,” she rolled her eyes, shaking her head at Hunter with a softened look. “I think I’m one of the few staff members that he hasn’t slept with yet. Probably has some kind of personal conquest or somethin.” Hunter’s eyes narrowed, turning to peer back down the hall before moving a little further into Lyra’s office. 

“Does he bother you?”

“I mean… whose boss doesn’t?”

“Yeah, but… You shouldn’t have to listen to that kind of stuff if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not worth the conflict,” Lyra shrugged, the corners of her mouth turning down a little. “Want to sit?” 

Hunter looked at the chairs, close together in the space that Mullet had just occupied, and shook his head, inexplicably dissuaded. There was a sharpness to his voice that he didn’t intend as he replied. “I’m good… Omega will be out soon anyway.”

“Hey,” she said softly, getting back up to stand before him, wrapping her arms around herself a little self-consciously and resting her weight to one side. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck before mimicking her crossed arms. “Why?” he asked, lifting his chin to regard her impassively. 

“Just seem a little agitated.” It wasn’t an accusation, but an observation with a bit of yearning behind it, as though she wished she could free him from any burdens that may plague him. Her gentle honesty lowered his walls a little, and he looked at the floor again, clearing his throat quietly. 

“Weird feeling from that one, is all.”

“You’re not wrong there,” she agreed with a light sigh. “Oh, hey!” she said suddenly, turning back to her desk and pulling something from a readily-available space on a top shelf. Coming back into Hunter’s space, she opened her hand, revealing the small emergency beacon he’d given her a couple months into the school year. “Since Omega is going to be primarily away on internships for the rest of the term, did you want this back? She might want to keep it herself when she travels.”

“She was a little weird about it when I tried to give it to her,” Hunter admitted, glancing down at her hand but not moving to take it. “She’s on a bit of an ‘independence’ kick or something…” 

Lyra guffawed loudly, clapping a hand over her mouth at his initial look of affront. “No, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I just…” she shook her head, a bit flustered and embarrassed now. “I’ve seen it a lot with kids this age. Well, they’re not even really kids anymore. They’re stretching their wings and finding their place in the world. And nothing is more offensive to that endeavor than someone trying to parent them, no matter how reasonable or well-meaning it may be.”

“Heh. That sounds about right,” he said slowly, a sense of validation momentary soothing his tumultuous concerns. His silence lasted a few extra seconds, his expression growing contemplative, and she tipped her head slightly, taking one tiny step closer and reaching out her free hand to place it on his forearm with feather-light apprehension. The warmth from her touch radiated up his arm and into his chest, and he slowly moved his eyes up to hers. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” she said haltingly, a slight sparkle in her low voice, “No one knows what they’re doing. Kids don’t, parents don’t, even the ‘experts’ don’t. We’re all just doing the best we can with what we have… And just the way you are always there for her is the most important thing. In my idiot opinion, anyway.” Her dismissive finish was followed by a chuckle, but she nodded at him confidently, sealing her words with clear admiration. 

“Well thanks,” he conceded, looking back down to her hands. “And uh… Why don’t you keep the beacon. For yourself…”

She followed his stare, bringing the little silver cylinder back up between them with an open palm again and considering it, as well as all that his words implied, then calmly closed her fingers around it, a small smile touching the corner of her mouth as she looked back up in time to see him gazing at her intently as he finished speaking. 

“Just in case you ever need it.”

.

Previous Chapter ~ Master List ~ Next Chapter

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[baldurs-gape]

Hunt

Two hundred years of being a spawn and Astarion had thought he'd learned everything he needed to about the life he had been dealt. His own naive arrogance came to bite him in the arse almost literally. Tadpoles, nautiloids, the lot came and went. Suddenly he was free and had to fend for himself. Easy.

Charming his way into the rag tag group of fellow tadpole fashionistas was easy. They all seemed so eager to pull him into their camp that Astarion almost felt bad for them for not realising they were cavorting with a monster. A very hungry one at that. Still, Astarion had a bit of sense left and he steered away from snacking on his protection.

Which left him with the only other option of hunting. Easier said than done. In all his years he had only ever been granted a fetid rat to drain, already half congealed so sucking it dry was in itself an exhausting chore. Still, it couldn't be that hard, right?

Traipsing off into the surrounding area once the rest of camp had fallen asleep, Astarion was eager to find himself a meal. He was an apex predator after all, designed to be the ultimate hunter. Except the woods were silent. No matter how quietly he moved, there was not a single creature to sink his teeth into. Frustrated, Astarion returned to camp and vowed to go a bit later the next night, when the noises of the camp had long since died down and calm descended on the area.

It was pointless. The heartbeats he could hear were impossible to reach. Not even a half-dead rat to scrounge up from the undergrowth. Really, Astarion had been hoping for something a bit more substantial like a boar. Alas, there was nothing of the sort he could find as he stalked through the shrubland.

Desperation drove him to stupidity. Sure, he could exist without sustenance but he wanted blood. It occupied most of his conscious thought, hearing the hearts of his companions beat almost deafeningly loudly. Self-discipline had never been his strong point and Astarion caved. Just a sip, that had been all he'd wanted. Never got even that as he was caught mid-attempt and almost sent fleeing from the camp.

Promising never to do that again had been easy. Protection was more important than satiating the neverending craving. As the group moved on, Astarion trailed along, on the search for something, anything to eat.

Closer to the goblin camp there were more animals dotted around and once again Astarion overestimated himself. Just because there was food within reach didn't mean it was as simple as sauntering up for a bite. No matter how quietly he tried to sneak, to ambush, creatures went skittering from him. Even the squirrel with a limp had evaded his launched attack.

Irritation licked hot up Astarion's spine. He should be better than this. Instead he was hungry and making more and more rash attempts to capture anything to fill his stomach. After the goblin camp's fight he had half a mind to return and see if he could have a few sips of tepid and cooling blood from the dead. Alas, upon his return he discovered that someone had dutifully gathered the corpses and was burning them.

Angry and frustrated, he headed out into the woods again late at night. There was the sound of a slow, large heart beating up ahead. Sneaking closer, Astarion was thrilled to discover a bear. It turned to look at him but discarded his appearance as a lack of threat. Bolstered, Astarion edged closer. The bear was huge, even by bear standards. Optimism wavering, he eyed it up for the best place to bite. Before he could make a decision, the large head turned again and dropped something in front of Astarion. A dead boar. Eyeing it, he glanced at the bear who huffed. What a strange creature. Still, Astarion was starving and he sank to his knees to drink. It was messy, unrefined. At least the blood wasn't still pumping through its veins to make the task more difficult. Sated and drenched from chin to near enough his hips, Astarion sighed.

"Thanks." It felt ridiculous to say that to the bear but being polite had been literally beaten into him.

From then on, Astarion found that the bear kept him company most nights. No matter where they bedded down, the bear seemed to follow. At first it merely plopped dead animals in from of Astarion for eating. The first big surprise was when it was no longer a dead creature but one that was still barely alive. The second big surprise came only a few seconds later. Blood from a still living creature was more divine than anything Astarion had ever had. He moaned as he sank his teeth through fur and skin. Drank and drank until he felt full to bursting then drank a bit more. Returning to camp, he was only a little drunk on his feast.

If Astarion had been a bit more alert, he'd have noticed the strange coincidence of his meal and that of the rest of the camp's matching. When he drank from a boar, the camp had boar stew. Rothé steak when Astarion drained a Rothé the night before. But he was too caught up in the bliss of being well fed and protected to notice.

By the time the bear had nothing ready for him, Astarion was a little offended. He had grown rather used to being provided for. However, the bear grunted at him and walked off, Astarion followed with minor grumblings.

Hunting, it turned out, was an artform. One that the bear seemed willing to teach him. While Astarion sprang from a bush to try and grab his prey, the bear sat back and watched. After the third unlucky attempt, the bear waded in. Astarion got to watch how the bear hunted down their prey, cornered it but waited for Astarion to approach and land the killing blow.

From then on it became a nightly activity. Slowly, Astarion mastered the art of hunting thanks to the bear. The first time he brought down a boar by himself, he was almost too elated to remember to drink. But drink he did, nothing had ever tasted sweeter than his own first independent kill.

Eventually, Astarion found himself to be a proficient hunter. He could feed himself with minor difficulties and rarely missed his target. Which was why, when he went to meet his strange bear, he was rather annoyed to find Halsin sitting in the spot instead.

"What you doing here?" Astarion drawled, trying to hide his frustration.

"I thought you might like a humanoid companion for your hunt this evening." Nose wrinkling, Astarion tried to deny everything. He was left speechless as Halsin sighed "if you insist" and shifted into an all too familiar bear form.

"You!" Torn between outrage, humiliation and gratitude, Astarion couldn't quite pick the emotion to go with. "It was you all along?"

The idea of Halsin watching him fail at hunting, treated him like an inept cub, had ever witnessed how messy and clumsily Astarion fed at the start, it was mortifying. Yet he was still there, offering companionship. Astarion's jaw snapped shut as he sniffed.

"Fine. I supppose you can come along in whatever form." Haughtily he added, "You could have saved yourself a lot of hassle if you'd just offered yourself up you know."

A knowing smile was sent his way. "I know. But you never asked. So I didn't."

"And if I asked now?"

"Want to find out?"

[queen-haq]

Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 1)

Summary: You are a general surgeon, working in a hospital that’s slowly sucking the life out of you when one day you’re given the offer of a lifetime. 

A.K.A  - An arranged marriage fic :)

Pairing: Billy Russo x You

Rating: R

Masterlist (contains links to my other stories and this one)

Part 1

You stared at your husband, noting the tightening of his jaw, the way his beautiful face glared back at you with utter disdain. His dark eyes brimmed with hate and condescension, ready to eviscerate you at any moment. He was dressed in jeans, an olive knit top and a leather jacket - not a tux or suit - because this may have been his wedding day but that certainly didn’t mean he was going to put in any fucking effort. Of course his casual outfit didn’t deter from his good looks. Dark hair slicked back, darker eyes, and a chiseled face that made him look like devil himself. He was one of the richest bachelors in the country and the eldest son of a prominent New York family, so he could have had anybody – but it was you who was marrying him and he wasn’t happy about it. No, he was fucking pissed and everyone attending the ceremony saw it. But you didn’t care. What he felt didn’t matter, because he was your ticket out.

 “Do you, William Russo, take Y/N to be your wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death?”

 Billy didn’t respond, and a stunned silence fell across the room. With every second that passed, the tension in the room grew. It seemed to you like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for him to say no and make his escape. You kept your face blank, but cast his grandfather a quick glance. The old man may have looked deceptively frail sitting in his wheelchair, but you saw his steely gaze, mirroring the man across from you, and knew instinctively there was no way anyone would defy the head of the family. To do so would mean losing all of the wealth and privilege afforded by the Russo name and your soon-to-be-husband was much too smart to give it all up.

 “Sure.”

 Not ‘yes’, not ‘I do’, but ‘sure’. A lazy, insolent drawl of a response. So very much like him. And it would’ve made you snicker if you weren’t required to put on an act for everyone.

 The officiant turned to you, and repeated the same question.

 It was your turn to pause. For a moment sheer panic surged through you. What the fuck were you doing? Is this really what you wanted? To tie yourself down to the kind of guy you absolutely loathed?

 “Why me?” You asked, wondering once again.

 Alistair Russo, Billy’s grandfather, had made the offer a week ago with a deadline of today to get back to him. True to his word, the man was now sitting in your office after waiting several hours for you to get out of a surgery you’d been performing.  

 “You saved my life. And this is how I repay that debt.”

 You quirked your eyebrow. “Saving you was my job. I would’ve done that for anybody.”

 “But I’m not just anybody, and I don’t like being in people’s debt.”

 You exhaled a long breath, leaning back in your chair. You’d been in surgery for more than 7 hours. You were tired and desperately needed some sleep. All you wanted was to crawl into bed but you couldn’t because you still had several hours left on your shift. And now here was this rich, old fuck back to tempt you with an insane plan that had already kept you awake for too many days. “Fine. Pay off my student debt and we’ll call it even.”

 The old man gave you a condescending smile. “That’s not how this works.”

 You smiled back. “So it’s not really about being grateful, is it? There’s a reason you want me to marry your grandson so why don’t you just spill it.”

 Alistair cocked his eyebrow, his expression cold. “This marriage is meant to be a consequence of his actions.”

 “In other words, punishment.”

 “Something like that. My grandson has a brilliant mind but he’s too busy cavorting with leeches to make something of himself. He was given many chances in the past to rectify his behaviour but now we’ve reached the stage where this can no longer continue. He needs to take responsibility for his actions.”

 “So why not marry him off to one of your society people? I’m sure there are plenty of women who would love to get with him.”

 “Billy is a charmer, Ms. Y/N. He’s also a master manipulator. I need someone brilliant who won’t fall for his charms.”

 Ah, false praise. it was obvious where Billy learned his tactics from. “You still haven’t answered my question, Mr. Russo. You could get anyone to help you with this plan, but you came to me specifically. Why?”

 There was a short pause, as if Alistair was contemplating his words carefully. “As I said, this marriage is meant to be a punishment, not a reward. You are not the kind of woman he’s normally seen with.”

 You smirked. There it was. “I’m not his type. And this marriage is intended to embarrass him.”

  Alistair cleared his throat, seemingly uncomfortable with your abrasive assessment. “This is not meant to be a lifelong commitment. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. All you have to do is stay married to him for a period of three years, and after that you’ll both be granted a divorce. I will pay off all of your debt, and after the termination of the marriage you will receive a lump sum of $5 Million.”

 “10 Million,” you countered.

 Alistair quirked his eyebrow. “That is a lot of money, especially considering the benefits you would already be receiving You would be married to someone handsome and wealthy, with no need to work.”

 You learned forward, balancing your elbows on your desk. “Maybe not in the hospital anymore, but I would still be working. Your Billy sounds like a massive pain in the ass and I’m guessing it’s not going to be easy to keep him in check. Because that’s essentially why you’re hiring me, isn’t it? To control him and make him the man you want him to be.”

 “I have no such expectations from you, Ms. Y/N. You will never wield that much power over my grandson.” Alistair’s voice was filled with cold disdain. “You have over $500,000 in debt. While you make a decent income, it’ll take you years to pay it off. I gather your plan is to stay in this hospital so you can benefit from the loan forgiveness program but that will take ten years and from what I can see, this is not an environment you enjoy working in.”

 Bastard. He had honed in on your exact weakness. What you really wanted was to work in poor communities like the one you had grown up in where there was a desperate need for good care, but your debt prevented you from being able to pursue what made you happy. Instead you were stuck working in a hospital with a toxic work environment where leadership only cared about revenue, and it was sucking the soul out of you.

 “While I won’t offer you $10 Million, I will do something else. I understand your brother’s business is failing. If you agree to this offer, I will ensure there is an influx of cash into his business. That should keep him out of trouble for the next little while.”

 You took a deep breath. “He can’t know the money is connected to me. He won’t accept it.”

 “And my grandson can not know this marriage comes with an expiry date.”

 You ran your fingers through his hair. “Understood.”

 Alistair Russo finally smiled, and it was not a pleasant one. A cold shiver ran through you, like you’d just made a deal with the devil. “And just in case you start dreaming about a lifelong marriage with Billy and tying yourself to my family permanently, please remember I will destroy your career, any chances of you ever working anywhere in this continent, and I will end you and your brother. Are we clear?”

 “We’re clear.”

  It was Billy’s tight squeeze of your hand that brought you out of your reverie. You took a quick glace around the room. There was only Billy’s immediate family and three of your friends in attendance. No one wanted this marriage, not even you, but you had to play the part.

 “Should I ask again?” the officiant asked.

 “I do,” you replied in a loud voice, sounding much more confident than you felt.

 Billy shot you a look of disgust before returning his attention back to the officiant. While the rest of the ceremony passed in a whirl, you kept your mind on what mattered the most. You. You were doing this for yourself and for your future, fuck everyone else.

 ***

 You made your escape to the honeymoon suite while the party was on full swing in the reception area. Today had been a long day after a series of long weeks and all you wanted was to sleep. Working the crazy hours you did meant no time to unwind or disconnect, it was always go, go, go and just for a little while you wanted to sit and breathe and not think about the choices you made and what it meant for everyone. You just wanted to breathe.

 Today was your wedding day, something most women dreamed of, but to you it meant nothing. It was simply a means to an end. And you didn’t even have a choice about the date, it was what Alistair picked after you and him had come to an agreement and signed the proper documents. Hell, you didn’t even know how he’d conned Billy into the marriage. You met the man twice before today, and both times he’d looked at you like you were nothing. He had a taste for tall, slim, beautiful women, like most of the world, but you were the farthest thing from that. You were short, curvy, more cute than pretty, and you were fine with that. But seeing the look on Billy’s face today when you walked down the aisle in the last-minute white dress you purchased, it was clear he wasn’t.

 Whatever. That was his problem. You just had to suck it up for three years and then you were free.

 You strode over to where the champagne bottle was stored and poured yourself a glass. You closed your eyes, enjoying the taste as the liquid washed down your throat. It was fucking heaven. Probably the best champagne you ever tasted.

 “You made the biggest mistake of your life tonight.”

 You whirled around at the sound of a stranger’s voice, only to see that it was Billy standing a few feet away. His leather jacket was now gone, bringing attention to the way the knit jersey moulded over the lean muscles of his arms. He was tall, too tall, not at all your regular type.

 Sighing, you took a sip from your flute. “Have I?”

 “You think you can fuck up my life and get out of it unscathed?” The threat on his voice was palpable, his dark eyes growing more wild as he approached you.

 For the first time you felt dread in his presence, a tight ball of fear slowly unfurling in your stomach with every step he took towards you. But you were a fighter, always had been, and you knew showing fear was inviting death. Jutting out your chin defiantly, you glared back at him. “This is a marriage, not a prison sentence.”

 “It’ll feel much worse than prison by the time I’m done with you.”

 “Don’t know why you’re pissed at me. Your grandfather wanted this, Billy,” you reminded him.

 “You didn’t have to say yes.”

 “And turn down my chance at marrying the William Russo?” Taking on a melodramatic tone, you pressed your other hand to your chest. “Impossible.”

 He closed in on you, removing every inch of personal space as his hand wrapped around your throat. Panic surged through you but you reminded yourself to stay calm. You still had the champagne flute in your hand. If he made a move, you wouldn’t hesitate to smash it on his head. “I’ll make you regret every fucking minute you spend with me.” His voice was a hoarse growl, dangerous, meant to frighten you. And it did. He frightened you, even more so when he applied pressure to your throat.

 Growing up the way you did, being attacked wasn’t new. The neighbourhoods were rough, there were always gang wars going on and while you tried your best to stay out of it, inevitably the wrong people would be pissed off and there would be fights. Which meant you had learned to control your fear a long time ago.

 In an instant you shattered the flute against the table behind you and held the remaining jagged figure to the corner of his neck. A piece cut into his skin but you maintained careful control not to dig it in too much. “Two can play at this game, Russo. Hurt me, and I’ll destroy your pretty face.”

 He didn’t back off, but the pressure around your throat loosened. For the longest time he simply stared down at you, as if burning your face into his mind. You wondered what he was thinking, planning, but his expression was blank and completely impossible to decipher.

 The same hand that was clutching your throat now moved up your neck, and you swallowed an audible breath when his thumb roughly wiped the red lipstick off your lips. “A pig in makeup is still a pig.”

 His words were meant to hurt you and destroy your confidence. Except you found yourself breaking into sudden laughter. You couldn’t help it. It was hilarious. He backed off right away, staring at you with a curious expression as you giggled and struggled to catch your breath.

 The audacity of men, they were all the same. Threaten them and they always went after women’s looks, as if being insulted for your looks was the worst thing imaginable.

 “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you high on something?” Billy asked, his forehead furrowed with concern.

 Placing the half-broken flute on the table, you shrugged your shoulders. “No, Billy. I’m not.” You tipped your head to the side, staring up at him with a smile on your face. “You think insulting me is going to hurt me? I’ll go running because you called me a pig? That’s not how this works, Billy. You and me, we’re married.” It was your turn to close the gap between you two. “Committed to each other. Legally. Because that’s what your grandfather wanted. And that means I’m here to stay.” You’re not sure what possessed you to do it, but you stood on your tip-toes and reached up to grasp his face, pulling him down so his lips were merely an inch away from yours. Your same lips he bruised pressed against his while you kept your eyes firmly on him, making sure to stain his face with the lipstick the way he did you. “Our fates are tied now, husband. There’s no getting out.”

 Billy watched you intently, his eyes fixed on you with an unwavering gaze designed to intimidate you. “If I go down, so will you. And you’re the one who has everything to lose in this fight.”

 A slow smile spread across your lips, and you noticed how his eyes followed that smile, the way he smoldered at you even as he tried to figure you out. “Bring it on, husband,” you murmured, loosening your grip on him.

 He stood still, his gaze piercing through you, not moving away. And then suddenly he jerked back, as if finally realizing there was nothing physically connecting the two of you and he really was free to walk away. Turning his back to you, he stormed out of the suite and slammed the door behind him.

 Chuckling, you started cleaning up the broken pieces of glass.

 To be continued...

Um, yeah, so thoughts?

[lullinglily]

Hi, could you pls do a Thiollier x gn!reader who has a similar personality to him? You can choose if you want to make it a short story or headcanons

pairing: thiollier x gn!reader

notes: i love this guy theres so much wrong with him

Since the both of you have similar personalities, you’ll often find each other to be the best company to keep. When a meeting is held between Miquella’s followers the two of you are often standing close together, a few steps away from where everyone else is gathered, whispering to each other in hushed tones. 

Both of you have low self-esteem or have some trouble identifying your strengths/good traits etc … So one of you is nigh constantly reminding the other of their talents.

Thiollier is shocked each time you put yourself down, he genuinely cannot see anything wrong with you. He insists that you’re wonderful, stumbling over his speech as he attempts to assure you.

Doing the same to him will have him stammering, dumbfounded and so so in love. 

Taking naps together is almost a daily occurrence. While he enjoys holding you, he prefers to be the one being held. If he’s holding you it’s often with one arm around your shoulders, pulling your head onto his chest, completely content as he feels you rise and fall with his own breathing

He also likes to curl around, keeping you both turned towards each other with his arms around your waist, burying his face into your hair and drinking in your soothing scent

Although, as previously stated, he much prefers to be held. It makes him feel important; loved. 

You’ll both be facing each other, Thiollier curled up with face head against either your chest or stomach and your hand placed on the back of his head/neck/back 

Sometimes he might latch onto your arms in his sleep, forcing you to tug him awake if you wish to get up

I think he’s pretty light too, so him falling asleep on top of you may happen from time to time as well.

He keeps your hand in his whenever you two go out, your touch inciting a feeling of bravery inside of him.

Your relationship is often the subject of playful teasing in Leda’s group, Ansbach regularly approaching it in a way befitting of his age. To him you both are just two adorable little whippersnappers cavorting in the throes of young love. In short, he’s very supportive. Oh, to be young again.

Your shared timidness works against the both of you. Neither of you can flirt casually, it’s far too embarrassing.

This applies to Thiollier especially, always stuttering when tasked with giving you even the most base compliment. He can combat this, however, If he senses that you’re feeling bad about yourself, need some cheering up or you just make him so happy he has to tell you how much he loves you right now — then he can wax absolute poetry. 

Considering that your personalities are similar, you will react to these words like how he would; to flush and blabber like a madman.

While he hopes to not have upset you with his utter devotion, but is rather proud of himself for being able to spout such praise. 

He feels so safe when he’s with you, so calm and so happy.

You’re always tending to each other in one way or another, asking how the other is and if there’s anything that can be done for them. Constant check-ups and the like. 

You both understand the other’s limits/boundaries etc … When one is tired, the other stays up to watch over them as they sleep. If you or Thiollier ever feel tired socially, you’ll have some peaceful alone-together time. Maybe you’re just sitting a few feet away from each other, maybe you’re in his lap — whichever makes you the most comfortable— doing completely different things. 

I imagine you’re both rather quiet, but so in tune with each other that you can communicate most anything through a glance. 

Leda can’t stand how forward Thiollier has become since meeting you.

She once watched as he, after a few minutes of hushed flirting, pulled up his mask to give you a fleeting kiss on the cheek.

What ever happened to professionalism? Seriously, have some decency. 

[megs-98]

Mesmeric Revelation

The Mystery of Gale Dekarios

“We’ll stop wasting your time then, Mr. Dekarios.” Mara said in a rough manner as she turned her body to let Fox and Astarion leave the room first, her fierce gaze still locked on Gale.

A/N: This is chapter 1 of a slow burn, enemies to lovers, modern au between Gale and my tav Mara! I've had so much fun writing it and appreciate the love on the snippets I've shared about it. Also! A huge, huge thank you to all my followers as I've hit 100 followers now ^_^ I appreciate each and every one of yall

Characters: Gale, Mara, Astarion x Fox (@justporo 's tav), Shadowheart, a little bit of Gortash and Orin, and a mention of Thorm I'm hoping to add all the companions eventually

Summary: It's the start of a new school year at Chiontar High and there's been talk amongst the teachers about how the esteemed Professor Dekarios from Blackstaff Academy has joined the schools faculty. After a chance encounter between Gale and Mara, leaving her less than impressed with the professor, will the two be able to start a friendship and maybe something more?

Tags: Really none for this first chapter, just a little bit of pining and Gale being a jackass

Word count: 2.8k

It was a week before the fall semester was set to start at Chionthar High School. Mara and the other teachers sat in the cafeteria as they listened to Principal Gortash and Vice Principal Orin as they attempted to talk over each other about what to expect throughout the week; have all materials printed out, classrooms ready, and a good attitude to greet students with. Fox, Astarion, and Mara were sat in the back, in the middle of their own hushed conversation.

“God, I don’t understand why Thorm keeps them around. It’s not like they get anything useful done.” Fox quipped as she checked her phone in one hand and rubbed Astarion’s back with the other. 

Mara didn’t take her eyes off the athletics schedule as she said “At least we don’t have Thorm actually here. I’d rather have these two than him. We wouldn’t be able to get away with anything with Thorm here.” 

Mara heard Astarion as he let out a sigh as he tightened his grip around Fox’s waist. “This is true, darling. If he were here then our ‘meetings’ would have to be especially clandestine.” He said as he nipped at Fox’s shoulder. Mara rolled her eyes and smiled as her two dearest friends cavorted with each other. 

The trio resumed their conversation as they slowly grabbed their things as the meeting came to a close. Just as everyone was about to stand to leave as Principal Gortash had already left the cafeteria, Vice Principal Orin cleared her throat.

“One more important piece of information, that Mr. Gortash forgot,” she said with a sneer, “we will be having a new AP literature teacher this year. Gale Dekarios, from Black Staff Academy.” She waved her hand as she left, as if she were shooing away the teachers. There were immediate murmurs between the teachers as they left for their classrooms, Mara could hear whispers about a professor now being at their school and how disconcerting it was that he wasn’t present nor had been seen at all during summer prep. 

The trio made their way to their respective classrooms slowly, knowing that they had already completed everything at Mara’s behest. As they came upon the front doors to the school, Mara collided with a man she’d never seen before. She caught the man by his arm as she kept the two of them standing. 

“Fuckin’ hell, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you! Are you okay?” She asked in a frantic tone as Fox helped steady her. Mara noticed that he was shorter than her, but not by much, with ever so slightly graying dark brown medium length hair, a single dangling earring in his left ear, and the prettiest brown eyes. She glanced at Astarion after thanking Fox, he raised his eyebrows and gave her a cheeky smile as he glanced between Mara and the mysterious man. Before she could give Astarion a smack, the man answered. 

“Quite alright. It appears I, also, was not being as observational as I should have been. Gale Dekarios,” he said with an outstretched hand and slightly irritated tone, “pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Mara shook his hand and introduced herself, and the other two. After their pleasantries, Gale awkwardly asked if any of them would be able to help him bring some boxes to his classroom. Mara agreed that they would all help him. 

“Excuse me. Why do I have to haul his stuff around? I’ve already finished my classroom setup, maybe he should have done his summer prep and he wouldn’t be so atrociously behind.” Astarion said with a groan as he looked right at the new teacher. Mara and Fox rolled their eyes and said, “Ignore him”, at the same time, which caused the two women to chuckle as they followed Gale to his car. 

“Seems you three are quite chummy, I take it you all have been teaching together for a while?” Gale asked the group as they made their way back inside. 

“Bit longer than that. We all met during our freshman year of college, were in the same classes for the teaching program, and we did our student teaching here together.” Fox answered with a smile as she looked at her two favorite people. Astarion couldn’t help but smile back at her as he spoke. 

“Yes, yes. We’ve all been such great friends for so long now. But the real question, Gale, is how did such a prestigious professor from Blackstaff Academy end up here?” Astarion asked as he cocked his head at the ex-professor. Gale narrowed his eyes at white haired man, silent as he contemplated his answer.  

“Ease up, Astarion. Let’s not scare him off on his first day here.” Mara said to break the silence. She turned her head to Gale, “It doesn’t matter, anyway, we’re always happy to welcome newcomers.” Gale gave a small nod to her as a thank you. 

Gale cleared his throat as he asked them what subjects they taught. The three each shared that Fox is the Entrepreneurship 101 teacher, Astarion taught Government, and Mara has been the underclassman and middle school PE teacher and was hopeful that she’d still be teaching an elective class. Gale simply nodded and gave a hum of acknowledgement as he followed the friends through the school.  

The group continued in a comfortable silence before they came to Gale’s classroom. There was a note littered with neat and tight cursive as well as crude, barely legible writing taped to the slightly ajar door. 

Mr. Dekarios, please visit my our secretary to receive your keys and to get a badge.  

– Principal Gortash & Vice Principal Orin

Gale rolled his eyes and pushed the door open with his shoulder after he read the note. He looked around the classroom as he furrowed his brow. “This isn’t quite what I was expecting, if I’m being honest. It all seems a bit… small. But then again, this is a small school.” He said as he set his boxes down on his desk. He sounded increasingly more frustrated than when they had first met only minutes ago. 

“It is a little small, yes, but there’s plenty of bookshelves for you. Every literature teacher we’ve had has loved this room.” Mara said as she looked for an empty spot to place the boxes. 

Gale let out a loud sigh that caused the three to stop where they were. 

“I understand you might not understand the difference, but I am teaching advanced. placement. literature, standard literature, as well as a philosophy elective.” He said with a sharp tone in his voice. He locked his gaze with Mara as he finished his sentence. She opened her mouth to say something to remedy the situation but Gale held his hand up. “I do not wish to be rude, but I don’t see how you could understand how my situation here is simultaneously underwhelming and overwhelming. I apologize that I do not have the time to explain the difference between the two to a middle school gym teacher at the moment.” 

Fox’s eyes went wide as she listened to this stranger talk down to Mara. She took a step forward as she roughly placed the boxes down on the desk next to her. Astarion quickly took a step in front of her to keep her from lunging across the room at Gale. Mara kept her gaze on Gale as she took in everything he had just said to her, her eyebrows raised at the audacity. She startled everyone slightly as she stretched out her arms and dropped the boxes on the ground in front of her with a hard thud.  

“We’ll stop wasting your time then, Mr. Dekarios.” Mara said in a rough manner as she turned her body to let Fox and Astarion leave the room first, her fierce gaze still locked on Gale. Fox grabbed Mara’s arm on the way out. She didn’t hesitate as she followed the others after she made sure to slam the door behind her. Mara widened her stride as she stormed down the hallway, her fists clenched at her sides; earning a few worried glances from the teachers that had stepped into the hallway to see what had happened.

Astarion and Fox did their best to keep up with Mara as they tried not to jog after her. They soon realized that Mara had made a beeline for Fox’s classroom as they entered the hallway; Mara opened the door to the classroom for the couple as she huffed her way in behind them, obscenities muttered under her breath. Astarion perched himself on the desk, his legs crossed while he watched Mara pace around the classroom silently and as Fox worriedly watched her beside him. 

“So,” Astarion said, as he made sure to draw out the vowel, “what do we think of our new friend?” A dry chuckle escaped him as he finished his question. His lover was quick to smack him with a glare. Mara didn’t stop pacing as she gave Astarion the middle finger.  

“That pompous, shit eating, jackass is not our friend.” Her pacing finally came to end as she stood in front of her two friends. “He’s just another pretentious savant with an inflated ego. There’s no point in wasting anymore energy on him.” Mara said as she ran a hand through her hair. 

“Oh, boo. I was hoping you two would fight him, like you did in our college days when egotistical men wouldn’t leave the two of you alone.” Astarion said with a smile. Mara tried to keep a straight face but it quickly devolved into laughs as she and her friends reminisced on their years together.

The rest of the week passed with relative ease for Mara. She made a point to avoid the hallway Gale’s classroom was on to prevent seeing him and spent her time between the gymnasium, getting the equipment prepped for the incoming students, and Fox’s classroom as she prepared herself for another year of teaching Introduction to Ethics. She was not able to escape the new teacher all together, though. Wherever she went that weren’t her usual places, she heard talk of the man and rumors that floated around; and even worse yet, she had always listened, wanting to find out more about the mysterious teacher. As much as she hated it, her thoughts traveled back to him quite often. Mara couldn’t help but think that he was quite attractive and from what she had learned from searching his name, he was, in fact, a very accomplished literature scholar and seemed deserving of the awards that he had won throughout his career. She had a hard time convincing herself that the man she met earlier in the week was who Gale actually was and that they had just got off on the wrong foot. Mara, however, was too stubborn to be the first to admit this and had told herself he needed to be the one to apologize before she attempted to make amends. 

“I hear that he was fired because so many of his students had to cheat to pass his classes. Why that doesn’t hardly sound fair though, does it? If it’s true.. the students simply leveled the playing field if he was really that bad.” Astarion said as he organized his desk for the first day of school that was just a day away. Mara sat on the floor as she stretched and Fox kept herself busy as she rearranged Astarion’s desk the moment he finished. 

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he was a dickhead teacher. He had no problem talking to Mara the way that he did, I’m sure he’d have no problem talking down to students.” Fox said as she left a wake of chaos behind her on the desk. 

Mara opened her mouth to say something before she was interrupted by someone stood in the doorway. 

“The two of you are hardly correct. The real reason is much more salacious.” The voice came from the Psychology teacher, Jen Hallowleaf; or as she preferred to be called, Shadowheart. “He left Black Staff because he was ‘involved’ with his department head, the critically acclaimed Mystra. She was going to turn him into the ethics board after he kept asking for tenure, he couldn’t risk losing his license, so he quit and accepted a position here. Took quite a hit to his reputation from what I’ve heard.” She said as she checked over her nails. 

Mara sat up from the stretch she was in, “Shadow, how would you possibly know that?” she asked with a quizzical look. Shadowheart laughed as she told the group that she had her sources. “Really? You have sources all the way in Waterdeep? That give you accurate information?” Mara continued to push, she knew that Shadowheart had a propensity to gossip and mislead. 

Shadow scowled at Mara as she answered, “Of course I do, I can know just about anything about anyone anywhere after a few glasses of good wine.” Astarion looked impressed at her answer and Fox continued to watch her as her gaze flickered to Mara occasionally. 

Mara was off the floor now as she leaned against the wall next to the psych teacher, arms crossed over her chest. “I see, and what else do these ‘reliable sources’ say about Mr. Dekarios?” Her voice was laced in sarcasm but her features betrayed her; her eyes stilled on the woman and a slight blush formed across her cheeks as her body tensed. Fox tapped Astarion with her foot and made a subtle motion for him to look at Mara. A glance was shared between the two as they saw a glint in Mara’s eyes, unsure if it was yearning or repugnance. 

“Well,” Shadow replied, “they say he’s quite close to his mother, has a cat named Tara, I believe it was, and that he has always been quite gifted in literature. Supposedly he was Mystra’s favorite professor at one point but he wouldn’t quit asking for tenure and benefits she thought he didn’t deserve.” Shadowheart seemed quite proud of herself after having relayed such information about the mysterious newcomer in the school. 

Mara shifted on her feet as she mulled over the woman’s words and pretended, not very well, to not care about the information provided to them. Shadowheart announced her departure after she grew bored of the silence between the four of them. Both Astarion and Fox had to say something to get Mara’s attention as to pull her from her thoughts. Mara looked at the two of them and caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall between the two of them.

“Shit, it’s time to leave already. I need to finish organizing the equipment closet in the gym.” Mara grabbed her bag as she gave them a wave, “I’ll call you guys later!” The two returned the sentiment and decided to leave what they saw alone for the moment as they left the school hand in hand. 

Mara made her way through the school as she scolded herself for two different things. The first being that she didn’t finish the work she had started when she started it, which now caused her to leave work late. The second being that she had been genuinely intrigued to hear what Shadowheart had to say about Gale Dekarios. The same man who had talked down to her in such a condescending tone. The same man she had been avoiding all week. The same man that had been plaguing her thoughts when she let her mind wander. She forced her mind to focus as she approached the gym and connected her phone to the bluetooth system so she could blare her music as she finished the last of her work for the day.

As she left the gym and locked it, she heard a voice emanate behind her. It was a warm and sincere voice that she had been wanting to hear; it was Gale’s voice. 

“Hello, Mara. I hope you’ve been well this week?” She saw Gale smiling up at her as she turned around. 

“Oh, hi, Gale.” She kept her voice level and did not return his smile. “I’ve been fine.” 

Gale nodded as he adjusted his bag awkwardly and cleared his throat. “I’m glad, the week of the new semester starting is always stressful so I’m happy to hear you’ve been handling it well.” 

Mara almost broke, in that moment, wanting to ask him if she had done something wrong, but she held her resolve. She didn't answer him, which made him release an anxious laugh to fill the silence. 

“Well, I just wanted to say hello and let you know that I hope you do well with your students this year. Now if you excuse me, I must be leaving now, as you probably should be as well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with a small wave, he took his leave as he walked away from Mara.

‘Oh, so he really is an audacious egomaniac.’ She thought to herself as she scoffed. Mara walked to the back doors of the school and pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contact list.

“You’ll never fucking believe what just happened.”, she said into her phone the moment Fox answered her call.

[stellarspecter]

I'd Much Rather Be Jorting

@astrangersummer week 1: short shorts

1k, steddie, much talk about jorts

Read on AO3

Steve nearly choked on his own spit when he saw Eddie. It was the first truly sweltering day of the summer, and apparently that meant it was time to break out the shorts. The short shorts. The kind with the ragged edges and pockets hanging out the hems. Steve was almost disappointed they were black and not light wash denim. 

“Where the hell are they selling shorts like that, Munson,” he asked once he’d regained his breath.

“Selling?” Eddie quirked a brow. “Oh, Stevie. Jorts this good aren’t found, they’re made.” He did a little spin to show them off (as if Steve wasn’t already looking too much), finishing with a flourish of his hairy leg.

“Huh?” Steve said faintly. All he could think about was the pale expanse of thigh, visible for the first time, being paraded in front of him.

“You’ve never made jorts?” Eddie asked, the most adorable pout on his face. “Well fuck, babe, we’re gonna have to fix that.”

And Steve couldn’t help it. When Eddie called him that, he was weak to his every whim.

Which is how he found himself sitting at his kitchen table, a pair of jeans and scissors in his hands.

“Step 1 of jorts: choose the jeans,” Eddie instructed across from him. “You want a pair that’s well-worn, so that you’re not wasting too much fabric by cutting them.”

Steve glanced at Eddie’s own selection, which were more holes than denim at this point. “So your whole wardrobe?”

Eddie snorted. “Okay, rich boy, sorry I’ve got style.” He winked, which Steve was not equipped to deal with at the current moment. He cleared his throat and looked back at his soon-to-be-jorted jeans. 

“What’s next?”

“Deciding the length,” Eddie answered. “The holes in mine usually decide for me, but you can do whatever feels right.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Steve muttered. He stared at the jeans in front of him, wondering how he was supposed to conjure a leg measurement out of nowhere. 

“You don’t like ‘em?” Eddie asked, clearly teasing.

Steve blushed. “I didn’t say that.”

Eddie smirked, satisfied at his reaction. “That looks like a good length.”

Steve looked down to find a line drawn in washable marker on his jeans. Maybe about mid-thigh? Whatever. He’d wear whatever, as long as Eddie said it looked good.

“Okay. So now we cut it?”

“Got it in one,” Eddie confirmed with a smile, and Steve had to focus hard on his scissors to make sure he didn’t accidentally cut himself while he was busy daydreaming about his friend’s lips.

“And there we are! Some brand new jorts to welcome in the summer,” Eddie announced, holding his own up proudly. These ones were regular blue jeans cut to a much more conservative length than the pair he was wearing.

Steve held up his own pair, a bit uncertain that they were going to be any good. He’d only ever bought clothes from a store and thrown them out whenever they got their first tear. Cutting clothes up on purpose felt blasphemous. But, he supposed, Eddie had been doing it for years, and clearly he pulled it off.

“Do I… try them on?” He hazarded.

“Yes, try them on! See how they feel!” Eddie waved him towards the bathroom to change. 

He came out with his new shorts on, tugging awkwardly at the hems. They sat a bit higher than he’d anticipated, but still nowhere near as short as Eddie’s.

“So?” Eddie waited expectantly for his verdict.

Steve shrugged. “They’re okay.”

“Okay?” Eddie exclaimed. “Just okay? Steve, jorts are more than okay, they’re great! They let you partake in the act of creation! That’s the kind of thing people write poetry about!”

“Poems,” Steve repeated flatly. “About jorts. Sure, man.”

Eddie squinted at him, then stepped away from the table and drew himself up to his full height. “The days of spring will surely bring the birds and bees cavorting,” he recited, the sing-song cadence making it clear that this was a poem. “But since I am a gentleman, I’d much rather be jorting. Hempstead Snarlton, 1943.” He paused, clearly expecting Steve to be proud of him for reciting poetry from memory.

Steve leveled him with a look. “You just made that up.”

Eddie squawked. “No I didn’t! It’s a real poem, look it up!”

“The word ‘jorts’ didn’t even exist in 1943!” 

“You don’t know that!”

Steve scoffed. “I can take a pretty good fucking guess.”

“Whatever,” Eddie sulked. “You just don’t think that gentlemen should be jorting.”

Steve blinked in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself when you talk.”

“Do you?” Eddie retorted. “Are you saying we’re not gentlemen? You don’t think I’m a gentleman, Stevie?”

“Why is this the hill you’re dying on?” Steve wondered out loud, baffled that this is the same man that scrambles his brain with just the sight of his legs.

“Because I’m jorting!” Eddie exclaimed.

Steve shook his head in bemusement and put his sunglasses on. “I’m gonna go back outside. Have fun with your… jorting.”

“Oh, I will,” Eddie shot back. “Outside, also.”

“Just can’t stand a single minute without me, can you, Eds?” Steve teased as he slid the back door open and ushered Eddie ahead of him. 

“What can I say, Stevie,” he sighed, “You and me are like gentlemen and jorting: we just belong together, don’t you agree?” He dramatically rested a hand on his chest and gave Steve a simpering look. 

Steve couldn’t ignore the flutter in his heart at hearing him say that they belonged together. Despite his ridiculousness, he couldn’t deny that he was still madly, deeply, head over heels for this man. As he watched him scamper off to wet his feet in the pool, he sighed. 

“Yeah, Eds.” Lovelorn on the deck, he watched his jorts-clad crush send ripples through the water. “I do.”

dividers by @saradika-graphics

title and poem and general inspo from bdg's "how to make jorts" video, because i am, to my core, silly. thanks for reading

[birgittesilverbae]

gone off the deep end

"What I was going to say," Beatrice replies all in a rush, anxious at the way Ava's tone had dipped towards sorrow at the end of her sentence, "is that there are lessons at the pool on weekday mornings." "Oh! Dope!" Ava grins. "Sign me the fuck up!"

for @random-french-girl

read on AO3

//

They can see one corner of the local pool from the window of their tiny apartment. On days when the wind is low and the streets fall especially quiet, Beatrice can just make out the faintest strains of children screeching and crowing as they cavort in the water. 

She doesn't pay much heed. When they train at the lakeside, she often takes the opportunity to go for a dip, but that's when she knows Ava is nearby, when she knows there's no one else close enough to trouble them. When she feels like she can let her guard down.

One of those days, she raises the possibility that the Halo might allow Ava to run on water, and Ava's mouth twists. 

"I can't swim."

Beatrice feels stupid to not have thought of that, to have assumed so carelessly, to not have considered that swimming was a skill just like any other. 

"Would you like to learn?"

Ava's smile is brilliant. "Would you teach me?"

Again, a step behind. Should have realised this request would follow. Can't not think about her hands on Ava's hips, guiding Ava's limbs, shifting and correcting. Her face burns. She dips under the water to collect herself, pushes her hair back and ties it into a ponytail before surfacing. Ava's eyes are locked on her. Enviously, she assumes. 

She remembers the flyer she'd seen on the corkboard at the bar. "I don't know that we should carve out training time for it, given how unlikely it is that it would prove useful against Adriel-"

"I mean, I was fully expecting his next attacks to feature sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads, but if you say so."

Beatrice can't help but give her a fond smile. "Sea bass would be more likely, I should think."

"Only if they're ill-tempered, though."

"Of course," she concedes with a tip of her head. "But, as I was saying, between the bar and our training I don't know when I'd be able to find time to teach you." 

"You can just say you don't want to," Ava says easily, rising and stretching her arms. She tips her head back into the sun and Beatrice can't quite make out the expression on her face. "I'll understand. I know it's not exactly high on the things-we-need-to-do-to-save-the-world list." 

"What I was going to say," Beatrice replies all in a rush, anxious at the way Ava's tone had dipped towards sorrow at the end of her sentence, "is that there are lessons at the pool on weekday mornings."

"Oh! Dope!" Ava grins. "Sign me the fuck up!"

//

The next morning, Beatrice heads for the poolside bleachers with a stack of paperwork and a burgeoning headache. The pool supervisor – Marta, mid 40s, born and raised in the village, two school-aged children – had been deeply apologetic about not being able to fit in an adult lesson on such short notice, but Beatrice had promised. And so Ava lines up outside the pool gate in a rashguard and board shorts, surrounded by twenty-odd children of various ages. 

Ava had grinned at her and made pincers with her hands when Beatrice had told her she'd been signed up for the Crab level. Now, with Ava sitting cross-legged between a pair of girls who can't be older than five, gazing attentively up at her instructor – Bridget, early 20s, German university student on break – Beatrice can't help but wonder if that enthusiasm has waned at all.

But Ava's smile doesn't seem to have faltered, not when Beatrice glances up to find her playing rochambeau with a small boy over first rights to the instructor's help with their back float, not when she's catching a girl who's slipped from the edge of the tot dock around the waist and setting her back up on her feet, not even when the instructor is shaking her head and correcting Ava's posture as she attempts a front glide. The tension in Beatrice's shoulders eases more and more as the half hour lesson progresses, until she's almost smiling herself as Ava bounds out of the pool enclosure with a boy sitting on her shoulders.

Ava pulls up in front of Beatrice and swings the boy down to the ground, crouching to give him a high five. "Great class, Matty," she says, and it might be the lightest she's sounded in the time Beatrice has known her. "Go find your papa!"

Matty runs off towards a man seated further down the bleachers and Ava turns to Beatrice, beaming. "Did you see, Bea? I floated!"

"I saw, Ava," she confirms, packing her papers away into her bag and rising. "Well done."

Ava wriggles gleefully at the praise. She spends the walk home chattering on about her instructor, her classmates, the way Matty's afraid to blow bubbles but fearless when it comes to launching himself off the diving board.

"He reminds me of Diego," Ava comments mid-sentence, carrying on before Beatrice has a chance to interrogate the point further. She makes a mental note to follow up even as Ava barrels forward. "Daniel" – 18, Marta's nephew, working to save up for art school – "says I'm gonna be in the next level of classes tomorrow. Outpacing the competition, Bea!"

"It's not a competition. And if it were, they're literal children."

//

"Wear your swimsuit under your training kit today," Beatrice calls to Ava from the bathroom a week and a half later.

Ava's cheer echoes through the apartment. "Bea!" she crows, smacking excitedly up against the other side of the door like a moth trapped inside a lampshade. Beatrice is so, so, so thankful that Ava appears to have finally learned the extent of her boundaries, her need for privacy, and not phased directly into the room. "You mean it?"

"Yes, Ava. You passed your swim to survive standards the other day, correct?"

"Yep! Front roll into the water" – true – "fifty metre swim" – doggy paddle did count for that, she'd double checked the documentation – "two minutes treading water" – two minutes looking like she'd been actively drowning, but yes. "You're serious, Bea? We get to swim in the lake today?"

"If we get everything else I have planned done, then yes."

Training goes more smoothly than it has in weeks, Ava all but vibrating in place but still dialed in, eyes locked on Beatrice. Beatrice has barely formed the words "that's all for today" when Ava is barreling past her towards the edge of the lake, pulling her training top over her head as she goes.

Oh.

Ava's been wearing a rashguard to the pool as a concession to Beatrice's concerns about exposing the Halo. Now, though, when it's just the two of them? She's in a red bikini top, and shimmying her shorts down to reveal matching bottoms. 

Beatrice watches closely as Ava reaches out a tentative toe to touch the water's edge. One moment can be all the difference between swimming and drowning, and so she keeps her eyes glued to Ava's form. 

"It's colder than I expected," Ava calls back to her, but then she's shrugging and flinging herself forward into the water.  

"Ava!" Beatrice yelps, crossing the clearing with quick strides and divesting herself of her singlet. "Be more cautious, please." She shucks her shorts off, down to just her racerback one piece suit, and steps in after Ava. 

"Sorry, got a bit excited!" Ava beams up at her from where she's flat on her back in the shallows, water lapping up over her chest. Ava reaches out a hand and Beatrice boosts her back to her feet, steadies her with a hand at the small of her back when she stumbles into Beatrice's side. The skin beneath her palm has been only faintly chilled by the submersion, the warmth of exertion peeking through, and Beatrice draws her hand away quickly. 

"What would you like to do?" she asks, wading further in and turning to keep Ava in her line of vision.

"Just experience it with you today, I think," Ava replies. Her voice has gone soft, and she follows Beatrice like she's being drawn along by a magnet. "I thought it would be like the pool, but it's not."

Beatrice nods her understanding – it is, after all, categorically different – but Ava's smiling at her like she knows exactly where Beatrice's head has gone and the degree to which Beatrice has misunderstood her point.

"The water feels different on my skin." They're deep enough now that the water has climbed over Ava's hips, and she catches up a handful and lets it slip back through her fingers. "It's softer, somehow?"

"No chlorine."

"Right, of course. Smells different, too, though that's probably the chlorine as well, yeah?"

Beatrice nods, keeps pacing backwards as Ava advances towards her. "And the water pumps. The lake doesn't really have much water movement, so things get stagnant."

Ava hums her acknowledgement. "I lake it here a lot," she admits, tipping her face up towards the sun.

Beatrice will claim in the aftermath that the splash is a pure instinctive response to the terrible pun. In reality, though, Ava's smile is broad and Beatrice isn't quite sure what she might say she "lakes" next, and so she cocks an arm back and sweeps a wave of water into Ava's face.

Ava surfaces spluttering, water streaming down her face and off her chin. "You're diving me crazy," she laughs, lunging forward to grab for Beatrice's outstretched hand. Beatrice recognises the first motions of a hold she'd taught Ava the week before, counters easily. This too is instinct, only she has severely miscalculated. 

Her front is flush against Ava's bare back, one arm securing Ava's, the other hooked around her neck. They hold there a moment, Beatrice's cheek pressed to Ava's, their mingled breaths coming in unison, every patch of skin burning hot where it touches Ava's. Beatrice tries to make her limbs cooperate, tries to release the hold and back away, but–

Her stomach roils as she's flipped forward. Her back impacts the water hard, knocking all the air from her lungs, and she swallows a mouthful of water for her sins. She lets her head fall back as she transitions into a float, and shades her eyes with a shaking hand.

"I think," she says, voice kept level through as much restraint as she can muster, "that maybe separating swimming from training was the correct choice."

Ava falls back beside her, rocking Beatrice's body with the waves of her motion. "Waterver floats your boat," she replies with a happy sigh.

"Just go with the float," Beatrice agrees, and she's as buoyed by Ava's answering laugh as she is by the water.

[triplesilverstar]

Helloo I love ur trigun fics

I dunno if ur blog is open to this but

The song "Love like You" from the show Steven Universe reminds me a whole lot of Snipes and Vash! <3

Mostly about Snipes singing how someone like Vash continues loving her even after what she's done... And her wanting to become how he sees her so that she feels worthy of his love (if that makes sense lol)

These lines hit had:

"I always thought I might be bad

Now I'm sure that it's true

'Cause I think you're so good

And I'm nothing like you

Look at you go

I just adore you

I wish that I knew

What makes you think I'm so special

If I could begin to do

Something that does right by you

I would do about anything

I would even learn how to love"

That's all. Okie, thank you for letting me in your ask box <33

Aw thank you I'm glad you've enjoyed them. As to the idea I totally loved it. I've never really done a song fic before so here's my best attempt. I decided to work it into one the fics as a chapter just because my list of one shots is getting a little long...

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Injuries, blood, pining, 

Word count: 2.2K 

A/N: I’ve made this Chapter two of Gunless Duet

You should have known that eventually, your good luck had to run out. It always does. And just like always it runs out at the worst possible moments. Sitting at the bar while watching Vash once more being the life of the party, and this time he had tried to bring you into the fun with him. 

“Come on Snipes, let loose just this once? You deserve to enjoy yourself too.” A puppy dog for a plead and you shook your head watching him go back to cavorting around. You aren’t like him, yet he refuses to let that stop him from asking you to join him each and every time. If only you were half of the person he thought you were. You’re not. You’re the farthest thing from what he thinks you are.

Hiding how you feel behind an expression of boredom as a pretty brunette takes his hand and gets him to dance with her. A glare sent your way as if she perceives you as some sort of threat for his affection, a shake of your head as you take another sip of your water and listen to the music playing in the background with the sound of laughter.

Sensing a familiar presence slip up beside you it’s hard not to chuckle, he’s like a tomas with a worm. Determined to not stop trying to catch the damn thing. “Could I get what she’s having?” It’s a cute little ploy on his part to make it seem like he’s still drinking when really he’s had enough, your short glass making it seem like you’re drinking something far stronger. 

As Vash throws the drink back you do your best to avert your eyes. Lately, all you can think about is the bubbling attraction for the tall sunshine blond. It’s becoming a problem you don’t want to face, because you know he can’t feel the same way. No matter how many times you’ve tried to slip away from him to find him waiting for you with a grin at whatever town's exit. Like he’s waiting for you and it makes your heart beat painfully inside your chest. He’s not. You’re a decent traveling companion and he’s an infamous bounty so traveling with a well know bounty hunter makes sense. No one would believe he’s the humanoid typhoon. Yet it still makes your chest do funny things when you leave him at the hotel, or a restaurant, like he’s worried you might try and slip away from, wondering when you’re coming back. 

Your thoughts of reminiscing are out the window in no time when the sound of breaking glass reaches your ears and Vash is pulled against the brunette from earlier. A knife against his throat and there’s a crazed look in her eyes as she glances around the room like a wild animal that’s been caged against its will. “Nobody moves, I’m just gonna take my prize and leave got it!” 

Shit. She’s not a woman that was hoping to get into bed with the blond, she’s another bounty hunter and all the glares sent your way make a hell of a lot more sense. She thought you were the competition. 

Your body moves as if on autopilot, your rifle unstrapped, the butt pressed into the metal plate of your shoulder as your stare at her above your scope. At this range, you don’t need it. “I think you’re making a mistake. Let him go unless you want another hole in your head, cept this one will have some grey matter pouring out.” You can’t try to talk it out like Vash would, not with the fear clutching your heart. You also thought you were bad, and the more time you spend with the blond you know it’s true because even now he’s trying to diffuse the situation. 

“I think there seems to be some kind of misunderstanding here ladies. No reason to pull rifles and knives out right?” He’s willing to always put his life on the line if it means saving someone, he’s too much of a goody-toe shoe, and you’re nothing like him. It’s a good thing because you wish you could see all the good he sees in people. 

“No. I know exactly who you are.” It’s hissed from the woman like a curse and you have no doubt she knows she has the real Vash the Stampede. 

“Are you sure? I get confused for a lot of people miss, I mean we were just dancing a little while ago.” A flicker across her face as if she does doubt herself now. You might not be willing to admit it, but it is something that charms you whenever you see it in action. Vash’s ability to talk his way out of almost getting dragged off by people he meets, all with soft words that resonate with the people he speaks to. 

As Vash speaks his eyes never leave yours though, he maintains that eye contact like it’s his the string that keeps this bundle of chaos from falling apart. Almost like he knows you’re there to help him diffuse the situation instead of making it worse. You don’t understand it and you aren’t sure you ever will when he looks at you like you’re something special and you have no idea how he could have ever come to that realization. You wish you knew when he looked at you like that why he thought you were so much more than you are. 

As the other bounty hunter begins to step back you see your opening, the briefest flicker of her eyes as she checks to make sure she’s heading out the door with Vash. You dart forward and in those few partial seconds you have your grip on your rifle reversed. Just in time to slam the butt plate into the side of her temple.

Only for her knife to slide along the side of his neck and you see red gush from his pale neck as both of them drop. It’s like watching the world in slow motion as your heart pounds inside your chest. The slow rise of his hand to place pressure against his neck and the deep slice that spurts in time to the pumping of his blood through his veins. 

When your luck runs out. It really does run out at the worst times. 

Your rifle is back in your shoulder as your eyes settle on the knocked out woman and you’re ready to pull the trigger. 

“Snipes.” A quick utterance with his voice barely audible to your ears but he has your attention. “I know she didn’t mean.” He’s right. All of Vash’s wanted posters make it clear that he’s wanted alive, so slicing his neck adds a layer of risk to her getting the cash for him. No one pays for the dead when the poster clearly states the one option for turning him in. Grinding your teeth together as your rifle remains pointed at the center of her chest and you so desperately want to pull the trigger, that voice inside of you screaming how she deserves it. She could have killed Vash. 

“Snipes. You’re better than that.” The rage flooding your system isn’t subsiding and it’s a hard pill to swallow, but the more rational side of you is winning over with the help of his statement. As much as part of you is screaming bloody murder, it isn’t what Vash would want, and in the end that wins. Stepping back before slinging your rifle and checking on the tall blond. He should have been your concern from the start.

“Keep the pressure on your neck.” Gazing around the room at the patrons who seem to be letting out a collective sigh of relief. “Is there a doctor or a nurse nearby? Both of them need to be seen.” You made this situation worse by dragging it out after the threat had been neutralized, so the least you can try to do to make it up to Vash, to make it right, is to make sure both of them are seen by a doctor. It’s a first step in trying to fix the mistakes you made today. 

“What did he mean by mistaken identity?” 

It’s a voice of reason in the bar and you’re quick on your feet. “A lot of people confuse him for Vash the Stampede because of how much he looks like the wanted poster.”

“Are they dumb? He’s nothing like that maniac.” You don’t miss the flinch behind Vash’s eyes but it’s better this way. He needs medical attention as you help him stand, ensuring he keeps the pressure on his neck and if it’s even possible he looks paler than before. Swallow as you share a bit more back and forth before following an older man out the door towards the clinic, someone else having been sent to fetch the doctor and tell him what had happened. 

“I knew you could end that without more violence.” You keep your mouth shut as Vash whispers his version of a thank you. He shouldn’t be thanking you. He should be screaming how you made things so much worse as you trudge along the sandy road towards the clinic. Another reminder of how downright good Vash is, and you’re nothing like him. You never will be.

As you step into the clinic the doctor takes Vash first. “It’s not that bad honest.” Smiling gently at the doctor as Vash tries to get him to see the unconscious woman who’s being hand-cuffed to a chair in the waiting area. “Just wait here and I’ll be back in no time.” Biting your tongue before you can argue, a short nod and you head towards another chair and drop down into it. 

A final meeting of your eyes as the door closes and you see how shaken he looks as the wood turns into a barrier between you. It strikes you then why you had been willing to throw your own morals and beliefs out the window the second Vash was injured like that because that could have been life-threatening. Well, you’re still not sure it isn’t life threatening and he’s just putting on a facade for your sake. 

You’re hopelessly in love with Vash the Stampede. 

The feelings you’ve been ignoring since your tussle in the sand when he found out about your scars, found out about the monster lurking just under your skin. How you’re nothing like him. Not in the slightest. A man-made monster from another world that was willing to let them start the process and was too foolish to see what it all would amount to in the end.

You're lying to yourself again. These feelings of attraction and affection started long before then, hell they might have started when he saved you from turning into hamburger when you were holding onto the edge of the metal floor over the cliff in that dilapidated old building. You’ve been shoving those budding feelings down because you don’t deserve them, and he deserves better than a broken morally grey person like you. Shoving those thoughts down once more as you remind yourself he doesn’t care for you that way. You’re a friend. Just a friend. Vash treats everyone he meets the same way he treats you, the difference is the two of you are still traveling together and the stubborn blond still joins you in the single bed to make sure you don’t run out on him again. 

Snapped from your musing when the door opens once more and Vash strides out as if on top of the world. There isn’t even a bandage or anything on his neck from the slice, just a thin red line. “I told you it wasn’t that bad.” 

“You were gushing blood.” Firing right back at him only for the doctor to intervene. 

“Injuries like the one this young man received can often seem far worse than they are. I can assure you it’s no more than a scratch. There might have been a bit more bleeding than normal because of the alcohol in his system as well.” You don’t want to believe either of them, you know when you see arterial blood spurting. 

Clenching your hand into a fist as you think back on how the rest of the night has gone, you do let it go. Maybe in your panic, your mind did play tricks on you, making it seem far worse then it was. “I do think a night of rest would help. Ready to head back to the hotel? I think I’m done partying for the night.” 

The soft smile he sends you is dazzling and it’s not one of his masks that he wears to make others feel better. You see if so rarely that every time it makes your brain stutter, no wonder so many people flirt with him. “Yea. Lets head back.” When he looks at you like that, you know you aren’t like him, you’ll never be anything like him. 

But.

It does make you think you could do anything, that maybe you could learn to be a little more like Vash and love the world the way he does instead of judging it. 

To learn how to love like him. 

Back to Masterlist for the series 

[alpydk]

Red on You (In a Heartbeat)

Part 2 - GalexRugan

Ao3 Link

“Now darling, don’t be annoyed at Rugan. He was merely suggesting that we get out of your hair, not that we go drinking.”

Gale tried not to be angry at what he was hearing, that another night would be spent sat up waiting for the door to be pushed aside and the protective spell to be inevitably tripped. Astarion had once again dropped by to the tower unexpectedly, not to see his long-time friend but to spend time cavorting the city most likely in search of a good brothel with Rugan. Gale knew he deserved better than this, and he glowered as the two of them laughed and traded their stories of crime and deceit.

Rugan lifted his glass, tilting it in Astarion’s direction. “You ever meet that sweet lass who worked in the Elfsong? Halfling bird, she could do that thing where she bent her leg up around her-”

“Gabby, Gabriella… Oh, what was it? I know who you mean. With the cherries.”

“Yes! That’s the chickadee. Gloria?”

Astarion concentrated, his pale brow furrowed. “No, it wasn’t Gloria…” Two hundred years of skulking Baldur’s Gate. He couldn’t be expected to remember the name of every barmaid.

“Isabella.” Gale interjected, wanting the topic to move on.

Rugan looked up with a grin on his weathered face. “Isabella. Gods, she was a pretty sight. Surprised you knew her name, though.”

“Oh, Gale here has always been quite the charmer. Isn’t that right, love?”

“Learning a person’s name is the least one can do,” Gale answered, scowling at them both as they smirked, their minds clearly trawling the gutters they would soon find themselves in.

Taking a sip from his drink, Astarion reminisced over the young barmaid. “I do wonder whatever happened to her. Not seen her in…well, an age.”

“Shacked up with someone, probably. You know how it goes, spread their legs, a couple of kids, no more cherries,” Rugan replied with a devilish look in his eyes.

“She died and became a mindflayer, like so many other tragic victims of the city, lest you forget.” With his response, Gale let the silence settle over them, watching as the uncouth banter of the evening became a quiet moment of guilt shared between them all.

Lifting his glass, Rugan spoke. “Well, to Isabella then and whatever bar she may be tending.”

Astarion mumbled in agreement, bringing his glass to his lips. He glanced over the rim, noting the uncomfortable silence that lay in the air, the tension between the two lovers growing with each second. Taking the break in the conversation as an opportunity to escape, he turned to Rugan. “Maybe it’s time we…”

“Yeah, we probably should.”

Gale sighed as they both placed their glasses down to leave him, the awkward shuffle as they acknowledged his gaze upon them, making everything more difficult to handle. Tonight would be the last night he would allow this to happen. He would leave the tower himself, clear his mind and come morning would face the harsh reality that his relationship was over. He took Rugan’s hand as it swept by him, a moment of unspoken contact as if to say, “Don’t do this.”

Rugan leant down, placing a gentle kiss on Gale’s brow. “Love you, poppet. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The hand was pulled away and Gale once again found himself alone in the dim light of his tower, his heart breaking and his anger rising.

---

The smell had only been the start of what the young priestess had discovered as the gnome had removed his clothes, his skin blistering and, in some places, literally rotten to the bone. To say he was alive would have been a matter of opinion and he spoke in a matter of grunts and groans, constantly reaching for her wrists as she examined his wounds. Her healing spells were met with no change, almost angering the flesh they met and causing him further pain, and she worried that maybe a powerful curse had befallen the poor victim.

She placed a gentle hand on Tibs’ shoulder, moving quickly away as his head twisted sharply towards it. “I’ll get the high priest; you just wait here.”

Scurrying through the temple, her white robes flowing behind her, she could feel her anxiety rising. There was something about this situation that set her on edge. She knew she was relatively new to her calling, but she’d had experience with the sick and dying before in her short twenty-year life, and so this one person shouldn't have shaken her as it seemed to have. Multiple rooms were checked in search of the high priest before she eventually came across him knelt deep in prayer under the moonlight within the temple’s courtyard.

“Andora, my dear. Sneaking up on an old man?”

He glanced over at her slight figure, admiring the way the robes had been pinched to her waist. Classically pretty were the words he would have chosen if he had to describe her to fellow priests. Blonde, fair skinned, large doe-like eyes that shone with innocence. Exactly his type.

His voice was calming and with it brought a relaxation to the young priestess’ shoulders. She took a moment to let her heart rate slow, not wanting to be seen as inept before her superior. Word around the church was that the Half-Elven leader had been in his position for many years, offering counsel to those in need, speaking for Ilmater himself, supporting the newer priestesses in their times of need, and that was exactly what she needed.

“Father. I’m so sorry to disturb your prayer, but there’s a matter I require your assistance with. A man has come in from the streets. He does not speak, but it is clear he is incredibly sick.”

The high priest stood, patting down his cream robes, and approached her, linking a withered arm around hers. “Calm, take a moment of silence to find your inner peace.”

Andora nodded; a deep breath pulled into her lungs at his command. She closed her eyes briefly, failing to notice the way his eyes drifted to the rise and fall of her breasts.

“Now, a sick follower, you say?”

“I’m unsure if he is a follower, father. But yes, sick. Incredibly sick. I have tried the basic healing spells and prayers at my command, but they have done little to lift his affliction.”

“Hm.” Stroking her arm in thought, his mind drifted between the matter at hand and the warmth of her skin that lay beneath her robes. “And what of potions and elixirs?”

“Nothing aside from what appeared to be a fire beneath his skin.”

“That is quite the conundrum, then. Take me to him, my dear.”

The stroking on her arm continued as they meandered through the corridors of the temple, her anxiety again rising, but this time not at what they would encounter but at the way the priest observed her and questioned her.

“Twenty? A fine age. Quite fine.” The words lingered on his tongue a little too long to be merely a passing comment. “I remember when I was but twenty. So young and naïve in the world. Do know that you can turn to me, Andora. For anything you might need.”

“Yes, father.” She couldn’t help but understand what the other priestesses had said now, when they spoke of his support.

He stopped his movements, holding her arm with a grip she had not been prepared for. “Anything.”

His eyes on her were piercing, as if she were a rabbit caught in the sights of a wolf. She felt her words stick in her throat; her legs frozen where they were, even though the only thought going through her mind was to run. It was the screams that broke the uncomfortable silence, desperate, terrified shrieks that burst through the walls with no relief. The grip on her arm tightened, and she felt herself being pulled towards the chaos of the main hall.

“What is the trouble-”

---

“What do you mean they’re not fucking dead!?” Shouted Friol as Darnys barricaded the sturdy door behinds them with crates and barrels she dragged behind her.

“As in undead… ghouls… zombies… fucking walking dead!” The sweat was meshing with her dark hair, causing it to stick to her forehead and she dragged her arm across it, sticky blood pulled with it and leaving a trail.

Friol shot her a scathing look. The bodies had been brought back as required and were ready to be burnt when the head of Dillie had unexpectedly exploded, throwing out viscera in all directions. Some had assumed it was the pressure of gasses as his corpse had been moved, others were more superstitious and blamed the gods for his involvement in the movement of a holy item. She’d put them all in their place, though, having them follow their orders: burn the two dead and get on with what they were supposed to do. As the hours had passed, more and more men grew sick. Rashes, blisters, nausea, and each had been confined to the basement of The Sleeping Snake tavern they’d been calling their base of operations.

Darnys panted against the wall of the back kitchen, her eyes glued to the door as the dull thudding could be heard against it from the other side. “Look, I’m just saying whatever they are, they’re not dead.”

“What about clerics? Surely, we have someone around here who can handle this type of shit.”

“Mads? Mads was the one with the eye hanging from his skull. Remember, part of his skull missing?”

“Fuck.” It was all Friol could respond with as she looked around the room for any weapons or escape. She noted the window above the countertops, large enough for her to fit through but possibly a squeeze if Darnys were to follow. It was considered whether the sacrifice would be worth it. “Right. Orders are to get that window open and get us out of here.”

Darnys rubbed her hands together, more trying to compose her senses than to provide herself with any warmth. She’d expected to be in trouble for not finding the artefact. What she had not expected was Bris to be outside the door, body parts and organs missing, pounding to get in to tear her limb from limb with other, now undead, Zhentarim.

A loud slam at the door caused it to rattle, and both survivors looked over at one another before turning to the window. It was no longer about orders or rules between them; it was about staying alive.

---

Astarion and Rugan sat with their wine in the back room of the Blue Jack Tavern. Conversation had drifted between the usual of past questionable activities, the opposite and same sex endeavours, and had finally reached the lull in the evening where the more serious topics emerged.

Rugan turned a white gold earring over in his hand, its sapphire stone glinting in the candlelight between them. “Thanks for the assist on this.”

“To see the drama between you two? No thanks are necessary.” Astarion swirled the red in his glass, becoming more and more hungry as the night dragged on. “Would it not have just been easier to steal an earring?”

“He wouldn’t have approved. Besides, I’m not that kinda guy anymore.”

“Wait, so the gold you stole from the Zhentarim around town to buy this… does not count?”

A sigh was produced before Rugan could find his words. “Let’s just say they owed me. Sort of a retirement payout for all my years’ service.”

Astarion smirked at the words. “Can take the man out of Zhentarim but can’t take-”

“Don’t even consider finishing that sentence. I’ve moved on, changed man, and all that bollocks.”

“Another drink?”

“Oh, yes.”

The two drank for some time, an impromptu celebration at what had been planned, before eventually taking to the streets of the Castle Ward.

Astarion supported Rugan as they wandered south through the streets towards the docks. It had got later than expected and in a few hours the sun would rise over the city, signally the start of a new day. “I can’t believe there is someone in this world that would want to marry Gale, of all people.”

“Hey…” Rugan slurred through his words, slightly envious of an elf’s ability to tolerate his liquor. “Gale… is… he can summon tentacles and let me tell you-”

“No, you will not tell me. I do not want to know.”

“I love him. He talks too much, and he likes perfume like any lass I know would. But gods, does he make me thankful to be alive…” His words drifted off, the image of Gale in his mind, tender kisses and loving embraces shared at their home together, a home Rugan always believed he’d never find.

“Turn the fuck around!”

The shout and speed at which the two women approached them instantly had Astarion trying to reach for a dagger, Rugan’s heavy weight putting him off balance.

Darnys and Friol darted past them, not stopping to question or attack them, and both stood in confusion at what had just happened, let alone the sharp words that had been shouted at them. It was as they spotted the hoard shambling through the shadows towards them, groans and screams growing with each lumbering step they understood.

Astarion was quick to turn, the momentum dragging Rugan with him. “Guess we listen to the ladies for a change.”

---

Tibs sat in the centre of the moonlit courtyard, his jaw barely hanging on, his eyes now dark festering pools. The pendant glowed around his neck, the chain sinking into the rotten flesh of his chest. Undead shuffled around him in search of further victims, some banging on the cloister doors trying to reach further recruits of their mindless army, others leaving the temple and chasing down anyone alive which they came across. Any humanity Tibs had before was now gone. All that was left was the walking dead shell, one that the previous day had been stupid enough to not follow orders.

[weavewithshadow]

fitted claws.

dark urge/gortash, rated M

Welcome to another Velkynverse™ fic! Where I write my Dark Urge in first-person and write Gortash as "you" throughout, for the soulmate energy of it all.

synopsis: The Tadfools enter the Szarr Palace — but after skulking at Astarion's insistence, they are oh-so-politely directed to the main attraction: a masquerade ball hosted by the vampire himself. To their collective dismay, Szarr is not the only viper in this den, and Enver Gortash is still keen to provide answers to every one of his Bhaalist's questions.

But that's not all he offers.

The Banite can't be the only one with claws in their "collegial business partnership and definitely nothing more," after all.

Oh, and why is Velkyn's name mentioned as 'A'ryin Syv'? wouldn't you like to know!

content warnings: depictions of light violence, mentions of heavier violence, canon-typical violence, implied/referenced canon abuse, manipulation i guess??? but it's gortash. what did we expect?

read on ao3!

The Szarr Palace twists writhing knots in my core long before an attendant takes Astarion by the elbow and guides us merrily to its main event. At his request, we sidestep the splendor at first, dodging the wary glances of the staff to pore over his old dormitory. The worst and most bloodied chambers. His home. His shame.

It’s impossible not to hear the buzz of the grand hall from all corners of the palace — but I watch the hope leave his eyes, hope he’d just kindled by wrenching Godey’s bones apart, the moment mention of it leaves the servant’s lips.

That we’re all in delicate finery worsens the feeling.

I know how suppressed terror looks on Astarion’s face: I’ve seen him roused from the nightmares he won’t mention, injured enough that tortuous sleep is what he needs to mend. I see it through the holes of this damnable mask: a slip of black fabric adorned with silver filigrees, a high arc of lace to disguise the scars on my brow. Cumbersome at best, it scratches enough that the Urge prickles under my skin, clawing for release the same way as words stuck in the throat.

The others are more at home than I. Gale and Shadowheart follow just behind Astarion, unabashedly arm-in-arm, visions of swirling Weave and silver moonlight. Wyll and Karlach walk with their knuckles brushing, though they do make an attempt to play the part of patriar and faithful guard, clad in the same stunning abyssal black. Lae’zel is the only one at the rear of the group with me, her lips pressed thin, itching at her indigo suit jacket.

She doesn’t speak to me, nor I to her. Instead, I watch the halls we pass in reverse, letting my mind wander in ways it did not on our way in.

Instead of Astarion’s lodgings, his prolonged torment, I wonder if I ever bore witness to some part of it. If I ever walked these halls, and if I wore some shape he wouldn’t have known. If a mask was on my face, or if I cavorted here without pretense. If I knew what was happening — as I seemed to know every dismal churn of these streets — and reveled in it.

Every shadowed corner I find in this city, a pair of eyes light in recognition that I don’t share. How many here will set their eyes upon me tonight like hunters on prey?

The attendant leads us to towering doors, surprising no one, and takes Astarion’s hand in theirs. He wrenches away, but they tighten their hold.

“Your ring, sir.”

“I don’t have a —“

“Please, sir. You were seen pilfering the chests. Allow me to place it on your finger, per the Master’s request.”

The Master. I watch from a distance as the title curls Astarion’s lip, baring fangs. The rest of him is unnaturally still, without the need for breath.

“Fine.”

With unnecessary decorum, the attendant makes a show of bowing while he slips the ring on Astarion’s left little finger. Astarion snatches his hand away — successfully this time — and lays it against the seal.

Then the attendant speaks in words I cannot fathom, reading from Astarion’s invitation. Crimson blazes to life in runes around the seal, and another ring around that, until spirals of red arc up the towering doors’ entirety. They unlatch of their own accord, a deep groaning mechanism inside the wood, and swing open with somehow grandiose slowness.

A sea of black awaits inside. The theme of the evening is Nightfall. Aside from Gale and Shadowheart, who took liberties with what colors exist in the night sky, the crowds are a tide of shimmering void and rich violet, splashes of silver and gold punctuating the dark. The surrounding architecture matches them: dark stone pillars veined with putrid green and dull gold; ornate designs etched in the floor, difficult to make out under quick-moving feet

One figure stands in striking red embroidery, a bloodbath of rubies stitched into the lapels of his long coat. His mask, a simple piece of black cloth, is sewn so its underside resembles a row of fanged teeth. Astarion freezes, but Cazador Szarr does not catch sight of him from his place on a dark dais at the rear of the room, his attentions occupied. Whatever he says, smirking, is swallowed by the nearby musicians. One other stands next to him and listens, flanked by guards several steps to each side, fine wires elaborately woven into midnight blue fabric to resemble a network of sparkling electric constellations set over pale skin and slicked black hair.

Karlach is next to freeze, shoulders tensed. Wyll lays a hand on her arm, shattering the illusion of patriar and guard.

“Motherfucker,” she snarls. “Tell me that isn’t —“

But it is.

It’s you.

And you’ve spotted us entering.

“Karlach, darling, breathe — with me, all right?” Wyll strafes in front of her, the gold breadth of his mask glinting from the arcane lights strewn around the room. He lays hands on her shoulders because it is safe, because he can, because it is one of the only things to keep her heat at bay. “He won’t come to us, and we won’t go to him. Not tonight.”

“I need him to know. That I’m —” Her voice chokes out before the word comes. Dying.

And I knew that you bargained her away. Of course I knew. I had to have done.

Shadowheart turns in front of me, a dazzle of silver. She moves past Wyll and Karlach, a vision of serenity, lifting a hand to hover near Astarion’s cheek. It should be me, I should have his hand in mine as he’s taken the Urge’s hand in his — I should tether him to something in this tempest.

But I stop looking at him, because you are looking at me.

I can’t breathe, pinned under the weight of your stare. I wonder if I ever could.

It doesn’t matter, because I push into motion before I can dwell any longer. Better to collect my thoughts, bury the Urge deeper in my chest, before daring to open my mouth. Astarion is in capable hands — ones sounder than mine, less liable to slice.

And I will return. That, we promised: that the dawn would always come after the night’s worst cruelty, and we seven would survive ‘til the next night and the next. That we would always make our ways back to each other.

The dance’s tempo changes, and the tide of dancers twirl and shift direction. I gulp in a breath and duck into their foray, half a plan alight in my racing mind.

It’s a skill I found — relearned — not a tenday ago. But when I touched upon it again, it was as natural as breath: a pull in, a gathering of Weave, and an exhale moving through me. Not just from full lungs to heady air, but a shiver down every nerve.

A shudder, and I can shed my skin. There is a comfort in it, an embrace in reverse — from the confines of one cage to brief and electric freedom before the next shape takes hold.

I do not move along with the partnered pairs. I weave through their sea, avoiding the crush of bodies, putting the tide of twirling dancers between myself and the others. On its other side, I am human: the best I could muster while still fitting into the garment I’m stuck in, a small chest and subtle hips. It’s my face that’s different behind the mask: I have to keep the same angle to my nose and cheeks to hold the mask aloft, but my skin is peach-pale, not ashen-violet. I tug the band out of my hair and let new strands, blue-black, fall in a wave down these new shoulders.

With luck, that’ll create enough of a new silhouette to buy myself time. Time to find my breath. To gain some ground between myself and —

You. The sharp scents of your cologne and spilled ink flood my nostrils the instant before your hand closes around my wrist.

The Urge reviles your touch. It bares my teeth. I tug back, but your thumb arcs hard over the base of my palm, confounding the instinct to rid you of your hand.

I can’t spill your blood. Not here, in this den of vipers, when just one of them must die. When we won’t have the chance if I strike first.

“Don’t touch me,” I force out. Meek.

With a single backward glance, you shine a cutting smile down at this human shape. You angle us seamlessly toward the dancers in the same motion, and their current pulls us in.

I would pull a different current from my core and push it into yours. I would char the meat still on your bones, sear your heart in its last beats —

Your hand lands on my hip, the sharp points of your gauntlet needling the unarmored flesh there. The other snares my fingers in your palm.

“This is no place for your urges, assassin,” you mutter, insistent strides setting our pace.

My crimson-clotted vision centers on our feet. My legs move back when yours drive forward, hardly a second out of place — until I blink, and your toe knocks mine.

“Focus.” Rougher, now.

My eyes snap up, and yours smolder like stoked coals. There is a knowing glint to your stare, behind the mask.

“You couldn’t possibly have seen,” I argue. “I was quick. Silent.”

“You were.” This only quirks your lips up, shifting the scar on your chin. “Just as you used to be.”

“You —” A turn, and suddenly we are sidestepping together, the needle-points of your gauntlets dragging an inch. My hand claws your shoulder, half for balance and half to leave a bruise. “You followed me. Like prey.”

“Please. Who do you think taught you this dance?” Another turn; we’re rounding the circular dance floor, one pair in a ring of many. The gold ornamenting your arms, embroidered in your lapels, catches the light of every ornate chandelier. “It wasn’t Ravengard’s boy, surely.”

Your coat — this is the first time I’ve caught you without that coat. Your metal armguards are under a finely-made jacket to match Nightfall. Its gold stitching is laid over midnight fabric that is not perfectly black — this close, its faint traces of blue are just barely softer. Just barely warmer.

I jolt when your callused fingers move over my hand, breaking your firm grasp to twine with mine. When I look back, your burgeoning smile curves to a wicked grin.

“Tell me, dear Bhaalist,” you bend to purr near my ear, “Did you ever let the devil close enough to touch you?”

Your breath rolls down my neck and I keep my spine stiff, only to shudder elsewhere. The gossamer-thin fabric of this garment does nothing to protect from your firmer clutch into my hip. I tilt under your guidance, bending into you, despising your heat. I revile you, I will sew regret into your bones — until you use your grip to turn us, then relent.

“I am no Bhaalist.” I press my lips thin, waiting for you to flinch, but you don’t. You haven’t yet. “I did not choose this.”

You should sneer. You don’t.

“I never could pin you as just one thing, no matter my efforts,” you admit, like it’s no secret. As if reading the thought, you turn your eyes up to scan the room before returning them to mine. “But until you show your sister as much, it is what they will call you in places like these.”

The tempo increases. You twist us around so I am on the backstep. My legs threaten to falter. These boots — they are not mine. These tights do not move the way I wish. And if I fall, capturing the whole room’s attention?

“This is ludicrous,” I spit. “End this charade.”

Your hold tightens, raking heat down my core. “No.”

“There is no reason for it. If you want to talk, then —”

“And have your allies take note?” Your fingertips graze up to the small of my back. “You know how to do this. Breathe, and let go of your own weight.”

“You think I’ve forgotten my own breath, Banite?”  I didn't expect to end on the last word, and the feel of it on my tongue throws my focus. The Urge claws for my speaking-chords, threatening a growl until your subdued laugh eclipses the sound. Barely a whisper, like you clamp down the noise.

Then, you lift — just enough that your gauntlet indents my hip, stinging up my side, and just enough that my feet lift, too. Lightning crackles in my veins, and the air of the storm within me keeps me aloft. Your movements turn conniving: you take our twined hands and parade me around you in what almost resembles an elaborate spin.

My feet find stone for a second, and then they lose it, never more than a few inches away. Around me, you move faster, a technically flawless endeavor.

The coals of your eyes never leave mine. You are waging war, you are challenging me in every second your stare holds, you are begging to be torn apart.

And not once do you cower. Did I ever make you cower?

Did I ever want to?

The song peaks, and then silence falls after its last striking chord. My feet touch the ground, and your gauntlet leaves my hip to hook under my elbow. We share a wordless debate: I tug and you groan, you slice another look down and pull me away from a passerby’s hips that would have knocked bruisingly against mine. You take us further away from where I entered, using the shift of the parting crowds as cover.

I don’t know when it is I that takes the lead as we find the far edge of the crowd, hidden from the entry and the dais. I don’t know when you become content to follow. Only that you resume your stance, angling so it is your back to the crowd when we slow.

You part from me, delving into a pocket of your jacket. My pulse ratchets faster — something in me begs, begs, to run.

The Urge takes that part, snaps it in twain, and hones in on you. My muscles prime themselves to lunge, not flee. Never flee. Not until you are burnt worse than the figment from my dreams. Not until you cannot move at all.

My jaw spasms when you look back up. For a second, your facade falls away, and you watch me in earnest: lips parted, openly wary.

“This doesn’t have to be you.”

I know, stays stuck in my throat, trapped on my unwilling tongue. And yet I am made of nothing else.

I clench my fists and grit my teeth, warring to banish what cannot ever be held at bay for long.

Something glints in your hand. It’s easier to turn my focus down.

Ten little baubles rest in it, all metal-worked silver. Ten rings, ten sets of chains, ten intricately adorned claws, shining in the dazzling light. All freshly polished. All perfectly intact.

You clear your throat, and your hand flexes almost imperceptibly, the barest close of your fingers. I’d have missed it in a blink.

“These were yours.”

Mine. The word should mean something. Like every other play you’ve arranged, some answer should stir in me. You watch me expectantly through your glimmering mask, waiting for something I cannot give you. Something more specific than the heat blooming across my collar, the twisting of my viscera, or the looming dread snagging in my chest.

Anything — anything — we once shared. But only darkness remains, chasms where my life should be.

And you could fill them with honeyed words.

“You know I can’t…” My lips press thin. You start forward — and even when I jerk back, you grasp my hand, firm only for a split second. Then, the warmth of your palm cups underneath: my knuckles the prize in one of your hands, and the baubles the prize in the other. I swallow, lifting my eyes to stomach your gaze again. “This could be a lie.”

Your answer comes too easily, a question unto itself. “Then why don’t we try them on for size?”

“No.”

“Why?” Your thumb closes over the meat of my palm when I try to retract. Your grin might as well be fanged. “Careful, Bhaalist: presentation is everything in dens like this one.”

I take the inside of my lip between my teeth until blood’s saccharine taste coats my tongue. “This is not my normal shape,” I manage tightly. “You don’t know they’ll fit these hands.”

This time, your eyes fall, and the press of your thumb bends along the scarred breadth of my palm. “You never changed your hands,” you counter, stabbing-soft. “Not enough to alter your grip. Not enough to unbalance your blades.”

“And what will your den of vipers think if you adorn them?” I swallow the rest — what will the others think, if I am found caught in this viper’s coil — and you smile in my silence.

“I’d raise more brows if I weren’t doing something like this.”

“Just how many did you court?”

“Court? No.” You wait for my face to change, and it doesn’t. Eventually, you relent. “In time, most people on my arm were you behind the veil. This shape, however. This is new.”

You pick one of the widest claw-and-ring sets from your hand, minding my eyes while you slip it on. You watch me like a tamer studies their beast, equal parts proud and prey. You suffer the twitch in my hand and pretend it isn’t there.

“Why are you doing this?” There is too much grating in my voice. I want not to hinge on the answer. “Why an offering? Why now?”

I want to turn and run from whatever is about to fall from your lips as much as I want to find refuge in the known. I want to leave you and never look back. I want to stay until a whole lifetime pours from your mouth.

You fix your attention on fitting the next claw to the opposite middle finger, and something solemn crosses you. Something that makes me stamp down the itch to hook these claws in your tendons, one by one.

“They’ll give you an edge.”

The world tilts on its axis. An edge.

“You know why we came.”

“Of course I know.”

“Then you — you meant to pluck me from the others. You are here because I am their edge. And if I do not turn back — gods, I will take this knife you hold to my neck, this invisible and wretched thing, and I will —”

“If I wanted you dead,” you say, slow and deliberate, “You would be dead.”

I want to wrench my hand from you. I want to lash these claws — four now — through your throat. I want never to see you again, to turn and run until the world is painted red with all blood but yours. Because I don’t know what to do with yours.

You don’t snare me. No fight comes. The red fades from my periphery.

“He is your ally.”

“He is.”

“Then why…” I trail off, watching you fasten the eighth claw. I am dexterous enough to fasten them alone. There was never a doubt, but you infringe on the act with your persistent touch. I scan for prying eyes to distract from this revulsion, praying not to find any I recognize.

“I’ve made arrangements.”

My attention snaps back. “What arrangements?”

Ten claws fastened, and you offer me your arm in earnest. “I’ve worked around these things before, Bhaalist.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Always the demands, with you and your ilk. Come: they’re picking up for another song.”

You’re right: on the rear of the dais, stringed instruments are raised to the ready. Dancing partners look between each other, smiles and questions on their lips. Your invitation, I notice, possessed neither. It is a given that I am here, just like it was a given that all ten of these claws would fit my form exactly.

And they do, like extensions of my cutting-sharp self.

I hook my arm in yours, testing the curl of my new blades. They rake over the fabric of your jacket, eager to split threads. You watch yourself fray, then dip your chin in a peculiar nod.

And then we take to the floor, striding in tandem.

This movement is slower, its notes dragging darkly through an alluring first few measures. The pairs that gather bring their hips almost flush, groping hands wandering down past narrow waists, clenched around more than crumpling fabric.

Don’t, I want to warn, but your claws settle gingerly on the curve of my hip, just as before. Your smile is a constant by now, as though you think it harmless — as though you think it will placate me, when it only raises the hairs on the nape of my neck.

“Why?” I ask as we move again: fingers twined without claws lashing, my other hand splayed over your lapel.

“Why what?”

“Don’t toy with me,” I bite out. “Why arm me tonight? Now? I’m not —”

Your breath hitches under my palm. I stop short of your Bhaalist. Short of I’m not who you remember.

Now, your claws rake to the small of my back. Flinching away means arcing forward, into your tighter clutch around my waist. Close enough that I look higher up at you, and the voids of your irises are shadowed under your brow.

Close enough that you are all I smell, that your heat seeps through this damnably fragile fabric.

“Because I am still upholding my end of our oath,” you murmur, your features impossible to read. “I won’t meddle in your affairs.”

Nor you in mine is how the rest of the oath should go. You told me that. I spent hours searching for the sliver of magic that should stop my thoughts of enacting your ruin.

“You know it is already broken.” I swallow, a lingering hint of blood down my throat. I want you to act, to say something, to move or breathe or stop, but you only take us further. We continue to move, entirely as one.

“This ends,” I press, and it sounds false from my wretched, treacherous mouth.

A turn; you bring me closer, your front flush with mine. “I know.”

“Ravengard will go free,” I needle. “You know we won’t stop until he does.”

“They won’t stop until he does,” you correct. “I know.”

“And you’re going to let us —”

“— them —”

“—no doubt with some sadistic bent!” I bark back, too loud. I grit my teeth, steady my breathing.

“I am,” you relent, too easy. Too fucking easy.

“Then this topples down around you.” I school my voice into something quiet, but razor-sharp. I let my gaze burn into yours, and watch your reaction when I let my irises slip back to white-blue. My core burns hotter when your look widens, unguarded.

“Or the wreckage of it crushes you.”

“Or you lose, Enver.” The name hits you where I want it to, cutting off your voice. “You are lying down when you should be drawing arms. If you let yourself fall into death’s waiting maw, after this?” I shake my head, revolting against my twitching, clamping jaw. “Fight. Fight it. Or —”

My teeth grind. Or I’ll never know —

My heart thunders in my ears.

— what it was —

My spine stiffens, the Urge rattling my ribcage.

— that made me die for you.

Your gauntlet leaves my hip, but our bodies keep time without it. The claw of your index finger skims my jaw, never hard enough for blood to bead over the skin. Only enough that my twitching muscles stiffen, primed for battle.

That poised veneer of yours peels away for something softer.

“Not yet.”

It is a feint. It must be. You are betraying a weakness you do not have. The words are too smooth. They sound like a plea. You do not plead. I would know. I would know —

“Why?” A growl, through the clench of my teeth. I want to move away. I want to breathe. I can’t, I can’t I can’t I —

The last thing I feel is your hand tugging mine, twisting, arcing; my body pivots and spins.

I twirl, and my vision clots red red red.

Inside the wash of crimson, I am a tempest. As though caught on the edge of a dream, I am half-aware, straddling the line of consciousness.

I will kill you —

Finding myself through the haze means winning a war that my every fiber craves to lose. I push, focusing until I narrow the ache searing through me to just my skull. I find my lips and I bite them without restraint.

— I will make a ruin of you, ruin ruin ruin —

I find the press of your fingers in what I imagine is my palm, and I wrench it from your grasp. My shoulder arcs down, but the muscle is too far from me to heed my call.

Something else catches me.

— like you made a ruin of me.

I fight my bonds. The Urge will suffer no chains. My hands clench, claws digging deep.

Your blood hits my nostrils, and the blood-hue unclouds from my sight. With a bleary blink, I find your arms belted around my waist, my back to your front, my form wreathed in your heat. My own grasp at them, violent and cruel, veins prickling with lightning.

The silver you gave me has pierced through your sleeves, embedded in your skin.

“There you are,” you rasp against me, stubble raking down my earlobe, over my neck. Held this tight to you, the hard press of your want is impossible to miss. “A’ryin Syv. Just as I remember. My equal — and mine.”

From your lips, my name sounds like a prayer already answered, salvation in two meager words. Your grin widens against my skin, but when I turn to wipe it from your smug mouth, you catch my chin and turn my attention forward.

Forward, where the sea of dancers parts, for the song ends.

Forward, where a gap in the thinning crowd makes way for a lone, shaking figure to stare at me, confusion ablaze on his alabaster features.

Two red eyes watch me in some potent amalgam of fear and disdain, and I let them. I do not move.

It isn’t Astarion I loathe, as he loathes me in this moment.

It is you. And more than that, it is me.

“This was your aim.” My voice wavers, muscles shuddering as they release the Urge.

“It is the truth, dear Bhaalist,” you whisper, sickly sweet. “They will never know you as I do, and you know it down to your marrow. You will come to me, again and again, because it is all we ever did before. One cannot break habits ground that deep.”

You release my jaw. I do not plunge my claws into your chest, and it is a mercy — but only because I cannot stomach looking at you.

“Go on,” you tell me, every word melting-soft, utterly poisonous. All of them, ice in my veins, fire in my viscera. “Return to them. But do remember to shed your false skin before you do. It seems they’re not fond of pretenders.”

Damn you and don't turn from me now war for purchase on my tongue, but I grant neither the victory.

I leave you alone without so much as a word, because I cannot afford to do anything else.

I wonder if I ever could.

[delimeful]

in sickness and in health (6)

warnings: remus-typical gore/nsfw mentions, injury mention, captivity, panic, logan mad scientist moments: mini edition, cliffhanger

-

The situation had spiraled out of control faster than Virgil’s self esteem mid-mental breakdown.

His mind kept replaying the last few moments, trying to find the choice that would have saved him. There were a hundred obvious answers, and ones that had been obvious even before he’d landed himself in his own worst case scenario.

He should have realized something was wrong with the stranger’s act before they’d gotten to the point of trying to stab each other. He should have been less harsh with the tackle, going by the wince-worthy crack of skull against marble. Most of all, he should have just cut his losses and ran the moment he’d realized the other borrower wasn’t even listening, but—

“You don’t get to take anything else from me,” he’d said, squinting against the light, each movement more stumble than step.

The guy was trying to protect Patton and his friends. He’d clearly had a run in with the Monoxide group before, had lost people to them before, and he’d still decided to confront Virgil.

Murder attempt or not, he couldn’t just leave the stranger there to get caught.

Now that he was squarely in the palm of a hand big enough to crush him in one motion, he was admittedly having some regrets.

“Woah there, Goth Thumbelina, no need to panic,” said Remus, hurriedly moving his other hand close to form a wall as Virgil attempted to duck away from the fingers curling over him. “A guy as small as you does not want to fall from this height, trust me. We’d turn the kitchen into a total splatter zone.”

And here Virgil had thought his heart couldn’t beat any faster. Life was always surprising him in the worst ways possible.

“Hello? Can you hear me, little guy?” Remus asked, lifting his hands to face level in a motion quick enough to shake what little balance Virgil had left. “You’re not dying of shock, are you? If I accidentally murder a fairy in Patty’s house, I’m pretty sure I’ll legally have to commit some kind of elaborate ritual suicide to atone.”

Well. His parents would probably be happy to know that he’d taken one last human down with him, at least.

Virgil drew all his limbs in until he felt more pillbug than person, his mind too full of mindless panicked shrieking for anything resembling a plan to form.

He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t fight the human off. He couldn’t even say anything, not unless he wanted to make this even worse for every other borrower in the world.

In the end, for all their malice and arrogance, a borrower from the Monoxide group was the same as any other borrower. There still wasn’t a single technique that would save them when they were in the clutches of a human.

All he could do was wait and see what the human decided to do with him.

… At the moment, Remus mostly seemed to be intent on poking him, over and over.

“Hey, c’mon, don’t kill us both in the world’s bizarrest murder-suicide! I haven’t even gotten to third base with a ghost yet!” The finger prodded lightly at the curve of his back again. “If we both die here, we’ll have to haunt this house together. Is that what you want? Because I will inevitably make it weird.”

Do not bite the human, Virgil reminded himself. Do not bite the human. That is a one-way ticket to getting thrown against a wall. Do not bite the human—

“Wow, you are way more polite than most of the small creatures I’ve held,” Remus noted enthusiastically. “On a completely unrelated note, are you venomous?”

Maybe one bite would be fine.

“Remus, if you’re cavorting with rodents in Pat’s kitchen, I swear—,” an annoyed grumble came from the entryway.

“Au contraire, less fair brother of mine,” Remus replied as he spun around to face his twin, “Any true rodent would have given me rabies twice over by now.”

Roman, who had a blanket cape draped over his shoulders and a cranky expression draped over his face, didn’t even glance down at Remus’s cupped hands. “Well, unless you’ve found a mouse-sized poltergeist, my beauty sleep—,”

“Huh.” Remus tilted his head, as though considering Virgil from a new angle. “Actually… maybe this is Patty’s mystery polterguest! Come look!”

He beckoned his twin over with a jerk of the head, and Roman’s suspicion deepened immediately. “Remus. If you are about to throw a cockroach at me, the repercussions will be severe and without mercy.”

“Heh,” Remus looked as if he was indulging in a fond memory. “Nah, I don’t want to ruin my intact-window streak by making you scream like an opera singer in a saw trap.”

Roman edged closer, eyes narrowed. “I still don’t see what kind of ghost would be that small—,”

“Tsk, tsk! Don’t judge a home invader by their size, RoBro!”

Virgil barely bit back a yelp as the human promptly stuck his cupped hands out, nearly knocking his kneeling form right back over. He ducked his head slightly, as though he could somehow prevent them from seeing what he was when he was literally being displayed at that very moment.

Roman’s eyes went wide as quarters as he peered down at him. “Holy Heracles. Is that a fairy?! Patton really is a Disney Princess!”

“That’s what I thought, too, but check it,” Remus nudged Virgil onto his side, revealing his back more clearly. “No wings, or even wing stumps. Plus, they live in the walls.”

Great, he’d noticed that. Still halfway to a panic attack, Virgil spared a pitying thought for all of borrowerkind.

“I feel like there was a Barbie movie that addressed the validity of wingless fairies,” Roman mused, before pausing to frown. “What do you mean, the walls? Tell me you didn’t try eating drywall again. This is not our house.”

“Nobody ever wants to try my fun sleepover activities,” Remus pouted, before rolling his eyes at Roman’s glare. “Don’t get your crown-patterned boxers in a twist, I caught them pre-wall entry.”

“‘Caught them’?” Roman echoed, glancing back down at Virgil, whose body had decided to start trembling hard enough to hopefully vibrate him right out of existence. “Oh my god, you traumatized the fairy. We are so gonna get cursed.”

“Awesome!” cheered Remus. “I hope it’s something with boils.”

“I am not re-enacting the Princess and the Frog as the more amphibious role!” Roman snapped, and lunged forward as though planning to snatch Virgil right out of Remus’s grasp.

Virgil had managed to keep his screaming internal thus far, but the strangled noise of terror that escaped him at the motion was entirely involuntary. Luckily, it was also probably high-pitched enough to bypass human hearing entirely.

“Woah!” Remus recoiled sharply, his hands cupping together to completely surround Virgil, like a child holding a firefly. “Do you even know how breakable itty-bitty creatures are? If I wanted to play tug of war with someone’s guts, I’d kidnap a politician!”

“If I shouldn’t be trusted with delicate creatures, you definitely shouldn’t be,” Roman shot back, though going by the distance of his muffled voice, he’d aborted his grabbing attempts. “Just put them down, they can’t even fly!”

The two of them exchanged some petulant, mostly-indistinct muttering, and then Remus shuffled to the side before placing his clasped hands down on something solid and slowly shifting them out from underneath Virgil.

Rather than fight the motion, Virgil pulled himself upright and let tension coil in every muscle, prepared to take off the instant he felt stable countertop under his feet again.

Sure, running hadn’t worked out for him the first time, but the first time, he’d been dragging the majority of a concussed stranger’s weight along with him. Seeing as Remus had barely caught him even with that handicap, he was more than willing to give fleeing for his life another shot.

His weight dropped onto a surface that was distinctly smoother and slicker than a kitchen counter, and his heart dropped along with it.

Sure enough, when Remus’s hands pulled back, he found himself standing at the bottom of a glass lemonade pitcher, no closer to escape than he’d been when a human hand had been the only thing between him and a fatal fall.

The twins were looming close enough to make his heart stutter, but they were also currently too preoccupied bickering with each other to pay their captive too much attention. Virgil backed up until his shoulders met glass, and slowly slid down into a sitting position, tucking his knees up against his chest.

He was never getting out of this.

–

“Janus,” Logan started, from where he was peering out the wallpaper doorway. “Haven’t we always agreed that we wouldn’t wish our humans on our worst enemy?”

“I don’t recall agreeing to that,” Janus countered halfheartedly, squinting past his near-blinding headache to follow Logan’s gaze. “Really, if you think about it, our worst enemies deserve to be faced with our least merciful weapons.”

In the kitchen, Remus cheerfully put his brother in a vicious headlock.

Also in the kitchen, the borrower Janus had totally and utterly screwed over flinched and flattened themself further against their glass prison.

Logan hummed in a way that did not make Janus feel like he was winning the argument. “And is this solitary borrower our worst enemy?”

“They could be,” Janus replied, indulging in as much of a sulk as his dignity would allow. “They have the mark, they knew what I was talking about. This could all be part of a long con.”

“A long con,” Logan echoed, “to get captured by humans.”

Humans that could have easily caught Janus instead, he pointedly didn’t say.

Janus felt the phantom pressure of a pair of hands shoving him to safety at the last moment, and nausea bubbled up in his throat. He felt fairly certain that it was only partially because of the alleged concussion Logan insisted he absolutely did have. “Anything’s possible.”

Logan turned from the nightmare scene in the kitchen to give Janus the look that comment deserved. “There were no passages to window box gardens or stores of harvested poisons in their home. All of the equipment I found was intended for borrowing, not assassination. There’s only signs of a single borrower residing here, when Monoxide members favor traveling in pairs or trios.”

Janus hissed under his breath. “We can’t just dismiss the possibility that they’re an outlier. A really strange, ineffective, idiotic outlier.”

“Perhaps, but looking at the current evidence offers us a far more plausible conclusion,” Logan said, and then paused, taking in Janus’s grim, hunched-over posture. “... Of course, we can’t truly confirm any theories without investigating our suspect further.”

“Our humans seem entirely too willing to interrogate them for us,” Janus replied bitterly.

Logan turned away from the doorway, dragging his oversized pack in front of him and rummaging through one of the side pockets. “In my experience, our humans have also been very susceptible to distraction.”

Janus perked up, recognizing something familiar in Logan’s tone. That was the tone that preceded a scheme risky enough to make typical borrowers faint just thinking about it.

“Of course,” Logan continued, pulling what looked like miniature explosive prototypes out of his bag, “a distraction loud and flashy enough to divert the twins would only worsen your concussion. I, however, am not concussed.” He paused to give one of the prototypes a dubious glance. “Yet.”

Janus leaned forward to try and inspect one of the devices, and received an armful of coiled thread and a meaningful look from Logan instead.

“Oh, sure,” he complained. “Leave the guy with the head injury with the job of convincing the stranger he tried to stab to participate in the rescue attempt, that makes perfect sense.”

“I have utmost faith in your persuasive abilities,” Logan said in that deadpan way that always made Janus doubt his claim to not understand sarcasm. “Be ready to move as soon as the twins are lured away; I haven't tested the new formula and I’m not sure how long they’ll burn.”

With that extremely concerning statement, the borrower tucked a pair of matches under his armpit, turned, and vanished around the nearest corner.

Janus pulled the thick loop of thread over one shoulder, crouched by the kitchen entrance, and waited.

To Logan’s credit, he worked fast. A series of crackling pops went off, distant but distinct, and their humans only exchanged the briefest of glances before haring off in an unspoken competition to get to the mysterious noises first. Truly, they were predictable in the most amusing ways.

Running had proven to be highly disorienting, so Janus speed walked across the counter to where the borrower’s prison sat. Undignified, but effective.

It hardly mattered; the stranger had crossed the width of the pitcher to peer after the twins and thus was facing the entirely wrong direction to notice Janus’s approach.

They did notice the weighted end of the thread clunk onto the glass behind them, going by how high they jumped and their vehement, half-wheezed swear. They glanced between him and the rope several times in bewilderment.

Janus waggled his fingers in an obnoxious little wave, just because he could. “Any day now. Unless you prefer your current accommodations, I suppose.”

“You’re… helping me?” they asked, with far more dubiousness than Janus felt was warranted. He hadn’t even managed to actually stab them.

“Do you really have the luxury of suspicion right now?” he asked back, shaking the rope for emphasis.

That seemed to snap them out of it. In the next moment, they were wrapping the end of the rope around their wrist and planting their feet on the glass wall, hauling themself up with impressive speed.

Janus leaned back, planting himself as a firmer counterbalance, and then paused.

He could still hear the muted bangs of borrower-sized chemical warfare going on in the other room, but that was it. For a space inhabited by both twins at the same time, there was a suspicious lack of shouting.

Unless…

A chill ran up his spine, and he resisted the urge to yank pointlessly on his end of the rope. “Hurry.”

“I’m trying,” the stranger bit back, grunting as they got a grip on the edge of the pitcher and pulled themself up. They lifted their head and froze in place, all the blood draining from their face.

Janus knew what he'd see before he even turned his head. 

“I knew it,” Roman crowed from where he stood in the kitchen doorway, “you do talk!”