#I can’t remember seeing one such a nice solid grey

[fyanimaldiversity]

A beautiful grey American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) [x]

[piratesfromspace]

Night Blue (Price x Reader)

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Price

Rated: Mature

Word count: 3k

Summary: "Between two containers, he sees the target, bloodied and tied up to the floor." or when Price comes to your rescue.

Note: I'm not the author of this fic, it is actually a Christmas gift from my boyfriend (yes I have the best boyfriend ever)! He writes for a living and has yet to dip his toes in fanfic territories, but I think he did fantastic and was very good at writing with the female gaze in mind. His take on Price has me drooling. He used the codename Rain, but note this is not part of the Rain Universe. Please let him know in the comment what you think of his first CoD fanfic!

Content: military!fem!reader, Reader has blue eyes but no body description other than that, mention of food & alcohol, rescue mission, implied torture, competency kink, typical level of violence

Muffled voices. Metallic clinking. Crowded interior. This could be your next mission. Or the last one. But it isn’t. It’s only a date. Well, Only. If only “only” could be only. It isn’t. It’s been years. You know him. This isn’t a first. But somehow, your heart is racing. It’s a fancy restaurant, after all. In the middle of good old London. He always had great taste, if not old-fashioned. But he’s late. He’s always late. You never understood that. How could someone that precise on the field be this messy in civvy street? Where the heck is he?

Did he try to take the tube? Again? He can’t do that. Not anymore. Not after what happened the last time 141 was deployed in London. He should be in a cab right now, on his way, with a big, innocent grin on his face. At least, you hope he is. You don’t want to drink this expensive bottle alone. Spend the night by yourself. Fall asleep in a cold bed. 

“Don’t let me down, Bravo 6.”

You said it aloud with a sigh. Someone answers.

“Oh, you know I won’t, darling.”

He’s here. Where did he come from? Doesn’t matter. His noise discipline is on point. That’s something he brings from the field. Ever so stealthy, he takes the chair before you and says “hi” in his thick accent. Thick as his moustache. What’s the name again? Mutton chops or something. He’s so damn proud of it. It’s cute. You noticed he trimmed it for the occasion and probably added some kind of oil to it. You smell it from here. An odd but somewhat comforting smell. Like a cosy fireplace or a warmish glass of Scotch. You wonder if your sheets will smell like that in the morning. He’s trying to say something, but you're already lost in the thought. Split seconds where you don’t listen, only think about those infamous mutton chops climbing your legs. Focus, damn it. What is he wearing? A suit? That’s strange. Well, you always thought anything besides a loaded chest rig looked weird on him. Wait, no. That’s not true. He wears jumpers and cardigans quite nicely. You always pictured him as an old British gentleman. A sailor embarking on a frail boat. Or a hunter walking to a black forest. Something like that. Old-fashioned indeed. It’s an acquired taste. 

So you talk. Like a lot. Spend time in each other’s eyes. Those grey-blue marbles, in which you see more than what is said. The joy of the moment, of being here, yes. But also the sadness, the pain. What is supposedly left behind, somewhere on a desolated field, and yet always comes back to scratch those eyes. It’s okay. You have the same. That’s why it’s working. But you remember. You remember how bright, much brighter, these eyes were the first time you saw them.

TEN YEARS AGO

Black and white. Night and snow. Somewhere in Northern Europe, the winter wind sweeps the clouds across the sky and dusts the flakes off the trees. But two bushes remain still. Until they don’t. All ghillied up, two operators crawl in powder snow. They talk as loud as the wind allows them to. 

“Follow me and keep low, lieutenant. Target’s right ahead.” 

“Solid copy.”

Captain MacMillan leads the way in near-total silence. His second in command, Lieutenant John Price, tries to keep up. He misses the warmth of the base. Of a pub. Of anything warmer than this icy desert at this point. But he needs to stay focused. They’re deep into enemy territory, trying to retrieve an ally he only knows by reputation. A track record he admires. So he wonders. What happened? A trap? A mistake? Perhaps it’s a warning in disguise. It goes to show that no one is ever too good to get caught. To get killed. 

Listen to the captain. Do what the captain says, his head repeats. Enough to forget his instincts or the will to think for himself. Violence and timing. Once you’re on the field, only these two matter. They don’t require you to think. Only to act, and act at the right moment. Old man MacMillan told him so. And despite his age, Alpha Six is teaching him a lesson. The captain moves like a damn ghost. The cold doesn’t seem to bother him. It’s almost like the snow melts around him so he can look like a real bush. The deadliest bush in the country, probably.

“It’s a goddamn convention around here, John.”

Price looks down. The warehouse and its surroundings are barely lit, but using thermal goggles, he can already count twelve guns guarding the target, plus three engineers working on an Infantry Fighting Vehicle. Guards, not soldiers. The new plague of the free world: PMCs. Former soldiers, swapping insignias for fatter paychecks. Russian, probably. He hears them talking through the wind. Or maybe French. They hire all across Europe, after all. The captain’s accent brings him back to Scotland.

“We could wait for them to break off, but that’d be playing with the target’s life, and we’d probably freeze our asses to death… There’s only one way to do this, innit?”

“Right. Care for a suggestion, captain?”

“I’m all hears, lieutenant.”

“That IFV. Maybe it is operational. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t want to find out. We take it down first. C4 should do the trick. They hear the boom. We split. You dance, I get inside. Once the target’s identity is confirmed, I take the long trek home through the forest, and meet you at LZ.” 

“You forget your rank, lieutenant. Why should I be the one dancing, John?”

“With all due respect captain, you forget your back. I’m sure the target’s a big boy. Unless you’re ready for the fireman carry of your life, you let me do it. If you hurt yourself, who will put those Christmas lights on the tree? Your wife will never forgive me…”

“Alright John, lead the way.” 

They don’t need their ghillies anymore. The bushes become men. They check their weapons. Price is about to take point when MacMillan nudges him. His fatherly smile almost lights the dark.

“The next time you bring my wife into this kid, you’re going down.”

“Roger that, captain.”

One of the engineers went for a cigarette. Lord bless the smokers. They all leave their post, eventually. Even when they don’t, that smoke will shake their focus. Move fingers away from triggers, grenades, alarms. Enjoy that last cigarette, lad. This smoke’s about to kill you faster than lung cancer. MacMillan jumps from the white shadows, arms instantly locked on his prey. His combat knife bites. Screams die in the engineer’s throat. Blood bubbles explode. The wind covers almost everything. The fluff of the snow takes care of the rest. 

Words come to them, though, and both captain and lieutenant freeze instantly. Their weapons are up, ready to strike. But they don’t want to fight. Not here, not now. More words. Price is trying to make sense of them, but he skipped too many classes for that. Damn you and your bad boy attitude, he thinks, until he hears a laugh. The words are repeated, but not as a question. That delivery transcends all languages. It’s a joke. Tension goes down, but MacMillan is already one step ahead. 

Pripyat. Urzikstan. Many more. Price has fought next to the captain since he joined the SAS. It’s a weird thing, but by now, he probably knows him better than friends. Better than family. And it shows. They don’t have to speak, but that’s always been a requirement on the field. What’s more impressive is they don’t have to sign full sentences either. They’ve experienced enough settings and parameters to understand how the situation will eventually play out. So they commit to the action, together, before the scenario can even start. Like two polished pieces of the same high-precision clock, they act as one to define time itself. 

“Together”, he signs.

For the two engineers, it’s time to die. Focused on the scratched hull of their IFV, these poor bastards never see it coming. A .45 ACP bullet penetrates their skulls at subsonic speed and settles down in their brains, avoiding any ricochet on the armoured surface of the vehicle. They climb on top of the tank. Price removes the bodies to find a hatch while MacMillan gets a block of C4 ready. Except for the wind, the place is silent. Which means no one knows they’re here. Good. But it could also mean the target is dead by now. The same thought has crossed the captain’s mind. He suddenly acts faster, despite the gloves and the numbed fingers they’re supposed to protect. Price follows and places the C4 inside the IFV, next to what he remembers to be a fuel tank.

About ninety-two seconds later, John learns his memories are correct. From the safety of distance, MacMillan has blown the IFV straight to hell in one glorious explosion. But it only takes about twenty more seconds for the PMC to react, learns Price on his watch. And that’s bad news. They’re still sharp. Drilled. Ready to respond. And they do. John counts half of them spreading out of the warehouse through truck gates and access doors. Their plan is sound. They’re looking out, trying to nullify the effect of surprise with a solid assessment of who or what is outside.

And it’s only one man, but he gives them a round for their money. MacMillan uses every trick in the book and every weapon he carries to make them think there’s a whole squad hunting for them behind the snow, between those big black trees. And they fall for it. At least one of the mercenaries does, and chooses to provide firing support from the door he was supposed to shut behind his comrades. 

John sees the opportunity immediately. Timing. In just a few rounds, the mercenary will have to reload. Or maybe he will suddenly realise the door is still open and stop firing. An empty mag hits the floor, and Price jumps out of cover. Violence. He grabs the mercenary’s weapon with one hand while the other secures the kill. The bastard’s heavy, and the thump of his fall makes a lot of noise. Silenced handgun raised, Price waits for a moment, scanning the entry corridor for potential targets. But no one comes. More words, inside. More shots, outside. Chaos is settling in, everywhere.

Another opportunity, then. Price presses on, checking his corners with the precision of a machine. A door opens to his right. Two mercs, rushing out of a room to help their comrades overwhelmed by MacMillan’s tactics. John is almost as surprised as they are, but not quite. Timing. They’re too fast, and likely to fire from the hip. Violence. He empties his mag on the two targets. One mercenary drops suddenly, like a puppet cut from its strings. The other falls, but slowly. His vest caught the heat. If he’s good, there’s a chance he might go for a sidearm, or a knife. No time to reload then. Price runs and then falls on his knees to finish his target with a clean cut from his combat blade. The bastard knows death is coming, but he’s not ready to embrace it just yet. His arms move in a life-or-death reflex, and Price is stopped a few centimetres away from a kill. There’s no timing anymore. Only violence, a test of raw strength. John tries to stab the merc down the neck. The poor guy can’t do anything but buy some time, and wait a few seconds for someone to go check the corridor. But no one comes for him. Only death, in the form of a straight silver blade slowly piercing his throat.

Rolling to the side, Price suddenly remembers to breathe. Staying on his back, he reloads his weapon without thinking, his two eyes locked on the door the mercs have opened seconds prior. He counts. One when he entered. Two in the corridor. With half of them still outside fighting MacMillan, that’s two mercenaries unaccounted for. Usually, it is the wounded, the insecure or the frightened you leave behind. But when it comes to target protection, it’s the other way around. Your last wall of defence is also the toughest. The big guns stay with the target until the end. If Price wasn’t so actively trying not to think, maybe he would have remembered that. 

He enters the room. More like a hangar. It’s dark. Only the moon and distant muzzle flashes provide some light through large, rectangular windows. Timing? Put the night vision set on, find the bastards, and apply a bit of violence. Wait. Price holds on to his set. Did someone cut the power? It could be MacMillan toying with them. But more likely, the mercs have figured their opponents are properly equipped. And now, they’re just waiting for Price to put his night vision on. They want him to rely on the tool, for there’s no faster way to blind a man than putting the power back at the right moment. So Price throws the night vision set away, into the room. Five thousand quid of government-issued tech crash on the industrial floor. One second. Two seconds. The light goes back and the night vision set dies a second time, broken apart by crossfire. 

The shots from the right probably came from that little accounting office Price sees through a piece of shattered glass. He resists the urge to throw a grenade, that could threaten the target’s life. His back on the wall, he’s getting closer to the office. More words. They come from the left. These mercs can’t shut up to save their lives. What is it this time? There’s a trace of panic in the sentences. They’re probably asking for reinforcements, but there’s a hell lot of static on the other end of the line. MacMillan has done his part, and there’s no military base around anyway. In typical Laswell fashion, Kate had saved the only piece of good news for the end of her briefing, Price remembers. So good luck with that, lad. But keep talking. The echo allows John to move closer and closer to his next kill. Until the warehouse is silent again. Until something inside the office decides to move. 

It’s a lock. Inside the door, it jiggles enough for Price to notice someone’s about to leave the office. He waits for the final click to bash the gate. It arrives a split-second later, and John kicks the door like his dad used to kick rugby balls on Sunday mornings. Wood breaks. Bones follow. Price puts another bullet in another skull. It happens so fast the merc can’t even fight or scream. But his finger was already on the trigger, so his assault rifle yelled for him. The burst catches price off-guard. Bullets pound his plate and the walls alike. He falls. 

When the kick finally fades, the world is backwards. Literally. Between two containers, he sees the target, bloodied and tied up to the floor. Or is it the ceiling? He’s not sure anymore. His ears are buzzing. His chest is compressed by the impact. There’s no gun in his hands. He wants to rise but he can’t. Someone comes. Someone that’s not MacMillan. Price rolls from back to belly. The world looks finally looks right again. Well, right as it can be when you’re crawling unarmed in the face of the Grim Reaper.

His weapon raised, the last merc stops next to the target and fires. Not rounds, but words. More words. Insults, probably. Weirdly, they’re not aimed at Price. They’re for whoever is still under the same black hood they always put on prisoners. She answers, proudly, in their language. 

Wait, she?

Gunshots. They come from outside, from the forest. Surprised, the last merc tries to sneak a look between the crates. Price gathers the little strength he has left to look for a weapon. But he’s still dizzy. A hippo with a full belly would be faster. He looks up, facing death with both eyes open. Only death doesn’t come for him. The target is free. She climbs on the mercenary like a damn spider, using her legs to maintain the bastard’s weapon against his chest while she strangles him with the little piece of plastic tying her two hands. John finally finds his sidearm. He wants to help her. He wants to shoot. But SAS lieutenant John Price is not so sure of his aim anymore. So he looks, and eventually, the mercenary crumbles.

Price now moves a bit faster and a bit closer. The target’s still fighting. But her prey is long dead. There’s no breathing left in him. His neck is broken. So broken that little piece of plastic is slowly severing head from body. And yet she fights, furiously. Moving slowly, talking even slower, he tries to calm her down. She releases her grip on the dead mercenary. Describing his every move out loud, John carefully guides his blade between her two hands and next to her neck. Underneath the bruises and the cuts, she’s a woman alright. Their eyes locked. Back to the mission.

“Lieutenant John Price, British SAS. I need your codename, fast.”

“Why are you here? I had it under control!” 

Her voice is confident. Not a single taint of doubt in it. Price chuckles.

“I’m not sure I see it that way, darling. Now, give me your codename so I can get you out of here.”

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

Again. Confident. She’s looking at the half-decapitated mercenary with disdain, not disgust. She killed before. In more ways than one. More brutal ways. 

“I had it under control.”

Her time to chuckle. She pauses. Takes one good look at him. That sort of threatening gaze birds of prey will give you if you happen to drive through their land. She measures. Judges. And weirdly enough, the whole thing ends with a sight smile.

“Codename’s Rain. Nice to meet you, lieutenant. Now, can a lady get a proper extraction, or what?”

“Sure thing, ma’am. Follow me.” 

They grab some gear and step out of the warehouse. Outside, the night is silent again. The moon shines on the black of the trees. The white of the snow. The red of the dead bodies. 

And the blue of their eyes. 

[or0ch1maru]

i have an idea for some angsty headcanons.

reader got into an accident/fight and got a brain injury making her loose some memories, ability to communicate, walk etc.

For a solid three minutes I was playing eenie meenie miney mo, trying to pick who I wanted for this lol. Soooooo tonight will consist of some angst with our sadistic bby who has a hard time expressing his emotions😩

Warnings?: argument, reader being called stupid, slight memory loss, raised tone of voice. Comfort but not until the end

Hidan x GN reader😘

•

•you cursed that shinobi, the one who caused you to lose some of your memories

•because now, you’re stuck in an uncomfortable argument with your partner

•it was rare that Hidan got upset with you, he usually got pissed off with Kakuzu, or an enemy when on a mission, but it still stung when his tone changed and he’d look away from you when speaking

• “it’s not my fault this happened..” you pouted, trying to defuse the situation.

•losing your memory and receiving a head injury was NOT your fault in the slightest. The rogue shinobi you fought against, did their research and knew your weaknesses.

•which was only one. Hidan

• “if you weren’t so stupid, we wouldn’t be having this conversation” Hidan retorted back. His tone shifted, being one full of frustration.

•this fight started when Hidan had mentioned plans you two put together a few weeks ago, but that obviously changed after your accident.

•the day came around and you forgot. He had wanted to take you out for a nice dinner and movie date. The two of you being so busy with back to back missions that you two barely got a full nights rests in the same bed before having to run off.

• “I-.” You would start, opening and closing your mouth multiple times before giving up entirely. Not sure what can help calm down your lover.

• “shut up.” He snaps over his shoulder at you. Tears begin to burn in the corners of your eyes. You’d wish he’d just tell you what was wrong but it’s not always that easy.

•being a member of the akatsuki, let alone dating one would always come with risks and complications.

•they all come from a difficult past, some worse than others. All coming with trauma and issues of some kind

•and you knew that, and it didn’t stop you from falling in love with Hidan. The most sadistic being of this entire group

• “please, just tell me what’s wrong.” You manage to say. Your tone soft, unlike your usual confident voice.

• “it’s nothing important.” Your grey haired lover begins. His tone laced with annoyance. Deep down he knows this isn’t your fault, and he tried his hardest not to let it affect him. Some days just being harder than others for him.

• “apparently today wasn’t special enough for you to remember. What kind of partner are you anyway?” Your heart drops, he doesn’t mean it. He’d never mean something so hurtful. Is what you tell yourself.

• “it’s not my fault…” you say again, the four words fall from your mouth through a choked sob.

•ever since your accident, you’d notice you would forget the smallest of things. Like where you placed the remote after you paused a movie or heating something up in the microwave, only to be reminded when somebody went to use it later on.

•but over the few weeks since you hit your head, the nagging feeling of worthlessness have hit you harder and harder.

•you felt like a failure as a comrade, a ninja, and as a partner. Just like Hidan said, what kind of partner are you if you can’t remember something so basic and easy.

• “get out. Just get out.” You cocked your head and looked at him, his back still turned towards you and you could see the strain he’s putting on himself to avoid looking at you

•which only made you feel even worse

•you crawled out of the comfort of his bed, nervously playing with the sleeves of your jacket as you walked towards the door. “I’m sorry..” the two words fall from your lips quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. But you were still loud enough that he heard you.

•you slipped out of his room without another peep, and disappeared into the confines of yours.

•over the span of a few hours, you’d gone through a range of emotions. Your cries turned to anger, cursing the person who caused this, to telling yourself that you’re okay, and then back to crying.

•sometime during this, you fell asleep, arms wrapped tightly around one of your pillows, wishing it was your boyfriend

•it was late into the evening at this point. Hidan had a lot of time to reflect on how he treated you. Feeling like shit, he opened your door, finding you sleeping. A small smile formed on his face at how cute you looked

• “baby. Love, wake up.” Your partners voice gently pulled you from your rest. You open your eyes, finding him hovering over you. One arm holding him up while the other sits on your waist.

• “I’m sorry. I was an ass to you.” Hidan’s usual gruff voice was soft, his voice a whisper as he finds his words. He lowers his forehead until it’s touching yours.

• “there’s no excuse for how I acted. It’s not your fault. None of this is okay? I love you baby.” He coos, planting soft kisses along your jawline before pressing his lips against yours.

•the two of you stayed like that for a while, snaking your arms around the back of his neck. The immortal flipped, now laying on his back while you straddle his hips. Hands planted firmly on his torso.

• “I’d understand if you don’t forgi-.” He starts, you cut him off by pressing a kiss to his lips. “Stop talking. It’s okay. It’ll take us time to get used to this. Just wish we didn’t have to, you know?” He nods, his eyes wide, full of patience and love as he looks at you.

• “just do me one solid okay?” He states, his hands palming the soft flesh of your hips and upper thighs. “If I ever, and I mean ever, speak to you like that again, I give you permission to smack the fuck outta me.” He finishes, a smile toying on the corner of his lips but his expression is firm. Letting you know he truly means what he’s saying.

•you press another kiss to his lips before pulling away to look at him. “Okay.” You say softly, giving him a gentle smile. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. His fingers pressing into the muscles of your back, loosening all the knots and built up tension you’re carrying. A faint chuckle leaving his lips when a snore falls from your mouth.

[majimemegoro]

Had a nightmare last night that you deleted livin in the future and fuckin RAN to ao3 this morning to make sure it was only a dream. I wish I were joking

WOUGH THANKS FOR TELLING ME, im glad you like it that much but im sorry it made you anxious! GOTTA GET AROUND TO UPDATING THAT FOR YOU!!! but i dont have time

heres a sneak preview of the next chapter

PART THREE

CHAPTER FIVE

I opened up my heart to you, it got all damaged and undone / my ship liberty sailed away on a bloody red horizon

Yasuko goes away to university, though not so far that she can’t visit on weekends and holidays. Saejima tries to play it cool but Majima can tell he is greatly disturbed at the prospect of her living alone. At first they phone together nearly every night, and Majima tries to be extra gentle with Saejima, until at last Saejima gets used to the new system and relaxes a little. And it’s not bad, Majima voices one night, snickering, to have the place all to themselves. Saejima smacks him.

In just over a year, Majima gets his own Family. It almost feels like some joke of Shimano’s, some lovely rug laid down just to be pulled out from under him later; but Majima will take it. He’s good at landing on his feet. In the meantime the increased independence is nice, but being a Patriarch again makes him miss his old boys with a vengeance. What is the Majima Family without Nishida? Without Minami and Komeda and all the other dumb shits he loved so much? It makes Majima cranky.

So one pleasantly balmy afternoon when Majima is taking out his frustration on some poor Family grunt who happened to step a little too close to him on the street, he’s expecting to beat the man soundly and leave the alley feeling momentarily better but not particularly relieved. Which is why he is surprised when he feels a hand on his shoulder right as he’s about to deliver the final kick.

He turns around and that serious scowl is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

It was only a matter of time.

Kiryu’s hair is shorter than he remembered it being (maybe it was like that when they first met?) but it’s still the same dumb grey suit and red shirt and Majima could laugh.

Actually he does laugh, eye wide as he stares at Kiryu like he could drink in the five years since he’s seen him, stares at him incredulously, elated laughter shrieking out of his throat. Kiryu’s stoic frown wavers with confusion but does not fail.

“Kiryu-chan!” Majima screeches, grinning so wide his face must terrify, the bleeding man behind him all but forgotten. “I fuckin’ missed you!”

There isn’t time for Kiryu to react before Majima is drawing back his fist and driving a punch square into Kiryu’s face.

It’s the first time in a long time he’s managed to get the drop on Kiryu like that, and Majima cackles manically, heart feeling like it could burst from ecstasy. When Kiryu recovers almost instantly and lands a solid kick to Majima’s gut, the laughter turns to wheezing but the pain only quadruples his elation.

By the time they both collapse into a mess against the wall—because Kiryu can’t beat Majima, not yet—it feels like everything is right in the world.

“Fuck,” Majima says in satisfaction. “So that’s fighting the Dragon of Dojima, huh? Sign me the fuck up for season tickets, Kiryu-chan.”

“If you like, Majima no niisan.” Kiryu is cautious, respectful, but damn, Majima missed hearing his name in that voice.

“You got a cellphone?” Majima asks.

“Uh, no.”

“What? You dunderball,” Majima scolds, patting his pockets for a smoke. “Cellphones are the way of the future, you gotta hurry up.”

“I don’t think so, Majima no niisan,” Kiryu replies seriously. “I think they’re just a fad.”

It would be endearing if it weren’t so sad. Majima sighs. “You don’t gotta be so formal,” he says instead. “I ain’t your boss.”

A second of silence. Kiryu will dodge the issue, Majima knows, and go on like he always has. “Majima no niisan,” he says, (see?) “Makimura-san told me you helped her.”

“Haw?” Majima almost inhales the cigarette he placed in his mouth.

“Is it true?”

“Uh... fuck...” Majima fumbles with his lighter and then glares at Kiryu sidelong. “Don’t talk about that, ever, unless you wanna learn what it’s like to have only one eye,” he threatens, brandishing the cigarette.

Kiryu nods, unfazed. “Just know that I hold great respect for you for that. You aren’t the man I was led to expect you were. From your reputation.”

“Yeah, well... sometimes reputations ain’t shit,” Majima grunts back. “But I am volatile as hell, so don’t go spreadin’ around rumours that I’m a fool who’s gone soft,” he warns.

“I promise.”

Kiryu is so solemn it’s almost hilarious. A warm glow fills Majima’s chest and he throws an arm over Kiryu’s shoulders. “She’s okay, then?”

“Yes. With Tachibana-san.”

Closing his eye, Majima nods, feeling relief creep into his chest and mix with the contentment already there to create something very nice indeed.

“You wanna get drinks, Kiryu-chan?” he asks. “On me.”

It’s possible that a subtle look of genuine disappointment colors Kiryu’s stern expression. “I already have plans tonight, Majima no niisan. I’m sorry.”

Right. Of course—Kiryu until 1995 is only one half, never alone. And the missing piece—

Majima is reminded that there are still other people to save.

“Bring your pal Nishikiyama, too,” he says. “I’m buyin’ for everyone tonight.”

He can still read Kiryu’s expressions; his nod is stiff but happy light shines in his eyes.

A pager and twenty minutes later Majima and Kiryu are leaning on the wall in the alley, smoking in companionable silence, when there is a sound to the left of them. Majima looks up and there is Nishiki.

Everyone Majima has seen back from the dead so far had been alarming by their perfect lack of change; not so with Nishiki. Nishiki is so different from how Majima last saw him that he almost can’t believe it’s the same person. Then he can’t believe he forgot what Nishiki used to be like; what Nishiki was supposed to be like.

Something about him is sharp, but the razor-quick calculation in his eyes is not soulless and his eyes aren’t shadowed. He looks as young as he is. Flashy suit, soft hair carelessly brushing the sides of his face.

His posture is a little affected, sure, his poise a little forced, his confidence and easygoing charm a little harsh and anxious underneath. The pieces of the broken Nishiki are all there, the pieces that went jagged and wrong, and Majima sees them and feels so guilty he almost chokes on it. And then the resolve: Majima’s going to smooth those self-hating edges as much as he can or die trying.

Nishiki flashes a grin at him and Kiryu; Nishiki doesn’t bow to Majima, although maybe he should. “Majima-san,” he says, charmingly but not disrespectfully. “I see Kiryu is making important friends.”

“Kiryu-chan wouldn’t know networking if the clan Chairman bit him in the ass,” Majima dismisses, dropping his spent cigarette and grinding it into the ground as he pushes himself off the wall. “I’m here for good fighting and good drinkin’, not fuckin’ politics. If you wanna bring that shit into it, you’re disinvited.”

One eyebrow raises, like Nishiki can’t quite understand that someone might make powerful friends sincerely. “Huh. Alright, fair,” he says. “Sounds like you already know him.”

Almost as long as you, Majima wants to say, but of course he bites his tongue. They only met this afternoon.

“Any chance you like good karaoke, too?” Nishiki adds. “Not that you’d guess, but Kiryu gets really into it.” Kiryu glances at him with a slight scowl.

Majima lets out a cackle, unduly thrilled to hear the revelation out loud even though he already knew. “Damn straight I like good karaoke,” he says. “I’m the fuckin’ best at karaoke. You two ain’t gettin’ out of this now that you brought it up.”

“Drinks first,” Nishiki quips. “I heard you’re paying...?”

Majima hadn’t realized how much he had missed Nishiki of all people. This banter isn’t half bad. He makes a sharp grin. “Drinks first,” he agrees. “Then karaoke. Then dancin’.”

Nishiki’s laugh at that is polished and easy, but sincere. “You’re on,” he says, and Kiryu makes a tiny mute smile and Majima squeezes his way between them to throw his arms over their shoulders and steer them towards the neon streets, and everything is right.

So the eighties pass into the nineties and the world keeps turning. Without making a big deal about it, Majima fastidiously avoids certain locations at certain times, and he does such a good job of it that one night he is able to sit himself on the couch in the evening and turn the TV onto the televised first set of the major debut Japan Dome concert of an up-and-coming new idol. Advertisements for the event were everywhere the past few weeks. It was surreal to see her smiling down at him from so many posters, resplendent in photoshopped glory, looking as impossibly beautiful as she always did, even grimy in a too-large shirt the morning after a night of furious sex, even bitter and snarling and streaked with tears. It made his heart ache and flutter, the bitter excitement of seeing her and the creeping fear that the posters would be pulled down, the whole event shamefully tucked away before it could happen—

But no. It’s the night-of. And there she is, on the screen, and Majima has saved her. It hurts that the only thing keeping Mirei from having a perfect life was meeting him. But she deserves a perfect life. So he has no regrets.

“Don’t know why you’re suddenly so into idols, bro,” Saejima says, sitting down beside him and passing a beer.

Majima accepts it, takes a swig. He smiles, eye misty as he watches the screen. “She’s a star, bro. This kid is going places.”

“Pretty good singer,” Saejima admits gruffly.

“Damn good,” Majima corrects, leaning his head on Saejima’s shoulder and enjoying the sound of Mirei’s voice for the first time in a long time. She shines on the screen, perfect smile, perfect uniform, perfect, perfect. If she gets this, it’s worth it.

When the program ends Majima blows her a kiss and points the remote at the screen and with a click of static it goes black.

That’s that.

[self-loathing-angel-of-thursday2]

Beautiful Spouse’s Rewatch Thoughts SPN 02x03

Bloodlust

“The music is right again” “That was a full on decapitation. They spend their whole rating on that” “That is not the engine that went in that car but ok” cows

“This fkn guy” “because that’s what gravity does!” “what do you expect to see in the box? It’s a head” “really?” “imagine being the actress under the table with the fingers in her mouth” “haha”

“Is it just a happy accident that the guy is Benny in later seasons?” “I remember that they made the hunter guy a huge dick”

Explaining the racism and narrative mirror of Gordon’s character

“Killed a fang? Can’t call it a vamp or vampire?” “I don’t understand the aggression from either side. Gordon’s on a hunt, which is fine, and he told the boys to skip town, but they said no? Don’t hunters usually fly solo?” “How many nighttime security guards die of heart attacks because of random noises at night?” “Isn’t this when Sam starts to talk to Dean about his killing problems? Or is that later? I don’t remember” “what the fuck are you looking at sam? He just killed a vampire.” “I guess we haven’t painted Gordon as a bad guy yet” “weird bone to pick” “just imagine if a husband had said that about their wife - ’she just gets that way sometimes’ - Dean would be a totally different character otherwise” “They did a good job on lighting Dean’s face on that scene. He has a good face” “All 50 shades of that grey” “Is Dean really that smart to realize instantly to see that Gordon is driving a wedge between them?” “I love how Sam thinks he’s going to get turbo-fucked by a vampire so he tries not to but then he does anyway” “holy fuck those teeth” “vagina dentate on those teeth” “did dean cheat on Cas with Benny?”

Spouse isn’t ready yet

“If she’s part of this invasion thing, her lipstick is solid. That shit didn’t smear at all. Those lines were fkn crisp” “Sam opens up with the vampires but not with Ellen saying not to work with Gordon?” “how in the fuck would gordon be a substitute for John? Yeah, I would have punched Sam too; he deserved it” “I don’t know that engine platform so it might be possible to start it like that. There sure as hell ain’t an ECU in there” “We’re domestic vampires now - we have shit to pack?” “Wouldn’t blood that’s been sitting for a while be the same as dead man’s blood?” “At least this point in time, I’m still with Dean on this one. I know things change later on, but right now, I’m with Dean.” “Wouldn’t there be all sorts of blood on that knife?” “What things do they need to talk about? Did I miss something?” “nice gun” “didn’t they bring this guy back a lot to the point of being annoying?” “I like the glass glitter in Gordon’s hair; it’s a nice touch” “Dean’s such a joker” “Sorry Dean - I don’t think you’re ever going to grow into that jacket” “Yes, I know it’s a metaphor for filling John’s shoes. Jesus Christ” “It’s interesting that they let monsters be free so short after John’s death.” “what a terrible time to have this introspective breakdown”

“You gotta let a few vampires live so we can have WWDITS”

“He broke the 4th wall” and we watched it like 4 times with the lens flare

[curls-cat]

14+45+jaskier/any mayhaps??

14: overgrown; 45: svelte (i know this means like. sleek and poised when it comes to people but all I can think about is penguins)

Grey I’m sorry T-T this got WAY out of hand (also I’m terrible at time management)

Also on AO3!

~~

Geralt should be dead. This is his first thought when he wakes up. He should be dead, and he is not. He was fighting a pack of sirens. He remembers that. One of them got in a good hit. He went under the water. He doesn’t remember coming back up.

He’s on land; inside, somewhere. Not a particularly nice somewhere, but not the worst place he’s ever woken up. There are four walls, and though he’s on a dirty floor, there’s a solid roof overhead. He can hear rain pounding on it. It’s dark, gloomy enough that the room might not have windows.

Well, he’s not going to figure out where he is by standing here. With a groan, Geralt pushes himself up. His chest hurts. Everything hurts, really, but the pain in his lungs is overwhelming. By the time he’s pushed himself to sitting, he’s coughing, deep racking painful coughs.

“Oh, don’t— you were supposed to stay asleep ‘til I got back! Drowning’s bad for you, you know.”

Geralt turns to look at the man who entered the room while he was coughing his lungs inside out. He’s tall, with brown hair and blue eyes. He’s also very well-built, which Geralt can tell because he’s wearing nothing but a fur cloak, open at the front.

No, not a cloak. A skin. A sealskin.

Geralt’s survival suddenly makes a lot more sense.

“You’re a selkie,” he croaks.

The selkie walks over to Geralt and crouches on the floor next to him. He pulls, from underneath his cloak, a very wet bag— Geralt’s bag.

“And you’re a witcher,” he says. “Thank you for dealing with those sirens. They’ve been making life unbearable around here.”

“Part of the job,” Geralt says.

The selkie hands Geralt his pack with an eye roll. “Well, as I haven’t got any of that human money, you’ll have to take my thanks. As well as your things back. I haven’t got all of them yet,” this part he adds in a hurry as Geralt fumbles the bag open, looking for a bottle of Swallow. “But I thought you’d be waking up around now, so I wanted to ask what was the most important.”

Geralt takes a mental inventory. His potions, yes. And he’s wearing his armor. Roach is on shore with most of his clothes. “My swords,” he says.

“Both of them?” the siren wrinkles his nose.

Geralt starts to shrug, but it hurts. “One for humans,” he says. “One for monsters.”

The siren backs up the tiniest bit, but turns a very big grin on Geralt as he says, “I’m going to assume that selkies don’t count as monsters, of course, since I did just save your life and all.”

“No contract out on you,” Geralt answers. “Don’t try to kill me and I won’t try to kill you.”

“Sounds fair,” the selkie says. He pats Geralt on the shoulder. “I’ll go get your swords. Do you need— anything else?”

Geralt can’t ask this man to grab him a siren head as a trophy. He shakes his head.

The selkie goes back into the storm, leaving Geralt alone in an empty room.

*

When the selkie comes back, Geralt is better enough that he’s standing, walking around the room. It does have windows, it seems. They’re just covered in bracken. Live vines, tight over all the ways to see outside, so thick that no rain can get in. So dark in the storm that they nearly blend in with the rough wood of the walls.

The building appears to be a single room. It has a fireplace on one wall, unlit. Next to it there’s a pile of cookware and… musical instruments? Yes, there’s a lute in there. There’s no furniture.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” the selkie says when he enters the room. “You drowned, you know.”

“Didn’t take,” Geralt says. He doesn’t shrug, because shrugging still hurts. Swallow didn’t do as much good as he thought it would, which means he came very close to dying.

The selkie leans Geralt’s swords up against the wall and shuts the door behind him. The noise of the storm grows a little more muffled. “Are all witchers like you?” the selkie asks.

“Like me how?” Geralt asks.

“Oh, the fire’s gone out!” the selkie says instead of answering. He bustles over to it, dropping his sealskin on the way and revealing an ass that Geralt doesn’t stare at, through great force of will. He struggles with the fire for a few moments, cursing at it. 

Geralt creaks his way gingerly over to join the selkie at the fireplace and casts igni, putting a little more effort into it than usual to compensate for the rain dripping down the chimney.

“Oh, that’s clever,” the selkie says, turning a bright grin on Geralt. Geralt focuses on the grin, not the expanse of naked skin below it. “Is that a human thing, or a witcher thing? Can I learn to do it?”

“Witcher,” Geralt says. “You’ll have to stick to flint.”

The selkie makes a face. He grabs his discarded sealskin and spreads it out in front of himself, like a hearthrug. Geralt watches the sealskin so he has something other than human skin to look at.

The selkie sees him looking, and crooks a half smile. “I know it’s my skin and all, and I should take better care of it, but it’s so uncomfortable to put on while it’s still wet.”

That wasn’t what Geralt was wondering about. “Do you not have clothes?” he asks instead. “Human clothes?”

The selkie looks, suddenly, mournful. “No way to get ‘em out here without ruining them. I bought a suit on the mainland a year or two ago, beautiful, shiny, all bright colors and little triangles. The man said it was silk. But when I got it back out here it was all stained.”

What a selkie needs with a silk suit, or where he got the money for it, wandering around in nothing but a fur coat, Geralt doesn’t know. He also doesn’t ask. Instead he says, “Humans consider it impolite to go around naked.”

The selkie’s eyes go wide. “Is that why you’re still wearing your wet things? Am I being rude? Sorry! I’ll find something. Do we both need clothes? How many? Where do we have to wear them?” He keeps chattering as he heads over to the collection of instruments and cooking supplies, all questions with no time for Geralt to answer them in between. He returns, still talking, a few minutes later, bearing a blanket and a very waterstained satin suit. “Do you want the suit or the blanket?” he asks.

Geralt eyes the selkie as carefully as he can without making it weird. The man isn’t waifish by any means, but he doesn’t look like he’s as muscular as Geralt. “Blanket,” he says.

A few minutes later, Geralt is closer to dry than he’s been since before he took the damn siren contract, wrapped in a bedraggled but warm knit blanket. The selkie, wearing a wrinkled and stained suit that smells strongly of mildew, is spreading Geralt’s armor out next to his sealskin. The colors, even browned with seawater and salt, look nice against his dark hair.

“What’s your name?” the selkie asks with a tone of sudden realization. “I was all caught up in the saving you and all, I forgot. Sorry. I’m not used to people. My name is Jaskier.”

“Geralt,” Geralt offers. Then, “A selkie named after a flower?”

“My mother was fond of the mainland,” Jaskier says with a small smile.

Was, Geralt notices. Selkies aren’t usually solitary. Jaskier doesn’t appear to have a colony of any kind, seems to be alone in his one-room house. Said he wasn’t used to people. And people could mean humans, but it could also mean…

Geralt doesn’t ask.

“Food!” the selkie says after a moment. He doesn’t appear to be fond of silences. “I should feed you! I hope you like fish,” he adds, standing. “It’s all I’ve got. Unless— do humans eat seaweed? Do witchers eat seaweed? Do witchers eat what humans eat?” He’s heading for the door again, still chattering. “I know witchers aren’t quite humans, but I’ve never met one before. And I’m not quite human either, and I thought bread was excellent. Ooh, and wine. I wish I had wine. You can’t carry glass in your teeth, though. Or at least I can’t. Not while I’m swimming. I should really get one of those bags like you have. But leather doesn’t usually like seawater that much, and after the suit—” his voice grows muffled through the wall, as he rummages outside— “I don’t like to risk cloth, either.” He returns with a string of fish, messily but thoroughly gutted and hung on a ragged piece of twine. He hangs them over the fire.

“Canvas should hold up,” Geralt offers.

“Canvas?”

“What the sailors make their sails out of.”

“Oh!” The selkie beams at him again. Geralt notices for the first time that his teeth are too sharp. It doesn’t make the smile any less bright. “I should’ve thought of that. I try to avoid the sailors, though. There’s too many stories of selkies who get too close to a fisherman and never come home.”

Geralt’s heard those stories. Mournful, trapped wives, their skins hidden away. The kind of love that belongs to possessions, not people. Children whose mothers disappear one day with no explanation, leaving them with no way of understanding the longing for the sea in their own chests.

“Maybe the next time there’s a shipwreck,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. “I try to save the people, most of the time, but I can salvage some other things.” He wrinkles his nose. “No idea how to turn it into a bag, though. My father could sew, but he—” Jaskier pauses. “Well. I never got the chance to learn.”

Geralt, again, doesn’t ask.

“Must thank you again for killing the sirens,” Jaskier adds, almost like an afterthought, and Geralt doesn’t need to ask what happened to Jaskier’s colony after all, because he can put two and two together.

“How long have you been alone here?” he asks instead. It seems a little safer.

Jaskier counts on his fingers. He runs out of fingers and adds a few toes. “At least twelve winters,” he says.

He can’t be that old. Geralt’s not particularly adept at judging the age of selkies, but he looks like a human man of about eighteen. He would’ve been, what? Six? Eight at the absolute oldest. Geralt was about that age when he was left at Kaer Morhen.

Something like empathy must show on Geralt’s face, because Jaskier turns back to the fish as he says, “It’s not that bad. I go to the mainland fairly often. They give me funny looks, but I’m not the only fisherman who’s chosen an island instead of a town. Not even the only one to run around in a heavy fur cloak and no shoes.” He pauses, and apparently decides the fish are done, because he tosses one back and forth between his hands to give to Geralt. “Nobody like me, though,” he says, with a small, sad smile. “I’ve checked.”

Geralt knows something of what it’s like to be a dying breed. He doesn’t, though, know how to offer comfort, so he just eats his fish. Selkies aren’t mutants. They deserve to exist. To thrive.

*

The storm doesn’t let up. Part of Geralt is telling him to leave anyway, insistent that to stay here warm and comfortable is just going to make leaving in the end harder. He overrides it with the knowledge that he’s not fully healed yet, and the storm is still raging. He can ride out the storm here. Smarter than going back out to get drowned again.

Jaskier, eventually, pulls an instrument out of the pile and begins plucking at it. It’s a lute, Geralt knows that much. How it survived getting to Jaskier’s island, Geralt doesn’t know. It’s a beautiful thing, with gold inlays across the face. Geralt’s medallion, the only thing he’s still wearing, tingles on his chest.

“Can I see that?” he asks.

Jaskier hands it over with a bright smile. “Do you play?” he asks. “I love music, but nobody’s ever— I never got the change to learn. I’m trying to figure out how to tune it.”

“I don’t,” Geralt says absently, looking at the instrument. “Where did you get this?”

“It washed ashore,” Jaskier says. “I didn’t see the wreck it came from; I was sick. Did you know that if you let fish sit in the summer, it rots?”

“This is elf-made,” Geralt says. “Enchanted.”

Jaskier grins. “That explains why it survived when everything else didn’t.” He takes the lute back, caresses it. “My darling girl,” he says. He starts to play again, a nothing sort of plucking as he tweaks at the pins.

“Half a turn tighter,” Geralt offers.

Jaskier obliges, and plucks the string again. It’s in tune now. The selkie gives a delighted gasp. “Can you help me with the others?” he begs.

It’s not as if Geralt has anything better to do.

They spend the evening that way, Geralt helping Jaskier tune the lute and then, under duress, humming a song for Jaskier to try to recreate on the lute. It’s pleasant, actually. Geralt’s more content than he’s been in a long time.

*

The storm lets up three days later, by which point all of Geralt’s things have dried, he’s healed, and if he never eats salmon again it’ll be too fucking soon.

Jaskier offers to lead him to the mainland. Geralt tries to dissuade him, but he’s a persistent bastard, and Geralt’s grown fond enough of him over the past few days that he doesn’t argue too hard. Jaskier’s right, after all. It’s a long swim, and he doesn’t know where he’s going.

Watching Jaskier slip into his seal form is fascinating. He stands at the edge of the water, wearing it like a cloak, and then he pulls it up over his head and it’s like it melts onto him, drawing in on his arms and legs, dragging Jaskier down until he rests on the shore, fully seal except for his eyes, which are a little too human.

He barks, and then he’s in the water. He splashes a little, waiting for Geralt, who makes his way in after him, much more slowly.

It’s a long, miserable swim. His armor is waterlogged, he’s not quite as healed as he thought, and swords are fucking heavy to swim with. If Jaskier weren’t with him, guiding him on, stopping sometimes and providing something for Geralt to rest against and breathe, Geralt probably wouldn’t make it, even on a sunny day with no strong currents.

But make it they do, near sundown. Watching Jaskier return to his human form is as fascinating as the other direction, and beautiful, in a way.

“Well,” Geralt says. He shifts back and forth. How do you say goodbye in a situation like this? There’s no ‘see you around.’ Geralt probably won’t be back here, ever.

“I suppose this is it, then,” Jaskier says, casting a look back at the beach. “I know— I know you’re busy, but do you suppose…” He stops.

Geralt squints at him. He’s gotten the idea that Jaskier isn’t just lonely, over the past few days. Jaskier wants to understand humanity. Is curious about the world.

Geralt is going to regret this. A huge part of him is explaining, in great detail, all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Still, his mouth opens and he says, “Do you want to travel with me for a little while?”

*

Jaskier has a million questions about mainland life. Geralt should’ve expected this, but it’s still exhausting. He answers them anyway, the ones he knows the answers to. ‘What’s butter? Why do humans drink cow’s milk when they make their own milk? Really? But that seems like plenty of time! Jaskier’s younger sister only breastfed for three weeks before his mother dried up. What’s so strange about drinking another human’s milk? It seems less odd than drinking another animal’s milk altogether.’ And so on and so forth, endless curiosity for the way humans do things.

Geralt keeps expecting him to leave, once he’s gotten enough of his questions answered. Jaskier makes friends easily. People seem, strangely enough, enamored of him, slightly off as his behavior might be. It’s because he’s so sincere in all of it. And because he falls truly and genuinely in love with everyone. Geralt has had to defend him, more than once, from an angry spouse.

“Have you considered,” he asks once, dragging Jaskier away from an angry blacksmith, “asking if they’re in a relationship before you kiss them?”

“She kissed me!” Jaskier defends himself. “I don’t know why everyone gets mad at me when their partners are the ones who’re breaking faith!” He crosses his arms over his chest, giving up completely on stumbling along with Geralt and letting himself be dragged. “I don’t see why everyone cares so much, anyway. It’s not as if my loving them has any bearing on how much they can love someone else.”

How can Geralt explain this? The easiest way, the one Jaskier would understand, is possession. You take the selkie’s coat and bind them to you (Jaskier’s coat sits bundled in Roach’s saddlebags, but Geralt isn’t hiding it. He just got tired of picking it up when Jaskier left it somewhere dangerous). You promise your troth to someone and if they kiss someone else, that person’s stealing your things.

But that’s not what it is, not entirely. And Jaskier is so in love with humanity, even still, even after all the horrible things he’s seen in their time together, that Geralt can’t try to convince him lovers are another kind of ugliness.

“It’s about promises,” Geralt says instead. “If they promised themselves to someone else, being with you is breaking that promise.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. He starts walking again, and Geralt lets go of his doublet. They’re far enough from the blacksmith that it should be safe. “Am I breaking my promise to you, then?”

“What?” Geralt asks, startled.

“I said I’d come with you,” Jaskier says. “Is kissing other people breaking that promise?”

There are several parts of this that Geralt could respond to. He’s not sure which one comes first. “You’re fine,” is what he says instead, and lets that be the end of it.

*

Jaskier isn’t content to let the conversation end there, though. All his questions over the next few days become about promises, about breaking faith. About relationships.

“Does it upset you that I kiss people?” he asks, one day.

“Only when they have angry spouses,” Geralt says.

Another day: “Why do humans promise themselves to only one person?”

Geralt has no good answer to this. “They like stability,” he offers. “Knowing they can depend on someone.”

Later: “What do they promise? Because I promised myself to you, but we don’t kiss at all, and I’m rather starting to think maybe there are different sorts of promises.”

“I don’t own you, Jaskier,” Geralt says tiredly.

“Not what I asked,” Jaskier says. He’s strumming the impossible elven lute, the one that should’ve been destroyed by the sea. He’s getting much better at playing it, purely from watching other people. He’d make a good bard, in another life.

“They promise to be partners,” Geralt says. “To protect each other, and to stay with each other, and to help each other with everything. To love one another.”

“So like what I promised you, then,” Jaskier says. This seems to satisfy him, and he plays with the lute more. Then, far enough later that Geralt had gotten comfortable in thinking that the conversation was over, “Why don’t we kiss, then?”

Geralt, who had been taking a sip from his waterskin, chokes.

Jaskier reaches up to where Geralt sits on Roach and pats him absently on the back as he continues, “Is it because I kiss other people? I can stop, if you want.”

“I— you don’t have to kiss me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stops, squints at Geralt. “Do you not want to kiss me? Are you not attracted to men? I’ve noticed a lot of humans seem to have a preference.”

“That’s not it,” Geralt says.

“Why don’t we kiss, then?” Jaskier asks again.

“You don’t owe me that,” Geralt says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know I don’t owe you anything,” Jaskier says, and he sounds annoyed, now. “But you said it was about partnership.”

“We’re not married, Jaskier.”

“I don’t know what that means!” Jaskier throws his hands up in the air. “I’ve been trying so hard to understand it, and I know you’re trying, but it doesn’t make any sense. You said people don’t like it when the person they’re promised to kisses someone else. But you don’t mind when I kiss someone else. You said people who are promised to each other are partners and love each other and take care of each other, and we do all that! But you said they kiss each other, too, and have sex, and we certainly don’t do that!”

Geralt is going to die. “It’s different!”

“How?”

“You’re not in love with me.”

“Says who?”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier grabs Geralt’s wrist and tugs at it until Geralt makes eye contact with him. “Geralt. Who told you I’m not in love with you?”

“Nobody!”

“Then how do you know?”

“I know.”

Jaskier tugs harder. He’s nearly unseating Geralt from Roach. “How?”

“I’m the first person you really talked to in over a decade!”

“So what?” Jaskier demands, baring those too-sharp teeth. “I can’t know how I feel? I’m the poor orphaned selkie who doesn’t know enough to tell whether he’s friends with someone or more than that?” He scoffs, and lets go of Geralt’s wrist. “I’m not a child. And I’m not stupid.”

Roach decides to start walking forward again. Geralt lets her. Jaskier follows along, but he’s not speaking or playing the lute. Geralt normally appreciates the silence when he can have it, but not now. Not when Jaskier’s furious with him.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” he says at last.

Jaskier scoffs again.

“You fall in love with everyone,” Geralt tries.

“Including you!” Jaskier points out. It’s the angriest love confession Geralt’s ever heard.

“That’s not—” Geralt cuts himself off. “You’re not really in love with me.”

“You wouldn’t know, because you’ve never asked!”

Geralt doesn’t answer this one. Jaskier chucks a rock at him. It bounces off his armor.

It is a long, uncomfortable day.

*

“Why don’t you want me to be in love with you?” Jaskier asks this once it’s fallen dark. He’s under his sealskin, for once all the way across camp from Geralt, away from the fire. He hasn’t spoken in hours, and Geralt’s miserable.

Geralt doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“Is it because you think you don’t deserve it?” Jaskier continues. “I know you think a lot of terrible things about yourself. None of them are true. Well, except that you’re an ass. You are that, and I’m furious with you. But the rest of it is lies.”

“You’ll fall in love with someone else,” Geralt says. “Someone better.”

“Sure,” Jaskier says, easy as ever. “But it won’t make me stop loving you.”

“You should fall in love with someone else,” Geralt tries again.

“I have. I always left with you, in the end.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. His head hurts.

“I gave you my coat, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I gave it to you over and over, and you kept giving it back. Who else would do that? Who else could I trust with it? To keep it safe, and give it back when I need it?”

“There’ll be someone,” Geralt says, because there will. Someone who will see Jaskier for all he is and be able to appreciate it properly, give him all he needs. A house and a family and a place to come home to after he’s done adventuring. Someone who will not drag him inland, far from the sea.

Jaskier laughs. There’s no humor in it. “Half the women in my colony disappeared before the sirens showed up,” he says. “Some of the men, too. Not all at once. They fell in love with fishermen, and they gave up their coats, believing the one they loved would give it back, if they asked. Wanting to be what was asked of them, believing nobody could be cruel enough to keep them from ever coming home again. None of them ever returned. I wanted you to keep my coat so badly, Geralt. Wanted to be tied to you. Why won’t you tie me to you?”

“I don’t want the kind of love that needs to be trapped,” Geralt says.

“And I’m not trapped,” Jaskier says. He’s rolled over across camp, and the firelight is dancing in his eyes. “You let me go, and take me back. Please let me stay, too.”

Geralt can’t give him an answer.

*

Jaskier stops sleeping with other people. Every time he starts to flirt with someone, he stops partway through, glares pointedly at Geralt, and moves away from the person. He composes his first original song, and it’s maddeningly catchy. He plays it, over and over again, until Geralt wants to rip the lute out of his hands and smash it.

He keeps leaving his coat in Geralt’s saddlebags.

Geralt tries to get him to stop. Gets him his own pack. Jaskier fills the pack with brightly colored, expensive clothes, and books of sheet music. Geralt puts the coat in the pack. Jaskier, sometime when Geralt isn’t paying attention, puts it back in the saddlebags.

It would be easier if Jaskier weren’t so loveable. If Geralt didn’t want to let himself have this so much. But Jaskier deserves better, and Geralt is a patient man.

He hadn’t thought Jaskier was patient, the way he jumps on every new experience, with his exuberance. Geralt had forgotten that he spent over a decade alone on an island, teaching himself to survive.

When Geralt gives in, it’s not a big moment. Not a shouting match. They’ve been tensely not-arguing for nearly a month now, and it almost feels normal again, except for the weight of knowing what Jaskier wants tugging constantly at Geralt.

Tonight, Jaskier is playing that stupid fishmonger song again, but not singing. Just strumming away while he talks to Roach, and it hits Geralt that he’d do anything to make Jaskier happy. He’d walk the path for another hundred years, just so Jaskier could see everything he wants to about the world. He’d pick up Jaskier’s dropped coat a thousand times to keep it safe. He’d answer every question.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine.”

“Hm?” Jaskier says, not looking up. “What’s the big mean man want now, Roach my girl? Tired of the song, you think?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “I’m saying yes.”

Jaskier turns, looks at Geralt. There’s something like hope in his eyes. “Yes?” he repeats.

“Yes,” Geralt says, and this conversation is getting nowhere, so he joins Jaskier in front of Roach, reaches into the saddle bag and pulls out Jaskier’s coat. “Yes, I’ll keep you.”

Jaskier stares.

Geralt shuffles his feet. This was supposed to be a declaration, but Jaskier isn’t— he doesn’t know where to go from here. “If you still want me,” he adds.

And then Jaskier’s arms are around him, and there’s a warm mouth pressed against his. “If I still—” Jaskier cuts himself off, nips Geralt’s lip with his too-sharp teeth. “Of course I fucking want you, you bastard.”

Geralt lets himself kiss back.

[nothinghcppens]

bad liar - pietro maximoff

masterlist

pair: pietro maximoff x female!reader

summary: y/n is the new addition to the avengers, she was introduced to tony stark by nick fury who had heard of her special abilities after she was seen saving a building of people from an attack. when she gets introduced to the team she is taken in immediately, but others seem to not be as keen to get to know her.

warnings: swearing, mentions of trauma

“right, y/n.” tony stark said to you as he led you up the stairs of the avengers tower, “there’s going to be a lot of people here, it might be overwhelming. try not to freak out.”

“i promise you i’ll be fine, it’s them i’m worried about. have you told them what’s wrong with me?” you replied, following behind him. he stopped outside a large foggy glass door.

“there’s nothing wrong with you. these guys are the freaks.” he joked with a slight grin. you rolled your eyes and shook your head. the bearded man, who you had already began to enjoy the company of, placed his hand on your shoulder. “come on kid, let’s make a good first impression.” he pushed open the door and walked in, you stepping in behind him.

the room went silent as the large group of people looked at you. they were sat on the two sofas, a few on the floor. you immediately recognised a few of them, steve rogers and natasha romanoff stood out amongst the crowd, you saw them on the news all the time.

“okay losers, meet y/n y/l/n. she’s our new recruit.” he announced as he clapped his hands together. they all stood up and approached you, you’re eyes widening. you’re eyes scanned the group, now seeing clint barton and sam wilson. standing at the back of the group were a brunette girl and a blonde boy and floating slightly to the left was a red man with a mysterious glowing gem in his head.

“you probably already know steve, natasha, clint and sam.” tony said, gesturing towards them.

“yep, you’re pretty famous round these parts.” you explained, causing laughter from each of them.

“nice to meet you, y/n.” steve greeted, putting out his hand for you to shake.

you glanced at tony before taking his hand and shaking it lightly. “very... formal.” you noted with a grin.

“he’s very traditional.” tony commented, his smile copying yours.

“who’s the red dude?” you asked. the group let out a collective chuckle.

“vision, but the red dude works too.” he said, lowering himself to the ground.

“at the back we have the twins. come on you two, introduce yourselves.” tony called. the two pushed their way to the front, the girl with a smile on her face.

“i’m wanda, very excited to be working with you.” she said. you smiled and looked to the scowling boy next to wanda.

“pietro.” he stated. he was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a tight fitting t-shirt that accentuated his arms and chest. he was very attractive.

“well, can’t please everyone.” you commented, noting his cold demeanour.

they all eventually made their way to the couches again, everyone wanting to get to know you. tony had gave you a coffee and you sat on the carpet with your back against the sofa. wanda and nat joined you on the floor and the rest sat on the leather sofas.

“so, y/n.” nat started, glancing around at the team. “what’s your special talent?”

“i thought you told them?!” you exclaimed at tony.

“i didn’t say that!” he replied, chuckling. you groaned and stood up, ready to showcase your “special talent”.

“i need a volunteer.” you announced with a smirk, “or multiple.” confused looks were shared between the team. “fine. i’ll choose. wanda, steve and mr grumpy over there.” you said, pointing at pietro. he seemed to clearly not like you, so why not annoy him a little.

the three of them stood up and you led them to a clear space in the room. “who wants to go first?” you asked. tony leant back on the char as steve stepped forward, ready for the show. “go on then captain, give me your best shot.” you teased, throwing your arms up in a fighting stance.

a smile grew on his face and he went to throw a punch with his ‘super solider strength’ but you caught his arm and spun him around, pulling his arm behind him. you felt his strength flow through you as you ‘copied’ his powers. your knee flew up and hit his back, causing him to grunt and fall to the floor.

“okay so what? you can fight, there’s plenty of people like that here.” pietro commented with a scoff. his sokovian accent was thick but his english was fantastic.

“fine then, speedy. your turn.” you stated and steve stood up and laughed. “sorry captain, someone had to go first.” he retreated back to the group, taking his seat again. you took a step to the side, now standing in front of pietro who was glaring you down. you beckoned him with your hands and he cracked his neck before starting in a run towards you. you focused your mind on him and you mimicked his powers, running away at his pace. you ended up behind him and he stopped, confused. he turned around and you saw his eyebrows furrow. he ran towards you again but you sped towards him and grabbed his wrist from behind him, preventing him from moving any further.

“what the fuck?” he cursed, looking at you with anger in his eyes.

“aw what? mad that you aren’t the only fast one anymore?” you taunted, a dramatic pout on your face. he scoffed and ripped his hand from your grip, stomping back to the team. “i don’t think he likes me very much.” you could see tony’s amused face from where he sat, he sent you a wink and you turned to face wanda who was buzzing with excitement.

“is he always like that?” you asked, gesturing towards the blonde boy.

“only when he feels intimidated.” she replied, her accent similar to her brother’s.

“you ready?” you questioned.

“always.” she said, her hands glowing red.

you concentrated on her, absorbing her abilities. your hands began to glow the same red as hers and you flicked your hand towards her, lifting her from the floor. she retaliated by thrusting her hand at you, causing you to be thrown against the wall. you pushed yourself up and tossed her across the room where she landed at the team.

“ta-dah!” you said with a dramatic curtsy.

“copying people’s abilities. i like you kid.” sam announced, standing up and helping wanda get to her feet. he walked over to you and clapped his hand on your shoulder, “i think this calls for a celebration. after y/n gets settled in, let’s crack open the drinks!” everyone cheered in agreement.

“we’ll take you to your room.” nat explained with wanda at her side. you were shown to your room where all your belongings had been brought up.

your two new friends helped you choose an outfit for the night and sat with you while you got ready.

“don’t you two need to get ready?” you asked as you applied a thin layer of lip gloss.

“we don’t need to rush, steve and pietro take longer than everyone combined to get ready.” nat replied with a laugh.

———

the bar area of the tower was lit dimly and was filled with people you had never seen before along with your new team members. music played softly over the chatter of people around the room. you were wearing a black slip dress and heels, getting dressed up wasn’t something you got to do enough. you spot steve, sam and pietro at the bar, fixing your dress you made your way over to them.

“good evening boys.” you greeted, sliding in beside steve. he was wearing a blue button up shirt, sam a white shirt and black suit jacket and pietro was wearing a black shirt a few buttons undone, tucked into black trousers. his platinum blonde hair and bright blue eyes stood out against his dark attire. if he wasn’t such a moody brat, you’d maybe appreciate how attractive he was.

“hello, y/n.” sam said with a large smile.

“you look lovely, y/n.” steve complimented.

“thank you cap, shame you’re just a few hundred years too old for me.” you joked, placing your hand on his shoulder. the two let out a laugh and you looked at pietro, his eyes trained on you.

“hey grumpy, enjoying your night?” you asked with your eyebrows raised.

he rolled his eyes, “i was.”

you let out a gasp of shock, placing your hand on your chest. “i’m not entirely sure what i did to piss you off so much, pietro, but can’t you just reign it in for one night? i mean this is my night after all.”

he huffed in response. “is it because i embarrassed you earlier?” you taunted.

“no it’s because i don’t trust you.” he spat.

“ding ding ding! there it is!” you exclaimed. sam cleared his throat, signalling to steve that they should probably leave.

“we’ll go get you a drink kid, don’t go too hard on him.” he said, walking away. steve followed behind him.

“so, why don’t you trust me?” you questioned, leaning against the bar.

“i don’t trust many people.” he explained, taking a sip from his drink. he sat it on the bar before looking back at you.

“what about all them?” you asked, gesturing to the room. you took his glass in your hand and took a sip, seeing his looks of protest. “what? i don’t think they’re actually getting me a drink, they’re just not wanting to stand they’re awkwardly.”

“they saved my life.” he replied.

“so for you to trust me i need to save your life?” you said, turning to face him.

“yup.” he stated, popping the ‘p’. he took his glass back from your hand.

“oh come on.” you groaned, “there’s nothing else i can do? i mean we’re even matching outfits tonight! i think that means we are immediately friends.”

he looked between the two of you, his eyes glancing up and down your body. “he so we are.” he chuckled.

“see! you’re already warming up to me.” you teased, taking his glass again and gulping down the drink.

“you wish.” he replied. you scoffed and gave him the glass back.

“so, what’s sokovia like?” you asked, trying to get to know the mysterious man.

“well now, nonexistent. but from what i remember it was... home. i mean, i only got to experience it for a short amount of time before hydra took us.” he explained.

you sighed, “i heard about that. that sucks. well if it makes you feel any better after my parents found out about my abilities, they locked me up and stopped me from leaving so i couldn’t hurt anyone.”

“really?” he questioned.

“yup.” you replied, mocking the same way he answered earlier. “wow look at us, trauma-bonding. i’m telling you, warming up to me!” you said in a sing-song voice.

“oh shut up.” he laughed.

“is that a laugh i hear brother?” wanda called as she approached them, followed by other members of the team.

“wow kid, you really know how to get people to like you.” tony said.

“i can’t help it. i’m just so charming.” you replied.

the team stayed with you for a long time, everyone talking and laughing. an hour or so passed and everyone had made their way to the couches they found themselves on not long ago. this time you were sat on the couch instead of the floor, the cool leather against your legs. you were sat in the middle of sam and pietro, enjoying watching the team tell stories of their battles. they eventually made their way to the topic of the battle of sokovia that they hid recently been through. you felt pietro tense next to you- he clearly didn’t enjoy hearing about his near-death experience.

“hey, do you want to get some fresh air?” you whispered into his ear. he nodded slightly and you stood up, reaching your hand out for him to grab. you helped him to his feet and announced that you were going to get drinks.

you led him out of the warm room and up to your room which was equipped with a balcony. you pushed open the glass doors and felt the cold, fresh air fill your lungs.

“much better.” you stated, leaning on the railing. “are you okay?” you asked, feeling pietro’s presence behind you.

“i am now. i’m just not ready to talk about it yet.” he explained, “thank you.” he muttered.

“what was that?” you queried, looking over your shoulder at him.

“nothing.” he replied.

“no. i heard a thank you!” you declared.

“nope. you did not!” he exclaimed, his eyes filled with mischief.

“you’re a bad liar.”

———

since the night of the party, you and pietro have been inseparable. you guys train together, eat meals together and you introduced him to all your favourite films. the rest of the team were sick of seeing you guys with each other. no one could get a minute alone with either of you.

“i can’t believe you hated me when i first arrived.” you said, throwing a piece of popcorn at his hair. you two had been watching the maze runner films, as per your request, and were midway through the scorch trials.

“seriously? it’s been 6 months and you’re still not letting that go?” he joked, throwing it back at you.

“nope. you hated me. just because i ran faster than you.” you bit, a sly grin growing on your face.

“you did not! how dare you y/n!” he growled.

“i did! but since you’re too proud to admit it, let’s try again.” you suggested. he raised his eyebrows.

“are you sure you want to test me, princessa?” he questioned, his nickname for you that had become a recent thing. you absolutely adored it when he spoke sokovian. you adored many things about him, his cheeky comebacks, his sarcastic humour, his laugh, his eyes, okay so a lot of things. you had been pushing down any possible feelings towards him, there was no way he felt the same for you.

“oh i do.” you replied, placing the bowl of popcorn on the table, pausing the film and standing up. he followed suit and walked closely behind you as you led him outside.

“what’re you two up to?” cap asked when you walked past him.

“proving to him that i’m faster.” you answered.

“my money’s on y/n!” clint shouted from the floor above.

“same!” chorused nat, sam and tony.

“wanda?” pietro asked.

“same!” she said, peering over the railing. you let out a large laugh as you saw his shocked expression.

you walked out to the courtyard, the sun beating down on your face. pietro stopped very close behind you, his breath hot on your neck.

“you ready?” he mumbled into your ear. his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

you cleared your throat, “yup.” taking a deep breath you turned around to face him. he was a lot closer than you thought. his blue eyes seemed even more beautiful in the sun. you took his wrist in your hand and felt power flow through you. there are many ways that you could copy people’s powers, most of the time when they are in front of you and are about to use their powers on you, you can just imitate their abilities. but you could also touch them and copy them that way.

“to the bench?” you asked, letting go of him.

“sounds good.” he replied, taking his place next to you,

steve and sam were stood at the door, watching intently at the interaction.

“count us down steve?” you called over your shoulder.

“3...2...” he began.

“you know piet,” you said, looking at him,.

“1!” steve shouted.

“you have really beautiful eyes.” you added as you broke into a fast sprint, blue light trails following behind you. you heard his startled gasp before he ran after you. your plan to distract him had clearly worked and you got a head start. you stopped at the bench and plopped yourself down, a second before pietro.

“you cheated!” he complained.

“no, i played smart.” you protested. you stood up to walk away for dramatic effect but pietro appeared in front of you with a gush of wind.

“no. you cheated.” he said, taking a step closer.

“i didn’t.” you replied, “steve! sure i didn’t cheat?”

“don’t bring me into this kid!” he called back, him and sam leaving you guys alone.

“see, even cap thinks you cheated.” pietro stated.

“i can’t help that you got distracted by my charm.” you teased.

he groaned and suddenly bent down and scooped you up, over his shoulder. “pietro maximoff put me down!” you squealed, hitting your hands off his back. he ignored your protests and ran around, whistling a faint tune.

“piet please!” you begged, laughter straining your voice. he stopped and threw you off his shoulder but before you landed on the ground you grabbed his t-shirt and pulled him down with you. you landed on the grass with a thud and a wheeze as he landed on top of you. he went limp and let all of his weight lie on you.

“get off me!” you shouted, laughing heavily.

“i’m quite comfortable actually.” he said. his voice was muffled from his head being nestled in the crook of your neck. his breath tickled your neck. you brought your hands up and placed them in his hair, tugging him up so he could look at you.

“piet i’m going to kill you. get. up.” you growled. his signature smirk grew on his face, clearly trying to annoy you. your eyes fell to his lips but you blinked quickly and met his eyes. his smile grew even wider, he noticed your glance.

“looks like you’re going to have to kill me. i’m not moving.” he replied.

“god i hate you.” you sighed, rolling your eyes.

“no you don’t.” you said, pushing himself up on his arms so he was now hovering above you.

“yes i do.” you protested, folding your arms across your chest.

“i really don’t think you do.” he replied, lowering himself closer to you slightly.

you forced a frown on to your face and glared up at him, “fuck off.” you muttered.

he gasped, “fuck off? that’s not very nice.”

“you’re not very nice.” you retaliated.

“ouch.” he said, the smile still present on his face.

“can you get up now?” you asked.

“fine.” he replied, getting up and taking your hand. he pulled you up harshly and you crashed into his chest.

“you are pushing my limits today maximoff.” you said, pushing yourself free from his grip. but it’s never that easy with pietro, he grabbed your wrist. “what the fuck is wrong with-“

he stopped you from finishing your sentence by pulling you in and pressing his lips against yours. you immediately melted at his touch. his hands moved to your waist and yours moved round the back of his neck, into his hair. he pulled you closer, you felt his rough stubble brush against your face. you both pulled back, breathing deeply.

“still hate me?” he whispered.

“yup.” you breathed. you let out a laugh.

“now you’re the bad liar.” he said.

“tony! i’ll take that $20!” you heard sam shout. you both looked up to see him standing on a balcony.

“he made the first move? really?!” tony replied. he jogged out next to sam.

“proud of you speedy!” sam called.

“you better watch it bird man, i can be up there and you’ll be over the edge faster than you can blink!”

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch.10

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9

The day shift gives you ample time and opportunities to walk around the castle. Within a week, you come to know every chamber and pathway you hadn’t previously crossed, intimately.

At first, you pictured making your escape through a weak point in its fortification. The walls are ancient; You would have bet money on one of its parts having given out in the passing of centuries and gone unnoticed. Now, you know such a thing doesn’t exist. It doesn’t really surprise you that Alcina has made sure the exterior is in the same excellent condition as the interior.

But it is a problem.

The walls are too big for you to scale. If there are any stepping points, you can’t see them from within. You tried over and over to at least peak out into the back yard, but the shrieks and growls of monsters had you immediately changing course.

You don’t know what those things are and you’re not eager to find out. According to the older maids, there are more of them deep in the dungeons. It is only a rumor, of course, since nobody has ventured down there and returned to tell the tale.

Which, taking the window bars into account… leaves only one way out.

The front door.

You are aware that Lady Dimitrescu and the daughters all have a key on them. You know from Cassandra those are the only copies. Nothing enters or leaves unless one of them allows it.

There is not a snowflake’s chance in hell you’re getting Alcina’s key. She will murder you on sight. Bela won’t do anything to disappoint her mother, so that rules her out, as well. Daniela is the one most likely to misplace it or be persuaded to give it to you, but the girl is as unpredictable as she is sly and you won’t risk your wellbeing for a distant chance.

That means…

Cassandra is the only way out, isn’t she…

-

-

You lay low and await an afternoon where the cold is downright bone-piercing. As warm as the castle is, with fireplaces burning everywhere, you can still feel the stinging kiss of the outside frost every time you so much as go near a window.

And it all comes full circle right back to the start; You in front of Cassandra’s bedroom door, trembling with anxiety like the very first time. It is oddly fitting, in a way, that the story of the two of you ends where it began.

For a moment, you almost marvel at how long ago it feels, now. But there is no time nor space in your heart for sentimentality anymore. You stand at the point of no return.

And you cross it as soon as you turn the handle.

Cassandra’s bedroom is softly illuminated by the dying embers of the fireplace. You walk forward cautiously, slowly, almost as if you’re expecting a landmine to go off at a single misstep. Except –well. A mine would be far more merciful. Just an explosion and then nothing. If Cassandra wakes…

You try not to think about it, lest your muscles lock in place.

Underneath the heavy covers of the bed, you see her, cocooned, pale fingers clutching tight at the blankets. It is too early for her to wake. She is deeply asleep, you tell yourself, simultaneously praying she doesn’t open her eyes.

You make it to her vanity, soundless. Her amber-jeweled choker and the necklace she and her sisters wear are neatly arranged, yet the key you’re looking for isn’t with them.

Shit. You inwardly curse, your hand shaking from the nerves. It means she’s put it in the drawer of her bedside table. It means you have to go next to her, to literally put your fingers in the sleeping wolf’s parted jaws and hope they don’t clamp down.

Easy, right?

An unsteady exhale later, you move further in and carefully kneel by the small furniture. Keep your eyes on the prize. Keep—

But you make the mistake of looking to the side.

Cassandra’s expression is not relaxed in sleep like how you remember it from the time when you would wake her up. Instead, her brow is furrowed, the line of her mouth pressed thin. She’s shivering, you realize, either from the cold or a nightmare or both. Shadows dance across her beautiful face.

Your first instinct is still to reach over and soothe her. You hate it, but you’ve accepted you won’t be over whatever it is you feel for her in quite some time.

It is not your place anymore to touch her, you remind yourself. You cannot ease her through her fears now that she has become your own.

With a clenched jaw, you force your body through the motions of opening the drawer and taking the key within.

At last. Your freedom is in your grasp.

And yet.

Shouldn’t you be happier about it?

Cassandra’s voice nearly knocks the air out of your lungs when it reaches your ears, faint. “No… please…”

You forget how to breathe for a couple of seconds. When your wide eyes shift to her, though, you realize she’s merely talking in her sleep.

Leave. Leave while you can.

But your chest constricts when you hear her sob. “…don’t leave me here… please…”

And out of all the possible things she could say, she utters those words and smashes your glass heart with a sledgehammer into a trillion pieces. The shards cut into you and it hurts—

You pause at the door. The corners of your vision have started to blur.

And then the world snaps, sharply, back into focus when her tone changes;

“…Alexia…?”

Your eyes lock, hazel to amber-grey, for a split second.

You run.

-

-

You don’t think you have ever ran this fast in your entire life. But it’s different now that it is about your life.

Adrenaline rushes throughout your bloodstream. You’re not thinking, just acting. Just fleeing.

Death, in the form of a black swarm, closes in on you with every rapid heartbeat. Cassandra is faster –she can fly and you’re only human—and at this rate you won’t even escape the corridor, much less the castle.

Flies break ahead of the rest and attach themselves to you. The sting of their bite at your nape and arms nearly has you howling in agony. She meant it when she said she would kill you herself. Not that you doubted it. Not for a second.

Because if Cassandra can’t have you, she will make sure nobody will.

You didn’t want to hurt her back the first time, but the stakes are too high now. You grab the nearest solid antiquity in your panic and throw it with all your might against the nearest window.

Glass shatters and the temperature plummets with it. Over your shoulder, you hear her scream. More out of rage than pain.

The flies biting at you drop to the floor, grey and paralyzed. You hear her shout pierce through your eardrums like a gunshot as you dash towards the turn—

“You won’t ever get to that door, Alexia!”

From the corner of your eye, you notice a blur coming towards you and instinctively drop down. A heavy thump later, your frantic eyes fly to the wall to see her sickle embedded halfway through a painting. If you hadn’t reacted in time, that would have been you.

Still, she can’t cross the hallway now, so you scramble to your feet and run while she takes the long way around. Question is, will you make it to the front door before she does?

It becomes a race where the winner takes all.

You practically jump down entire sets of stairs in your struggle for survival and you have no clue how you do it. You just know you can’t slow down for even a second.

The castle feels ten times as large as it actually is. By the time you descend the last staircase and the sound of buzzing insects grows in volume, the entrance is within sight.

You reach for another decoration and smash another window. Cassandra slows down, forced to materialize out of the swarm before she can’t will her body back together at all.

You shove the key into the lock and turn it.

Cassandra fights through the rush of frozen air, taking step after weighted step towards you—

“I won’t…let you leave here…alive.” she hisses, her teeth bared at you, skin growing too pale yet eyes blazing.

“I’m done being your prisoner.” you say back, voice hoarse and raw…

And you open the door. Steps taken backwards carry you away from her faster than she can make it to you. You can see her pain and her frustration, but they cannot compare to your own.

Your wounds ache from the frost.

Cassandra seems just about ready to leap at you even if it will certainly mean something very bad for her—

Until a black blur shoves her a dozen meters back. Bela’s back stands between you and Cassandra’s cracking form. Daniela soon lands off to the side, looking between the two of them.

“Get out of the way, Bela!” Cassandra snaps.

“It’s over.” Bela replies, a grave finality to her voice.

Your breaths are coming out in harsh puffs of smoke. You still have trouble believing that you did it. That they can’t follow anymore. You did it.

“Nothing’s over!” Cassandra snarls and lunges for her elder sister.

The blonde, deadly calm, grabs her by the neck in a choke-hold and drags her closer to the nearly-extinguished warmth of the fireplace. The way Cassandra thrashes in her arms is downright heartbreaking.

Daniela looks at you, almost saddened, then back at her sisters.

“Shh. Calm down, Cassandra. Let go. Mother will be here soon. Don’t let her see you like this.” Bela says. “If you’ve any parting words to say to Alexia, say them now.”

You’re shivering. The cold nips through every layer of clothes you’re wearing to bite straight at your flushed skin. But you don’t move further away. You wait. Why am I even waiting, though?

Realization slowly sinks in, you can tell from Cassandra’s expression. Beyond the wounded pride of the apex predator losing a fight to a rabbit… she understands that she will never see you again.

Bela releases her and steps away, adjacent to Daniela.

“You’ve earned your freedom, Alexia.” Bela speaks under her hood. “Nobody’s ever managed to escape, before. Respect.” In another life, maybe her and you could have been friends. Maybe.

“So you’re really… leaving?” Daniela’s lower lip is slightly jutted into a little pout. “I… who will I use to get on Cassandra’s nerves, now?”

“I’d say it’s been nice, but.” you speak up between pants, birthing forth puffs of smoke. “I was taken from my home and sent here as a slave, so.” You can’t help the bitter grimace.

Cassandra’s chest is heaving, yet she isn’t looking at you. It doesn’t look like she has anything to say to you, either. But you have words for her, because you need to get this out at last, you need to be free of this weight or you will never really have escaped this nightmare.

“Even as your captive, you know what I fucking thought? You three can be so beautiful when you toy with the idea of basic human empathy. I don’t know what you saw our time as, Cassandra, but I was genuinely attracted to you. I wanted to be together with you. At some point, I was even happy!”

You’ve inhaled so much icy air your lungs probably won’t be doing great for very much longer but God, this is so cathartic. And so enraging that she’s not meeting your eyes now, at the very end of it all.

“Look at me! I care for you, deeply, but I can’t do this anymore! I don’t want to live in a cage as a pretty sacrifice, with you as my jailer. I can’t. You don’t know how psychologically destructive it is. You don’t know what it feels like!” you end with a hitched shout.

You hear the ominous sound of heavy heels hurriedly descending the staircase. “By Miranda! What is going on— Cassandra?!”

All three daughters freeze up for a moment.

Then Daniela touches her head as though she’s having a migraine and Bela shuts her eyes tightly, shoulders tensed. And Cassandra… drops on her knees to the floor, gasping for oxygen, clutching at her temples.

Bela shakes her head to snap out of it. Daniela still looks dazed and afraid… but Cassandra is nearly crying—

And then, in her panic attack, she whispers; “Don’t abandon me like they did, Alexia.”

You don’t know who she means or what you’re doing, until you’ve dashed back inside and gathered her chilled form into your arms, tight. You keep her there like you wish someone had held you during your storms. It doesn’t matter that you’re so much weaker than Cassandra, when what haunts her is too powerful even for her to face.

Alcina extends her claws as she advances on you.

You could probably still get away if you make a run for it, but where will you even go, when your heart is right here with the woman in your arms? The world beyond the village died for you a long time ago. The village died in a literal sense.

You wanted to be free. But freedom and being with her aren’t mutually exclusive. Why did it take me this long to figure it out…?

Alcina is too close now. You turn to kiss Cassandra’s hair for what may be the last time. You do not let go.

Bela and Daniela step in front of you.

Alcina gives them a warning, narrowed look.

“Uh— you know what, I just stepped forward because I saw Bela move. Haha, nevermind.” The redhead retreats once more. Maybe you’d roll your eyes at her if you weren’t bracing for your execution.

“Bela… step aside.” Lady Dimitrescu’s tone leaves no room for disobedience.

The eldest daughter lowers her head and hesitantly opens the path, as well.

Alcina casts a deep shadow over you in her massive height and giant claws. You lock eyes with her briefly, with the last, flickering cinders of your courage. Then you shift your face down into Cassandra’s shoulder and prepare to be skewered through. Her fingers clutch you almost painfully close to her.

“As for you…” there’s a growl in Alcina’s voice that makes you cower in terror.

Except...

The horrible pain you expected takes a little too long to come.

“…you have backbone, little human, I will admit.” Is that… is that a smirk you hear in her tone? “And my daughters do seem to want you around…”

…What?

Cassandra slowly pulls away from you to look up at her in disbelief and you dare to open your eyes. The claws are still uncomfortably close to your face.

“I will take responsibility for the damage, mother. Just, please, let her stay with me.” Cassandra says.

“…Hm. Very well. I expect the windows repaired by dinner.” Alcina gracefully pivots and just like that, takes her leave.

You and the sisters are left there, unbreathing, unmoving, wondering what just happened.

“Too cold. See you at dinner.” Daniela is the first to speak up. She rapidly waves and disappears like she’s being hunted by an army.

Bela glances at you, then at her middle sister. “We need to talk. But later. For now, defrost.” She, too, disperses in a swarm of flies.

Cassandra, uncharacteristically vulnerable, looks into your eyes and brings a crystalline hand to your cheek. The soft way she does it, it may as well be the apology she is too proud to voice. You both lean towards each other, resting your foreheads together.

You have a lot to talk about. But there is time.

[neeksnorton]

I'm Ready, Mommy // Abner Krill x Reader

hi there! sorry for the delay on this story. some things came up. enjoy!!

NSFW TAGS : Femdom, multiple orgasms, pegging, mommy kink, teasing, oral sex (m receiving)

WORD COUNT : 2.4K

You walk in through the front door, exhausted from work. You kick your shoes off your feet and leave them in front of the door. You should probably put them on the mat where you and Abbie leave your shoes, but you decided against it. You were too tired; you can move the shoes later.

You toss your bag lazily on the couch, and take your blazer off. The white button up you have on is really pissing you off. You undo a couple of buttons, just to let yourself breathe a little. Sitting on the couch, you shut your eyes.

Fuck. This job was killing you. Ever since you got out of Belle Reve with Abner after the Corto Maltese situation, you got a full-time job at a tech company. It wasn’t physically demanding, but you had to use all of your brainpower at all hours of the day. And sometimes it was just a lot for you. You try your best to let your thoughts pass you like a cloud.

“Hmm, I wonder if he’s home,” you think to yourself. You couldn’t remember if today was his day off, or if it was tomorrow. He probably told you this morning, but you couldn’t remember.

Abner worked at a library part time, stacking books on the shelves. He loved it, he could escape into his own little world while doing so. Not to mention it was nice and quiet, Abner was never one for loud crowds or noises.

You hear a shuffle behind you. You peek through your eyes a little, but don’t react. He’s trying to scare you. You try to hold back a laugh. He always tries to do this with you. He’ll scare you and it ends in a play fight.

Fingers barely graze your shoulders, and you jump up and yell in Abbie’s face.

“RAHHHHH!” You scream. Abner nearly jumps out of his skin, letting out a very girly shriek.

You keel over with laughter. “Oh, fuck you.” he says while laughing. You got him so good. Normally it goes the other way.

Once you two calm down a little, he pulls you in by your waist and kisses you lightly. “How was work today?”

“Tiring,” you sigh. “It was just a lot.” you fiddle with the neckline on his t-shirt. “I just need to relieve some stress.”

“Well,” he whispers, craning down to kiss your neck lightly. “How can I help?”

This is not what you envisioned. You had the idea that you were gonna pull out your yoga mat and stretch a little. Or throw on the TV and watch Real Housewives reruns. But Abbie acting like this just made your pussy ache.

“Um…ahh-” You try to get a sentence out but it just doesn’t form. He starts kissing your collarbone, leaving a small trail of hickeys. All you wanted to do was force him onto the couch and have him under your complete control. You NEEDED this. You cradle his face in your hands and pull it back up to yours.

“Just do as I say, how does that sound?” you whisper in his ear. You feel the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“Good.” he whimpers against your skin.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You swipe your finger across his bottom lip, and he parts them. He was so ready for you already. He must have been eagerly waiting for you to get home. You kiss him gingerly, and slide your tongue into his mouth. You map out every inch of his mouth, even though you already knew it so well.

You move your hand off of his face and slide it under his t-shirt. Your fingers trace his happy trail, and you feel goosebumps rise up on his soft tummy. He lets a small whimper out into your mouth, and you feel your core tighten. As you move your hand up his torso, you feel the small amount of hair on his chest.

“Unhh- please…” Abbie moans. He grips your waist and digs his nails in.

You grab his hands and pull them off of you for just a moment. You lead him to the couch, and sit him down. You quickly scan his body, and your mouth almost waters. He's wearing a grey t-shirt with black jeans that show off his skinny legs and growing bulge. While sitting, his shirt is slightly lifted to show his happy trail. He’s wearing black nail polish, and his jet-black hair is slightly tousled. The sight of him like this nearly makes you cum on the spot. You wanted to take complete control of him until he couldn't take it anymore.

You stand over him on the couch. He’s breathing heavily, happily awaiting whatever you have in store for him.

You kiss his forehead, the tip of his nose, his jawline, and work your way down. He swallows hard. Your lips leave dark hickeys from his jaw down to his chest. He tries to grab the bottom of his shirt to take it off, but you swiftly grab his hands and pin them to his sides.

“No, I’m doing it.” You say sternly to him. He nods slowly.

You let his hands go for the moment, and you get to work at taking off his shirt. You pull up from the bottom and Abner lifts himself off the couch just enough to let you pull the shirt up and over his head. You kiss his chest, peppered with freckles. Then his tummy, past his navel, and right at the base of his pants. You stroke your finger across his bulge.

“Awww, you’re already so hard for me, baby.” You smile.

“Don’t tease me, Y/N, please-” He whimpers for you.

“Trust me I’m not teasing.”

You grab the sides of his pants, and he lifts his hips so you can slide them down to his ankles. He kicks off his shoes, and then his pants. Your hands roam around his hips, fiddling with the waistband of his underwear. You slide them off as well, and kiss every inch of exposed skin. His hip bones, the spots around the base of his cock. You move down and take his balls in your mouth, swirling your tongue around and sucking.

“Ohh- oh my god… oh my god please…” Abner’s lip quivered as he moaned, aching for the feeling of your warm wet mouth on his dick. And you give him EXACTLY what he wants.

You run the tip of your tongue up his shaft, and take the whole of his head in your mouth. He throws his head back and lets out a groan. You look up at him and let go of his dick, making a suction sound with your mouth.

“Unhh, do you like that baby?” You say in your most suggestive voice possible. You bite your lip and smile.

“Yes, oh my god yes. Mommy please keep going-” Your pussy clenches. You LOVED when he called you Mommy. He didn’t care about anything else but you at this moment.

“God, I love how you look when you beg, my pretty baby.”

Your lips return to his cock, and you run your tongue across his slit. He shudders. You continue to suck his dick, using your hand along with your mouth. He’s too big to take completely. You can tell he’s trying not to buck his hips into your mouth, to get all of him into you.

“Oh gosh- Mommy… Unhh- I’m so close-” You feel his cock pulse in your hand. As much as you enjoy swallowing his hot cum, you’d rather see him beg and squirm.

You stop abruptly. He snaps his eyes open and, with his mouth agape, gives you those huge puppy dog eyes you just adore.

“No- no no no, Mommy please-” He blabbers to you. You get off your knees and meet your face with his.

“Awww, does my poor baby wanna cum? Awww, that’s so cute.” You rub his cheek with your palm.

He writhes underneath you, his cock is aching for any sort of friction.

“I’ll be right back. You sit here and look pretty for me when I get back, okay?”

He nods, lip quivering. You run upstairs quickly, and open your top dresser drawer. You grab the strap-on tucked underneath your underwear. You and Abbie frequently took turns on who dommed and who subbed, so this wasn’t new behavior for the two of you. You put it on as quickly as you can, and come back downstairs.

You come back and walk behind the couch, touching his bare shoulders. He jumps a little, and looks up and sees you. His eyes light up and he smiles. As you walk around the couch and face him, your hand grazes his knee. Then up his thigh, over his hips, up his waist, then chest. You turn him onto the couch so that he’s laying down.

“Yes, Mommy, please- I’m so ready for you. Mommy-”

“Are you?” You cut him off. He whimpers and nods.

“Yes I swear- I swear I’m ready Mommy, I promise.”

“Good. Because we aren't stopping until I say so.”

You climb onto the couch and shimmy yourself in between Abbie’s legs. His legs wrap around your waist tenderly. Your jaw clenches. Every time you feel his skin on yours, it sends shockwaves to your clit. You hold out your hand to Abner’s face.

“Spit.” You command him. He spits onto your mouth and you rub it on the strap-on. You find his entrance and slowly rub the tip on it before pushing yourself fully in.

“Ohhh..Oh my god-” He moans pornographically as you fully sink into him. You moan breathily, it feels so good.

You start slow, but find a solid rhythm. Every time you pound into him, he groans with pleasure every time you hit his G-spot. All sensations are focused on your clit. It almost feels as if the strap-on is an extension of you, you can feel every single movement. You take his hands and pull his arms above his head, holding his hands above him so that he can’t move.

“M-Mommy please- I want more… please keep going- please don’t stop- Ahh…”

“God, you’re so pretty when you beg, do you want me to keep going? Tell me you want it, you fucking baby.”

“God yes, please- pretty please, Mommy…”

You pull out, let go of his hands, and roughly grab his hips. He winces at the loss of you being inside him. You flip him over onto his stomach (as best you can, he's still taller and heavier than you) and have him tuck his knees under him. You take his arms from underneath him and pin them behind his back with your hand, the other hand planted firmly on his hip.

With no mercy, you slam into him, watching as he takes every inch of your strap. He is completely submissive, blabbering at you to keep going. You loved when he called you Mommy. Because that meant he was yours.

You let go of his hip and reach under him to grab his dick. While giving him hard thrusts, you slowly jerk him off. The pleasure was nearly unbearable for him, he almost rolled his eyes back.

“He must be close,” you think to yourself. You were reaching your peak, and wouldn’t be able to last much longer.

“Do you wanna cum for me, Abbie? Unh, I bet you do, ahh-” You say in between moans.

“Yes Mommy, please let me cum, plea- ahh- oh fuck…” You move your hand faster, jerking him off, mostly at the head of his cock.

“Oh god, Mommy- I can’t h-”

You feel your muscles tighten as you and Abbie cum at the same time. You see his muscles contracting, and you feel his cock pulse in your hand. He shakes as he gets his cum on his tummy and chest. You keep jerking him off, not stopping your relentless pace.

“Mmmh- ahh, please stop Mommy, please-” he whimpers.

“Don’t you remember what I said? We aren’t done until I say we’re done. I’m sorry baby, but we have to keep going.”

“Mommy no- ahh- it’s too much…”

You begin to thrust into him again, maintaining a slow pace. Your free hand grabs at his midnight black hair, pulling his head back to face you.

“Cmon baby, I know you like it. You wouldn’t lie to your own Mommy, would you baby?”

“No Mommy, I won’t lie- ahhh… mnhh-”

You see his muscles contract once more. He’s on the verge of cumming again.

The sight of him like this is too much to handle. His hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat His back, peppered with freckles. His big strong arms pinned to his back. He’s so submissive for you. In this state, he would do anything for you. You were all he cared about. You bite your lip and groan in ecstasy.

In a split second, you switch from a slow pace to a ruthless pace, giving him no time to adjust. He nearly screams as the strap-on hit’s his G-spot perfectly. You moan breathily as you reach your second climax.

“Ah! Oh my god, Mommy, I’m gonna cum- I-”

He cums once more, as do you. You attempt to use your hand to catch any before more cum gets on him. He’s breathing extremely heavily, his back expanding and contracting with each breath. You pull out of him, and he rolls over onto his back.

As much as you want to lay down beside him, you have to clean up the mess he made. You scoot yourself backwards and lean down. You run your tongue across his tummy, licking up the cum he left there. Under his navel, on his upper stomach. You get as much as you can find and you feel goosebumps rise on his skin. Once you get all you can, you bring your face to his.

“I’m so fucking tired.” You whisper while laughing.

“That was fucking incredible, Jesus Christ.” he says back to you. He cradles your face in his big, strong hands and kisses you passionately.

“Only next time, I be in control.” God fucking damnit. You couldn’t say no to him.

You smile at him. “Fine. But you can’t deny that I don’t do my job well.” He can’t help but crack a smile, too.

“Yes, you do,” He says reluctantly but jokingly. You know he would never purposefully put you down for making him feel good. You lean into him and snuggle into his neck.

“Okay, grab the TV remote, I'm fucking exhausted. We gotta put something on.” You say.

“Fine by me.”

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 26

Hannibal, Will and y/n host a dinner to put an end to everything

@dovahdokren @deadman-inc-bikeshop @lov3vivian @wisesandwichshark @scpdragon

Trigger warnings: PTSD, violence

"Hannibal, baby," You called down from the wine cellar. "Which one pairs best with the paella?"

"A Spanish white!" Will interjected.

You rolled your eyes, then looked at his shelf full of Spanish whites. "Thanks, Hannibal."

"You're the sommelier, [F/N]." Will shouted back. "Go with your gut!"

"Verdejo it is." You said to yourself, grabbing the high-shouldered bottle from the shelf.

You returned from the cellar and headed to the dining room, where Will was dutifully setting the table.

"Well aren't you the perfect little homemaker?" You commented, making sure he caught you eyeing his backside.

Will playfully snatched the wine from your hands. "We can't all be the breadwinners, can we, Ms. Restaurant Owner?"

You laughed, looking around at your triple-income house and accepting a kiss from your Will. You put your hands on his shoulders and broke the kiss.

"You know Hannibal isn't going to let you attend one of his famous dinner parties in a flannel, right?" You warned him, lips hovering a few inches from his face.

"Two guests is not a dinner party." Will corrected you. "I figured you'd know this after six months but, baby, Hannibal is always overdressed for everything."

"Better overdressed than the other way around, my treasure." Hannibal said, standing in the threshold. "Why don't you go slip in to that suit I bought you?"

Will threw his hands up. "Do you two just live to gang up on me? You know I can buy my own clothes, right?"

You scoffed. "Babe, you spent your last paycheck almost entirely at Bass Pro Shops-"

"And then we spent the day workshopping new seafood dishes for the restaurant with the fish I caught." Will shrugged. "You don’t get to benefit from it then complain."

You put up your hands in surrender. "Fair enough."

"So I don't make an ordeal out of this in front of guests," Hannibal said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out two small drawstring bags and gave one to each of you. "Happy six months, my darlings."

"Six month anniversary presents?" Will laughed. "What are we, high school students?"

"Do you not want it?" Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't say that." He mumbled.

You opened the bag and slid the contents into your hand. A beautiful solid white ring with ornate carvings tumbled out.

"It's beautiful." You smiled, sliding it on to your finger. "What is it?"

"A ring, my indulgence." Hannibal chuckled.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Sure, but what is it made of?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Ivory."

"Should I be concerned that you somehow know both of our ring sizes?" Will asked, admiring how his fit perfectly on his finger. 

“I think you mean ‘thank you, Hannibal’.” You corrected him. “Even if it is a little uncanny.”

The doorbell rang. Hannibal threw a dish towel over his shoulder and pointed to Will.

"Go change." He ordered. "I will not have my guests seeing you in such an unsightly state."

"It's Jack and [F/N]'s friend." Will protested.

"Sure, I'll get the door." You said. "Gee, thanks [F/N], that would be so helpful!"

You opened the door with a smile.

"Agent Crawford!" You greeted, shaking his hand.

"Oh, please." He laughed. "Call me Jack."

"And this must be Bella." You said, offering his wife your hand. "Jack has told me all about you."

"So you're the infamous [F/N] [L/N]?" Bella accepted with a smile. "It's so nice to meet you."

Jack removed his hat and coat, then handed you a bag. "For you."

"You shouldn't have." You said, knowing immediately that it was wine. Then you pulled it out of the bag. Your eyes went wide and your jaw hung open.

"Holy shit you really shouldn't have." You repeated.

Jack shrugged and smiled smugly. "I pulled some strings in evidence. Figured you might want it."

You threw your arms around his neck, keeping a tight grip on the 1907 Heidsieck Monopole.

"Hey, do I get a hug?" Said another voice.

Charissa waved to you from the porch.

"Holy shit, hey!" You opened your arms. Charissa jumped into your embrace and squeezed you. She'd always hugged you tighter after seeing you half-alive in a hospital bed with your seldom-seen lovers at your bedside.

"Jack, this is my friend Charissa Rodriquez." You introduced. "She was the one who sent you the address."

"So you're 'tip', huh?" Jack's face lit up. "The FBI owes you a debt of gratitude, Ms. Rodriquez."

"Tip?" You said, looking at both Jack and Charissa.

"The address we received came from an obvious burner email." Jack explained. "We thought it was from Chase, so we arrived with a ton of backup anticipating an attack. Turns out we needed it."

Charissa shrugged. "I thought you could never be too careful."

"Well, intentional or not," Jack said. "You helped us a lot."

"You're Charissa Rodriquez?" Will said from the staircase. He wore a grey suit with a dark blue dress shirt that fit him scarily well considering he hadn't even tried it on.

"Enchanté, monsieur." Charissa said, eyeing him up with a hungry smile. "You must be Will."

"Down, girl." You crossed your arms. Your tone was playful, but had a slight threatening bite. "He's all mine."

"Not all yours." Hannibal corrected, entering the scene to finally greet his guests. "Agent Crawford, Bella, Ms. Rodriquez, welcome."

"Wow." Charissa said, dumbfounded. "I feel like I'm meeting a celebrity."

"Oh, surely the rumors unraveled after the old place went out of business." Hannibal answered. "There are far more interesting things to talk about than myself."

"Very few, but they do exist." Jack commented.

Charissa folded her arms. "Like the bartender who stood up to a psychotic cult leader and found two wonderful boyfriends to take care of her?"

"I've heard that one!" You added. "I hear she bought the restaurant for next to nothing after it became a stigmatized property."

Carissa narrowed her eyes at you. "I still cannot believe you told him."

You shrugged. "I think it all worked out."

Hannibal gathered everyone around the table and tasked you with pouring the wine.

"Surely you know why I've invited you here tonight." He asked, taking a seat at the head. "The high courts have ruled Chase's death a suicide."

"Cheers to that." Will said, raising his glass.

"Nobody actually believes it was a suicide." Jack clarified, trying not to look at you too obviously. "But the jury didn't want to dignify him with a proper homicide ruling."

Charissa glared at you, not trying to not be obvious. "Only one person at the table knows for sure."

You shook your head. "I hit my head really hard, the details are just not there."

"But [F/N]'s DNA was on the gun." Bella added.

"But not her fingerprints." Jack said. "It was saliva. We think he tried to choke her with his fingers before reaching for the gun."

"Did you ever find that finger?" Charissa said like it was nothing.

Jack, who was more interested in the paella than the conversation, shook his head. "Never."

Your eyes widened. You left the finger with the gun, you were sure of it.

"Must we discuss the gory details over dinner?" Will said, sensing your discomfort.

Charissa rested her chin in her hands. "Would you rather talk about your three-person couple?"

"I distinctly remember spitting the finger out." You insisted.

"We found so many pieces of bone in that room," Jack continued. "It's genuinely of far less concern than the dynamite lining the walls and bunker full of cocaine, stolen medical supplies and baby coffins."

"And the stained glass window made of human skin." You added.

"You know a case is fucked when a lost finger is of the least concern." Charissa commented.

"The important thing is that it's over." Will said. "He's dead and [F/N] is alive."

Bella smiled at you. "God really is looking out for you, [F/N]."

You forced a smile, telling yourself that Bella had the best intentions. But her good intentions revived Chase's voice in your head, which was a voice you'd spent the last six months trying to forget. You tightened your grip on your utensils to relieve some tension, but it didn’t work.

The table went quiet, waiting for Bella to realize her mistake. Will put his hand over yours and looked into your eyes. He mouthed the word 'breathe' and some similar affirmations.

Hannibal raised his head, knowing the light casting shadows on his face intimidated people. "Ms. Bella, we generally don't talk religion here."

She covered her mouth with her fingertips. "I'm so sorry, [F/N], I just meant-"

You put your hand up. "Please, just don't."

"The important thing is that [F/N] recovered forty missing women and reunited them with their families." Will said. "And there was no divine presence involved in that."

You smiled softly. "I'll drink to that."

"And you'll also be happy to know that the woman who assisted him in luring all those girls into the cult," Jack added. "She's looking at twenty-five to life without parole."

"What about the babies?" Bella piped up. "Weren't there, like, at least twelve newborns?"

"That's where the department of family and child services took over." Jack answered. "Whether the biological mothers kept them or put them up for adoption is out of our hands, but I do know each child was thoroughly examined and are all up to date on their shots."

"Seriously, though." Charissa interjected. "How do you misplace an entire finger?"

"It's one of the easier appendages to misplace." Hannibal answered, speaking with experience. "I heard it wasn't just the one that you couldn't find."

Jack looked up from his plate, confused. "Now how did you know about that?"

"The man took a 12 gauge bullet directly to the hand, Jack." Hannibal said with a small chuckle. "It's more likely you find no fingers than any at all."

"The bones will turn up somewhere." Jack said, resignedly. 

He just happened to say the word “bones” as you were glancing at your ring. 

You smiled a little too wide. “They just might.”  

[forcefullyawake]

Hello! This is for @ketslketslketsl claws and creampies collab.

Summary: It’s not every day a pretty girl gives you her number, or pursues you so much. Sure, it looks like Mikasa is hiding something, but how bad could it be?

Pairings: Mikasa x Reader, Monster! Eren x Reader

Warnings: non human sex, noncon, violence, tentacles, gaslighting

WC: 4.8k

You look like an idiot.

There’s really no way around it. The dress your friend had all but forced you into is a little too tight, the straps on it digging into your plump flesh a little too much. The color on your lips is a little too red, the makeup on your eyes a little heavier than you’d ever done before. All of this to stand out, to show to the party at large that not only were you available but you were looking- something you hadn’t gone out of your way to advertise before. Your friends say that you look hot before you leave, but you think you look like you’re trying to hard.

It’s especially obvious when you’re handed a red solo cup as soon as you walk into the door, and immediately find a place on the wall to people watch. Nobody gives you a second glance (well, maybe a couple do, but at the resting frown on your face nobody gives you a third or tries to strike up a conversation). All of the makeup in the world can’t overcome the fact that you just don’t like talking to new people. Hell, even the friends you came with tonight basically adopted you into their friend group your first week of college, instead of you engaging them.

People filter through the home all around you, some dancing where there’s open space, grinding on each other to a low thumping beat that reverberates through your chest. You have to shift on the uncomfortable heels you’re wearing, trying to subtly grind your thighs together. It’s not like you don’t want that- it’s not like you don’t want to throw caution to the wind and disappear upstairs with some pretty boy or gorgeous girl. It’s just that you don’t know how- it’s like you missed that lesson in school, too wrapped up in a book to learn to relate to people who didn’t exist on a page.

Your mother says it’s not too late to get out there and learn about these things, but it feels that way sometimes. In times like these, it’s hard to gather up the courage to strike up a conversation, even when you’re on your second drink. At least you think it’s your second drink- whatever is in your cup is red and fruity, and it doesn’t taste like there’s much alcohol in it, which even in your limited experience you know is a sure sign there’s probably a whole bottle or two of something in it. It makes your head swim a little, it’s nice in a way but it mostly makes you sleepy.

Maybe you can call an Uber. You can find one of your friends to let them know you’re leaving, call an Uber and go to sleep at an almost decent hour. Let them have all the fun, and the hangovers, while you get a solid eight hours of sleep. At least it’s the weekend, and you have two days of freedom before your job takes up your time again. Your eyes start slowly scanning the crowd, looking for anybody you know- Annie, maybe, she’s tall and her blonde hair sticks out. Or Reiner, the lone male in your group, but knowing him he’s snuck off with Bertolt the first chance they got. Lucky bastard.

“You look lonely,” Someone says to your right, and when you look over there’s a girl standing there. She’s a couple inches taller than you, slender but the sleeves on her shirt are short enough you can see her muscles too. Black hair, pulled back into a ponytail, a dainty gold chain resting on the pale skin of her neck with a little ‘M’ on it. Startling grey eyes that are doing their level best to bore into your skin. Definitely not the type to talk to you.

“Just trying to find my friends,” You say, but it mostly comes out as a whisper. She leans forward a little more, so you repeat yourself, a little louder. There’s a slight edge to her smile when she realizes you’re alone, you think, something about it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It must be a trick of the light, though, because the next moment it’s gone.

“It might be easier to find them if you’re in the crowd,” She says, murmuring right next to your ear, her breath dancing over your skin, “They could be upstairs, even. I could help you.”

You mean to say no, thanks but no thanks, you’ll be on your way. Your parents talked to you about stranger danger, and you’re on the wrong side of tipsy but what comes out of your mouth is, “Yes, please.” She smiles, victorious and promising.

“I’m Mikasa,” She tells you, putting her hand low on your back as you move away from the wall. The way the dress is designed, all wrapping layers, means there’s a gap in the fabric on your lower back, just enough that you can feel her hand on your skin, cool against you despite how warm it is in the room. You give her your name, watching as she repeats it to make sure she has it correct, eyes rapt on the way her lips move around it.

She doesn’t guide you upstairs, but closer into the makeshift dance floor. It feels like a scene out of one of the romance novels you have tucked away on your bookshelf at home. People seem to part around you, time stands still, all the cliche’s come to life. Her hands are on your hips as she moves behind you, steady and squeezing into you just enough to make your heart race. Mikasa isn’t especially broad but you feel remarkably safe with her right behind you.

“See anybody you know?” She has to lean down to speak in your ear, and between the alcohol and how close she is, you’re not sure you would even recognize your own face. You can feel her moving in time with the music, your own hips starting to sway with hers. Your eyes drift shut, letting her hands wander over your sides, skimming up to right under your breasts before the make a trail like fire back down to your hips. Maybe this isn’t so bad, you think, as you let yourself turn in her arms, her thigh moving between yours.

You’d think it’s a dream, that you did go home when you thought to, and your mind was wandering but the pleasure that courses through your when her jeans rub against your clothed cunt feels too good to be a dream.

“You do this often?” She asks, drawing you back to earth. All you can do is shake your head, arms coming up to wrap around her neck. She laughs at that, mouth forming words you can’t quite make out when you hear your name being called.

“I think your friends have found you,” Mikasa smiles, taking a step back as she eyes someone over your shoulder. Your hands drift back to yourself, helpless in the air before she catches one, grabbing a pen out of her back pocket to scribble something on the back of your hand. She presses a kiss on it when she’s done, giving you a warm smile.

“Call me,” She says, before being swallowed into the bodies behind her. On your hand there’s a phone number. You hold your hand close to your chest as your friends surround you.

“There you are!” Annie hisses at you, wrapping a protective arm around you, “What were you doing with her?”

“Mikasa?” You ask, glancing behind you like you would still be able to see her, “She was helping me look for you. You left me.”

“She looked like she wanted to eat you alive,” Reiner huffs, Bertolt nodding in agreement. You roll your eyes at them.

“Maybe you’re just seeing things,” You suggest, pulling away from them, “Either way I think I’m going to head out. You know this isn’t my scene.”

“I’ll drive you,” Annie says, looking over your shoulder, “Armin is ready to go too.”

“Thanks,” You walk with Annie and her boyfriend to her hatchback, stretching out your legs in the backseat. You ignore their hand holding and longing looks. Clearly, when Annie said Armin was ready to go, she didn’t just mean home. At least the drive home is short. You say your goodbyes and make your way into your apartment, locking the door behind you before getting ready for bed.

Normally you would be tired, but there’s a thrumming in your veins, an undercurrent of excitement at the number written on your skin. You enter it into your phone, debating on sending Mikasa a text, but you hold off, not wanting to seem overeager. Still, you toss and turn, your skin feeling overly sensitive, each brush of your sheets feeling like the brush of fingers.

With a sigh you give up on sleep, rolling onto your back, one hand trailing down your neck while the other pushes up your sleep shirt, fingers skimming up, cupping one breast. You let your eyes close, imaging someone else touching you, Mikasa’s fingers being the ones to curl around your neck, her fingers tweaking at your nipples until they’ve pebbled. You picture her lips, her tongue, when you spread your lips, fingers making tight circles around your clit. It’s not you touching yourself, but her, playing your body like a fiddle until you cum, quicker than you can remember in recent memory, hard and fast, one hand smothering down your moans from your neighbors.

Maybe it should concern you though- no matter how hard you concentrate on Mikasa, picturing her above you, or between your legs, you can seem to recall the color of her eyes.

They only look red in your memory.

Dawn rises bright and early, pulling you from your sleep. You wake up with your heart racing, pounding in your chest. You don’t remember much of your nightmare, only that something was chasing you, nipping at your heels as you ran for your life. With a shudder you roll out of bed, thoughtlessly grabbing your phone to take it with you to the bathroom.

You gather courage as you brush last night out of your teeth, compose a text while washing your face, and hit send right before you step into the shower. It’s nothing special, a quick text that lets Mikasa know it’s you. Your phone balances precariously too close to your shower, music playing steadily out of it when the sound cuts off- your ringtone starts to play. You’re getting a call.

Grabbing your towel from where it rests you dry your hand, half your body out of the shower as you take the call without checking who it is. Nobody calls anymore, you assume it’s an emergency.

“Hello?” You try not to sound too panicked. The voice on the other end laughs, low and throaty.

“I thought I said to call me?” Mikasa teases you, can you feel your skin heating up for a reason that has nothing to do with the shower. There’s no way to turn the water off from where you are now, not without getting your phone soaked, and you’re sure she can hear exactly where you are. “Though, maybe I should give you a call back.”

“Give me ten seconds, don’t hang up,” You say, not listening for her reply as you place the phone back onto the counter. Reaching over to twist the shower off, ignoring the soap left on your body to grab your towel and wrap it around you properly. It’s not enough but it’ll have to do.

“Still there?” You ask as you make yourself comfortable on the bed. Your sheets are gonna get wet but it’s worth it. Your skin is cold where the air hits it, but you don’t wanna hang up, not yet.

“Of course,” Mikasa breathes, and butterflies erupt in your stomach. “I know it’s a bit old fashioned to call people now, but I find it’s a much better way of communicating with people, don’t you?”

No, you don’t. You get flustered and stutter over your words, so you much prefer texting where you can make sure you say what you want to, but you certainly can’t tell Mikasa that and so- “Yeah, I think so too. It’s hard to read tone over text.”

That part isn’t a lie, at least. Mikasa’s laugh is like honey in your ears. “You don’t have to lie, I can put you out of your misery now, if you’d like. Send some texts with the letter u as you.” Her teasing doesn’t sting you, not even a little bit.

“Or we could just meet up?” You suggest, breath catching in your throat as you wait for her reply. It could be that you’ve completely misread the situation, maybe she’s just being nice, maybe she doesn’t like girls, maybe-

“Give me an address and I’ll pick you up tonight at 7,” Mikasa replies, so smooth and confident it makes your head swim a little. You rattle off your address and she tells you to dress casual before hanging up. You have all day to get ready but you start immediately, drying your hair and styling it before picking out what you hope is a casual enough outfit- a soft white sweater over a sundress patterned with strawberries. A few swipes of pink makeup later and you’re set.

Now all you have to do is wait.

It feels like the hours manage to double themselves, or even triple themselves. A whole lifetime of waiting in one day until you manage to lose track of time and doze off on the couch. Three sharp knocks on your door startle you awake, sending you flying towards the door.

“I’m awake!” You practically shout, throwing the door open. “I mean. Hello. Hi. Can we do that again?”

“No, it was cute,” Mikasa says, smiling at you. You can feel heat rush to your cheeks, trying to ignore it. You’re not sure if you should invite her in but she solves that problem for you. “Are you ready? The place I’m taking you isn’t that far away.”

“Just let me get my shoes on,” You say, quickly turning to slide your feet into the first pair of sandals you see, strappy ones that make you trip if you’re not careful. But it’s fine. You know you’ll be careful tonight.

Mikasa leads you to her car, a silver hatchback. The interior looks spotless, and there’s an almost overwhelming smell of cleaner permeating through the car. You buckle yourself in before looking at her.

“Got it detailed just for me?” You think your voice is teasing but Mikasa stiffens, inhaling sharply as she looks at you. Her reaction takes you aback. “Whoa. Sorry. Teasing!” Mikasa relaxes almost imperceptibly at that, but you can see her shoulders sag down a little.

“Sorry, normally nobody notices how clean a car is,” She says, “Took me off guard. You’re very perceptive.”

“A lifetime of being a wallflower,” You reply without thinking, “You get good at people watching, all that jazz.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” She teases you back now, bringing a smile to your face. She’s right, the place she takes you isn’t that far away and the drive passes smoothly as she pulls into the parking lot of your towns oldest diner. You sit up straighter in your seat- you haven’t been here since you were a kid.

“It’s a little old fashioned, I know,” Mikasa says as she gets out, and you must be distracted because the next thing you know she’s opening your door for you, and there’s no way she moved that fast. “But the ice cream floats here are to die for.”

“Oh no, this is great!” You exclaim, walking next to her into the diner. She asks for a booth in the corner, something you didn’t know people did outside of your romance novels.

“Order whatever you want,” Mikasa says, barely giving the menu a glance. “It’s my treat.” Your mother didn’t raise you to take advantage of someone’s generosity even on a date so you order a small combination meal- though you do opt to upgrade your drink to an ice cream float at Mikasa’s insistence you try one.

“What do you do for work?” You ask, trying not to cringe at your attempt at small talk while you wait for your food to come out.

“I’m.. uh,” Mikasa hesitates now, looking anywhere but your face. It takes her a fraction of a second too long to answer, just enough time to make you frown when she continues, “I’m a caregiver.” Even to you it sounds like a half truth, but you let it slide, not wanting to be too pushy on a first date.

“Oh?” You say, shifting in your seat, “How did you get started in that?”

“It just kind of.. picked me, I suppose.” Mikasa still isn’t meeting your eyes and you figure it’s time for a change of subject.

“How do you know Historia?” There, that should be a safe question. She was at Historia’s party last night, after all.

“We were friends way back in elementary school,” Mikasa explains, clearly relieved to have moved to something different. “I live one neighborhood over from her, so we’ve already just hung out together.” That makes sense to you- Annie has known Historia since high school, and Annie seemed to know of Mikasa.

“Got any embarrassing stories?” You know you probably shouldn’t ask but you can’t resist. The Historia you know is almost regal in nature, prim and perfect at all times. You can’t even imagine her as a child.

“Oh, do I ever,” Mikasa says, voice a little lower as she leans towards you, launching into a story from her childhood. You hardly notice your food appearing, and then barely taste it as you eat, hanging on Mikasa’s every word. She’s funny and engaging, and it’s not until you hear the pointed cough of the man behind the register that you realize it’s closing time for them.

“Yeah, Zeke, we’re going,” Mikasa says with a roll of her eyes as she pays him. He huffs at her a little bit but soon enough the two of you are sitting inside of her car, an awkward silence growing. What do you say now? You don’t want this date to end but would it be to forward to invite her over? Or will she invite you over? You don’t get too far into your thoughts when the car starts moving.

“Do you wanna come over?” She asks, the car sitting long at a stop sign. She’s looking dead ahead, fingers gripping the wheel so hard it turns white. She’s just as nervous as you are, you realize.

“Yes, please,” You manage to breathe out before continuing on, not wanting to sound rude, “If you want me to, that is.”

“Trust me, I want you to,” Mikasa replies, something laced in her voice but she doesn’t relax at all on the drive to her place. The drive is quiet, tense in a way you don’t understand, but there’s still an electric current in your veins as her house comes into view. It’s one neighborhood over from where you were last night, just like she said, a small place that looks like a two bedroom.

“I got it from my parents,” She explains as she leads you inside, locking the door behind you. “When they passed.” You’re not sure what to say at that but the moment passes. Mikasa leads you to the couch.

Now what?

“So,” You start, barely getting the word out before her lips are pressed against yours, pushing you back onto the couch. Her mouth is firm on yours, insistent. Her hands are on you, sliding down your sides, teasing your thighs under the hem of your dress. Her mouth moves to your neck, biting and kissing and sucking her way down.

It’s a lot, almost too much. You want to tell her to stop, to slow down a little but Mikasa presses forward, your dress sliding up as she slides down between your legs. The shadows on the wall dance in a weird way, that doesn’t seem to move with the way the lights are. You can’t voice anything as Mikasa’s mouth covers your pussy, mouthing at it over your underwear. Her spit wets the fabric, her tongue dragging over your clit, making your eyes roll back. Your fingers curl into fists at your side, legs spreading wider to accommodate her shoulders- which you realize seem too wide now.

You’re so close when your eyes finally open and you look down.

Mikasa isn’t between your legs.

Whatever’s taken her place isn’t human, the face looks human enough but his body (and he’s definitely a him- you think you almost recognize him) blends in with the shadow, tentacles sliding up behind him, reaching out for you.

“Hello,” The monster says, ignoring the way you scream. You manage to twist free, catching him by surprise as your hand shoots out to scratch right at his eyes. You’re on your feet, running as you hear two voices call out your name.

But your shoes, your stupid strappy sandals- your ankle rolls in them and then something grabs you before you fall completely, your head slamming against the front door as everything does dark.

“Wake up,” A harsh voice commands you. It’s a growl, in human and it seems to be inside of your head. You ignore it, trying to roll over, thinking you’re dreaming but you can’t move. That makes your eyes shoot open.

“You’re up!” The monster is looming over you, using it’s many tentacles to hold you down. Your clothes are gone, the cold air biting at your skin. You’re not even sure how it’s this cold inside of a bedroom, one that looks to be incredibly decorated as well. There’s a chair in the corner, a plush blanket under you. It almost looks like a hotel room.

“Mikasa brought you just for me,” It tells you , leaning in close, his tongue coming out to lick at your throat. “You’re so sweet, I can’t wait to play with you, can’t wait to eat you right up!”

“Let- let go of me!” You shout, trying to make your voice as loud as possible. Maybe a neighbor will hear you. Maybe the monster doesn’t like loud noises. “Mikasa!”

“You can scream all you want, nobody is coming to save you,” The monster seems to delight in the way his cruel words make you cry. “It’s just me and you.” It pauses. “Maybe I’ll let Mikasa play with you a little too, before I kill you. She really liked you, she almost didn’t want to give you to me.”

He leans closer, speaking into your ear, rancid breath sweeping over you, “But I insisted. And she won’t ever deny me.”

“Eren,” Mikasa’s voice comes from the door way, “There’s no need to be cruel.” She’s not looking at you at all, looking rapturously at the monster on top of you. She looks in awe, in love even.

And not even slightly afraid of him.

“You know they taste better when they’re afraid, Mikasa, how many times do I have to tell you that?” The monster, Eren, snaps at her, hardly giving her a second glance. A tentacle creeps up your leg, twisting around it, the tip grazing over your cunt. A shudder of revulsion runs through you when it taps your clit, sending a spark of pleasure through you. “It’s better when they fight it. It always is.”

“Whatever you say, Eren,” Mikasa gives a sigh, taking up the seat you saw before. She’s wearing sweat pants now, a sports bra, looking like she’s just came in from working out. There’s a light sweat on her skin.

“Going to watch this time?” Eren asks, shifting so he’s to your side now, his tentacles holding you open, putting you on display. You try to close your legs but he’s too strong, his grip too tight. “Normally you don’t. Is this one special?”

“You know as well as I do that she’s just like the rest of them,” Mikasa says, and that, more than anything is what breaks you. A sob tears from your throat, as reality comes crashing in. You’re nothing more than a mark- she was never really into you at all.

Of course, you think, why would anybody like her be into someone like you?

More of his tentacles come up, holding your pussy open to their gazes. Despite her harsh words Mikasa has a hard time looking away from it. Eren’s tentacles are softer than they look as one circles your clit, drawing wetness from you no matter how much you tell yourself you don’t want this.

The tip of the tentacle is insistent though, circling your clit with more pressure until your hips jump up, chasing after it when Eren moves it back. He laughs, mocking and mean, before returning to his ministrations. He’s not soft in the way he touches you, one tentacle coming up to start to slowly push it’s way inside of you. It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever taken before and it hurts.

“Stop,” You whine, hips twisting away from him as much as you can, “It hurts, please, stop!”

“I’ll stop when I’ve had my fill,” Eren replies, his voice mockingly sweet as the tentacle rams into you, splitting you open. The one circling your clit has left, leaving you reeling as your mind focuses in on the pain. The pace he sets is brutal, and his tentacle doesn’t feel like a cock or any of your toys. It squirms inside of you, pushing upwards along your front wall until-

“Fuck!” You wail now, thrashing on the bed. Eren smiles, and Mikasa gives a little whimper. You manage to look at her only to see her sat low in the chair, her own legs spread, with one of her hands down the front of her sweats, clearly touching herself while the other works at one of her nipples. “Please!”

“I knew you would beg,” Eren sounds delighted, “They always beg!” Your words seem to be what he was waiting for- the tentacle returns to your clit while the other attacks that spongy spot inside of you. You’re crying outright now, absolutely sobbing with- with everything, really. Your cries are of pleasure, of pain, of fear, of ecstasy. You cum harder than you ever have in your entire life.

But Eren doesn’t stop.

He keeps going, now moving to to lap up your juices with his tongue, cleaning you as one orgasm trips into the next, and then another. You can’t tell if you ever really come down from one. It’s too much, it hurts again, and you don’t want this- you know you don’t want this, you want him to stop and-

You pass out, somewhere after what you think is an hour, if not more. Your mind blissfully goes blank, locking you away behind a door, away from your fractured reality.

People are talking above you, in quiet, hushed tones.

“We can’t keep her.”

“You said you just wanted a snack tonight, Eren. Not.. not that.”

“She’ll go to the police.”

“They won’t believe her, you know that. They didn’t believe Historia.”

“Historia was a child.”

“I’ll convince her she fell asleep or something, you know I can.”

“Fine. But Mikasa?”

“Yes?”

“Next time she’s mine.”

You don’t hear anything after that.

“Hey,” Mikasa is by your side. You’re back on her couch, clothes in place. You jerk up, away from her, looking for signs of what happened but there’s nothing. You don’t see any bruising. You feel sore between your legs, but nothing that would match what you went through. “You fell asleep. After we fucked.”

That’s not true, you know it isn’t true but the only other explanation doesn’t make sense. Monsters aren’t real. You weren’t… assaulted by one. Mikasa has to be right.

“Oh,” You struggle to sit up, feeling sluggish. “I’m sorry. I’m normally not like that.” The smile on Mikasa’s face is warm, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I think I need to go home. I don’t feel so good. Can you take me?”

“Sure, of course,” Mikasa sounds relieved. That’s good, you think, she’s not mad at you. It must have been awkward for her when you fell asleep, had that nightmare. It felt so real. She helps you gather up your things. One of the straps on your sandal is broken. You’re not sure how but it’s a short walk to her car, you can go barefoot.

She starts it up, already talking to you about meeting up again, maybe next week if you want? You tell her it sounds nice, that you had a really good time tonight. You can’t tell how she’s lying through her teeth.

You give her home one last look as she pulls the car away.

If you didn’t know any better, you would think the shadow in the window had a face, that it waved at you.

But you know better.

Monsters aren’t real.

[teletraan-meets-jarvis]

What I Want - Part 2

AO3 Link

Chapter Title: What I Need

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!Jedi Reader

Summary: Following the awkwardness of the night before, you go to an old friend to try and process your feelings for Crosshair.

Click here for Part 1

Warnings: 18+, a bit more frisky business but not full on so rated 18 just to be safe. Swearing.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Notes: You ask, you get!! Thanks so much for all the support and love for part 1 ❤️. As a thank you, I bring you part 2, I hope you enjoy! If this one takes off a bit as well, I do have an idea for a little bonus chapter around the Bad Batches' reaction. As always, feedback/comments are massively appreciated along with reblogs. Fic is below the cut off, thanks for reading!!

Taglist: @aerynwrites @shannon-lynn-21 @saltywintersoldat @tired-night-owl @wille-zarr

A comm alarm beeped softly, slowly pulling you out your slumber. Giving the device a sleepy glare, you shut it off and huffed back onto your bunk. Wrecker’s snores were echoing off the small ship barracks, you rolled your eyes at his sleeping form across the room as you swung your legs over the side of your top bunk. Below you, Tech slept soundly, he managed to fall asleep with his goggles on which were now sitting wonky on his relaxed face. He also had a datapad clutched to his chest, almost like a teddy bear, which made you chuckle to yourself.

You’d barely slept after getting back from the mission but being a General stopping over on Coruscant meant rest would be a pipe dream. Your alarm was set to get you out of bed and ready for the first of what you were sure would be a hundred and ten briefings today. You were always happy to shoulder the politics for the team, removing that burden from Hunter so they could keep to themselves. But today, you could really do without it.

You looked over at Hunter and Crosshair’s bunks, the former sleeping up top with an arm over his eyes. Probably to block out the few small coloured lights on the ship that shone from critical systems, preventing the room from being truly pitch black. You didn’t envy Hunter’s enhanced senses, they seemed to cause him quite a bit of discomfort when they weren’t on missions. You should probably pick him up an eye mask one of these days.

Below him, Crosshair slept with his back to the open room. One of the few times you ever saw his body relaxed was when he slept. You cringed as you remembered yesterday’s awkwardness with the sniper and mentally cursed at yourself for causing, what was, an easily avoidable situation.

Shaking your head you jumped silently off of your bunk, mindful to not wake any of the batch. You gently removed Tech’s goggles, placing them in their usual spot before moving over to grab some fresh robes and head for the fresher. Today was going to be a real drag.

—————————————————

“Hey! Look what the Lothcat dragged in” someone called after you as you trudged up the steps to the GAR Headquarters. You turned around to see none other than Anakin Skywalker jogging up behind you.

“Nice to see you too Skyguy” he chuckled at the nickname as he threw an arm around your shoulders.

You fell into companionable chatter as you made your way to your first meeting, the dark halls of the military headquarters looking indistinguishable as you attempted to find the correct room. Members of the Coruscant Guard patrolled the halls, nodding politely to you both as you strolled past.

Eventually you found the room where Mace, Plo and Luminara were waiting, along with some clone and human high command. You stood outside the door for a moment, readying yourself to seal your fate of being talked at for a solid eight standard hours.

Eventually you caved, mostly as you were on the verge of being late if you debated standing outside any longer. Begrudgingly, you sat through briefing after briefing. All the voices and different rooms blending into one grey blur as you tried to take in what information you could, but your tired and stressed mind was having none of it.

While it was nice to catch up with some of the other Jedi, you always felt a bit out of place among the perfect members of the council. More so now than ever.

You ended up wandering back to the temple with Anakin where you both retired to his room and you flopped down onto his simple bed with a whine.

“Okay, what’s going on? You’ve been off all day” Anakin was the closest thing you had to a brother, you trained as Padawans together and due to your similar age you became fast friends. You knew about his marriage to Padme and decided that if you could offload your dilemma on anyone, it’d be him.

“I fucked up” you groaned out from behind your hands.

“What’d you do?” Anakin replied in a playful tone.

“I might’ve got a bit hot and heavy with one of the clones in my squad, led him on and then cut it off” Anakin raised an eyebrow at your confession. “And now he’s pissed at me”

“Why?” You weren’t entirely sure which part of that entire thing he was questioning.

“Because I started the whole thing, I wanted it. Then all of a sudden I did that whole guilty Jedi, must follow every word of the order thing, gave him some pathetic look which said really sorry I can’t have attachments mate, hope you understand. He called me out on it before I could even utter the banthashit excuse and then he stomped off and hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“In his defence, seems like he was probably wound a little tight” Anakin replied with a chuckle which you just groaned at.

“He has every right to be pissed. Hells, I would be if the roles were reversed. Whats with this whole self-righteous act us Jedi have going on?”

“Look, it’s hard being a Jedi at the best of times. It takes an inhumane amount of self-control, which is why its not a path for the weak. But being a Jedi while at war… it’s a lot. You’re emotions are running high, you’re forming bonds with soldiers on the battlefield that you shouldn’t be, but none of us can help it because it’s uncharted territory. Maker knows I’d hunt down anyone who hurt Obi-Wan or my Captain. Yes, It’s not the Jedi way, but neither is fighting a grand-scale war.” Anakin’s eyes were alive with emotion as he spoke, be he quickly caught himself and then it was gone.

“My point is, don’t beat yourself up so much. No one is getting kicked out the order or in his case reconditioned if that’s what you’re worried about. Figure out what it is you want, and then just be discreet about it” you looked at Anakin like he’d grown two heads, he just winked at your confused stare.

“Okay let’s keep it simple. Are you attracted to him?” You thought back to the night before and firmly nodded in response.

“Do you like him as a person?” You pondered his question.

“Well, it’s Cross. I wasn’t sure if he even liked me for a long time. He’s closed off, anti-social, but he’s also a good guy, cares about his brothers, has saved my ass multiple times, and he is kinda funny in his own, snide way” you rattled off with fondness in your words.

“Well then I suggest you go and talk to him.” Anakin replied, giving you a knowing look when he spotted the small smile on your lips as you spoke about the sniper.

You took a deep breath, glad to have finally gotten that off your chest and feeling content that you now knew what to do next. “Thanks, Ani”

“Ugh please don’t call me that” he moaned back, apparently only Padme was allowed to get away with that one.

————————————————

Your walk back to the Marauder felt like it dragged on and on. Your brain ran over a thousand scenarios of what to say, how he’d react and you were about to short circuit. There was so much risk, so much possibility, that you did your best to shut your mind off and let yourself handle it in the moment. These things never went as planned anyway, it was best not to guess.

The large door to the ship hissed open, your boots clanking on the metal surface as you cautiously walked into your home. It didn’t take you long to find Crosshair, he was sat in the main hull methodically cleaning his hand blaster. Everyone else must’ve been asleep. He was just in his blacks, the material hugging him in the most wonderful way, it’s like whoever designed those things was trying to trip you up. The contours of his arm muscles flexing as he worked, his strong chest looked practically chiselled at the heart of his lean frame. You had to force yourself to calm down a little bit.

“Uh, hey” you greeted awkwardly. “Mind if I join you?”

You took his silence as a well he’s not saying no. He didn’t spare you a glance as you walked in and took a seat opposite him. As a General in the GAR, you rarely got nervous. War, as a concept, was simple. You knew your purpose, your objective, you had a job to get done and you’d do it. The risks never stopped you, rather they fuelled you. Probably why you’re such a good fit for the bad batch.

But this right now, personal feelings, not knowing where you stand with someone you care about. Because if you were honest, you really did care about Crosshair, the same as you did the rest of the team. You’d only been with the squad just under a year but you’d gladly lay down your life for any of them in a heartbeat. If you could at least get back to where you were before the other night, you’d be over the moon.

You weren’t used to being so nervous, you let your hands fiddle with you dark Jedi robes as you readied yourself to speak again.

“Look, I’m not here to throw some crap about being a Jedi at you, I promise. And I’m sorry for trying it before” he still didn’t look at you, finding his blaster much more interesting. But you could tell he was listening, you had his attention. Might as well keep babbling.

“In terms of an explanation for what happened yesterday, well I guess I panicked.” You sighed as you tried to find the next words “The way you made me feel that night, I… I’ve never felt like that before and everything i’d been taught over the years screamed at me that what I was doing was dangerous and wrong. I now realise that I’m just an idiot. I make my own decisions and I… uh -well, I stick by that one, starting something that is.” Still nothing.

“I know this is probably a long shot. But in the interest of being transparent” you rambled “uh… if you want to go down that road again, I’m up for seeing what happens, can be as casual as we like. I promise I won’t freak out on you again.” You chuckled and thought you almost spotted a slight pull in the corner of Crosshair’s lips “But if you want to go back to how we were before, I’d also really like that.” You watched him for a while as he gave no acknowledgement of your words, his cleaning finished as he now gave the weapon a once over in his hands. Having said everything you needed, you got up from your seat, looking away from him.

“Well, if I can do anything else, let me know” you turned on your heel to leave, feeling slightly defeated but glad you’d at least made the first step.

“I could think of a few things” he finally spoke as he leaned back into his seat and continued to stare at his blaster, still not meeting your gaze.

Well that caught your attention, you turned back around to face him as he carried on ignoring you. While his tone was unbothered as he spoke, you knew him just enough to know his words held a meaning. He was playing with you, back to his usual teasing and you could’ve laughed at the relief that washed over you. This you could work with. A cheeky idea popped into your head and you’d decided to run with it.

“Oh really?” Throwing caution to the wind, you strode over to the sniper slowly. His gaze finally meeting yours after all this time, watching you as you got closer and closer. Practically drawing you in with his amber eyes. You pushed him back by his chest, creating enough room so you could straddle his lap. “Care to elaborate?”

He huffed out a short laugh at your words, his face overall unbothered but his eyes, they were burning into you. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you’ll figure it out”.

You hummed in response, deciding to kick things up a notch you wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing your faces just breaths apart. “Something like this?” You asked, pausing for another second before bringing your lips to his in a surprisingly soft and gentle kiss. You felt his hands come up to rest on your back, pulling you closer as you continued your slow dance. This was so different from the other night, where before there was desperation and lust, now there was something more… tender, passionate. You were quite glad you weren’t standing as the way he moved against you would’ve definitely made your knees weak.

Dragging yourself away from his lips, you searched his face. His mouth pulled into a barely there smirk “That’s a start.”

“Who said I was finished?” And just like that, the last few strands of tension between you both snapped and you relaxed in his arms. You fisted your hands into the front of his blacks and pulled him back to you, his tongue slipped between your lips, curious and demanding. He was everywhere again, filling your nose with the scent of the standard cheap GAR soap but mixed with something earthy, something so distinctly Crosshair and you couldn’t get enough.

You could tell why the Jedi order frowned upon such activities, kissing Crosshair was intoxicating. You couldn’t think of anything else other than the handsome clone in front of you and just how much you wanted him in that moment.

His hands wandered lower and lower down you back until they rested comfortably on your backside, pulling you further up his lap. Feeling mischievous, you started trailing kisses along his jaw. Setting a teasing, languid pace as you mapped out the spots that made him squirm. Crosshair was never a man of many words, so you made it your mission to see just how vocal you could make him.

As your lips met his pulse point, he gave a loud exhale and you smirked in victory against his skin as you continued the onslaught on his senses. You definitely seemed to be doing something right as his hands found themselves in your hair, clutching slightly and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped you. Even while trying to gain the upper hand in the situation, he always had some control over you. It was maddening in the best way, setting your veins alight with desire.

Determined to get another victory you traced your tongue against the base of the side of his neck and trailed it all the way up to the bottom of his ear, which you teasingly took into your mouth, teeth grazing the soft skin. A strangled moan escaped the clone and that was the moment where you knew you were hopelessly and utterly gone. Your mind filled with nothing other than wanting to be closer to Crosshair.

“Not very Jedi of you” he commented, slightly breathless when you finally stopped teasing him and came back up to meet his eyes. Looking down at where your bodies were pressed against one another, you chuckled.

“What exactly about this situation led you to believe I was ever a model Jedi?” You smirked, though it was only visible for a second before his mouth was back on yours, devouring you as his hands greedily roamed your body.

You continued making out like teenagers for most of the evening, taking the time to explore each other, enjoying the closeness. Contentment settled over your body, almost as if this was were you were meant to be. If Crosshair’s arms were where you belonged, well, you could think of worse places to be.

Back to Part 1

Back to Masterlist

[ridiculousn3sswrites]

Pressing Issues

*Dick Grayson x Reader

*Summary: Detective Dick Grayson has never been annoyed by another person as much as journalist Reader.

*Warnings: Swearing, talks of gun violence (relevant to a case Dick is working on), mention of robbery (case mention), cop stuff. Let me know if I missed anything.

*A/N: I made a post talking about this idea a while ago and finally wrote it.

Tip Jar

**********

When Detective Dick Grayson stepped on the scene, he didn’t expect anything different from what was told to him on the way there. He went about doing his thing - talking to the officers on the scene, chatting with CSI - when he heard his partner let out an exaggerated groan. Dick looked over, confused at the noise. His partner just rolled his eyes, nodding towards a woman with a press badge. “Man, why’d they send her?”

“Who’s that?” Dick asked. He’d never seen her before, but she was definitely attractive. He’d had a few press statements on other cases, and he never really saw the issue with the press. Maybe that was just from growing up around Bruce and all the media attention that brought, but the journalists he’d spoken to in Bludhaven had never been rude to him.

“That’s (y/n), she’s a monster.” His partner provided no further explanation as the woman walked up to them.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but you can’t be on the scene,” Dick immediately said. He was surprised the other officers didn’t stop her at the tape.

“Right, but those officers weren’t giving me any answers,” she told him. His partner let out a laugh.

“Grayson, you can deal with her, just get her out of the tape,” his partner said.

“Rodriguez, always nice to see you.” She smiled at his partner, but her tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Haven’t gotten any better at your job since the last time we spoke, have you?”

“Grayson, get her out of here.” Rodriguez lost any amusement he had with the woman, and Dick knew he should get the journalist out of there before things escalated even further. Dick led her away from the scene, right to the edge of the tape but away from the small crowd that were always nosing around scenes.

“Detective Richard Grayson, how can I help you out?”

“(Y/n) (L/n), lead crime journalist for the Bludhaven Gazette. I wanted to get a feel for the scene before we put anything out about it,” she explained. “Anything you can share about what happened?”

“Alright, well we have two males hit in a drive-by, one dead on the scene. We don’t know much about motives or anything, but we’re suspecting rival gangs based on the fact this happened in a grey-zone,” Dick told her. It would be vague enough to satisfy her readers, but didn’t put anything too speculative out there. She was shaking her head as she wrote down what he said. “Wait, what’s all that about?”

“What?”

“The head shaking? What, you don’t agree with the police statement?” Dick was trying to joke with her, but he was still confused.

“It’s not a grey-zone, but I wouldn’t expect the cops to know that,” she said, challenging him. Dick tried to think back to his nightly activities, trying to figure out if he missed anything with how the city was divided. As far as he knew, this area was unclaimed. “Right, so that’s it?”

“Well, yeah. We just got on the scene not too long ago.” She just hummed, and he wasn’t sure if it was in acknowledgement or disapproval. “Hey, what’s your beef with Rodriguez?”

“For a Detective, he’s shit at his job,” she told him, clicking her pen as she put it back in her bag.

“Care to elaborate?”

“A kid got snatched, broad daylight, and Rodriguez was the lead on the case. Gave up after a few days. I dunno where you’re from, but where I’m from, we don’t give up like that, especially on a kid,” she said. “I wrote articles talking about it, and Rodriguez doesn’t like me because I called him out on it.”

“Wow, you’re pretty cutthroat,” Dick said, whistling lowly.

“I just don’t give you guys any slack. Be good at your job and you have nothing to worry about.” She smiled at him before turning on her heel and walking away. He watched as she put her phone to her ear, probably talking to someone back at the office. She scared him a little, but he was always up for the challenge.

**********

Rodriguez was right. Dick was always down for accountability, but the way you brought it into his life was a bit much. Every time there was even the slightest hint of a development, you were there with your opinions about what he was doing wrong, and if you ever had any praise for him, it was so sparse he couldn’t even tell it was praise. He was just trying to look through some files to piece together your little cryptic ‘it’s not a grey-zone’ hint, when Rodriguez tapped on his desk.

“What’s up?” He asked, looking up at his partner.

“You got a visitor.”

“God, don’t tell me…”

“Surprise, your worst nightmare is here, Grayson.”

“Aw, I got a new nickname?” You asked Rodriguez as you dropped in the chair next to Dick’s desk. Dick had to stop the groan from escaping him, really not wanting to deal with you.

“She’s your problem now,” Rodriguez said, walking away. Dick almost wished he could go with him.

“Alright, (L/n), what is it now?” Dick asked, putting down his files.

“You have ID on one of the victims and it was a guy with no connections to anything on the Underground, but no progress on the shooter? C’mon, Grayson, I thought you’d at least be better than Rodriguez.”

“I’m working with what I have,” he huffed, fighting the way he wanted to roll his eyes.

“You’re not looking at all your options. Put away the gang files, they’re not the ones you should be looking at,” you almost ordered him. “I’m practically doing your job for you at this point. I gotta run, I have an interview.”

“You’re leaving the Gazette?” Dick was almost hopeful. That would definitely make things easier on him.

“No, smart one, I’m the one doing the interviewing.”

“Wow, who would’ve guessed with your shining personality,” Dick shot back, finally annoyed.

“I’m a ray of sunshine, just not with cops,” you said with your fake little smile before leaving him there. It took everything to not slam his head against his desk.

**********

Dick always thought he was good under pressure, but this was intense. With your little article that came out the day after you talked to him - apparently your interview was with the victim’s wife - public pressure was increasing on the department tenfold. He hated to admit it, but you were good at what you did. He was almost pissed off at himself after reading the article, and that was saying something.

He needed to close this case so he could get you off his back, and he needed to do it fast. Not only did you put pressure on the department, now his superiors were putting even more pressure on him. He knew you were cryptic with what you knew, but you wanted him to put together the pieces. When he was out for his nightly patrol, he was trying to piece together what little hints you dropped.

Dick had to admitted he was silently fuming as he sat on the rooftop across from the scene of the crime. After all, what did you know? It’s not like you had access to the databases he did, both legally and in the legally grey. What did she mean it’s not gang-related? It has to be, this is disputed territory right now. 

And of course something sketchy had to happen while he was doubting you. A black town car pulled up to the block, someone getting out of the passenger seat and scanning the area before going back to talk to someone in the back. Dick cursed as he grabbed his binoculars, trying to watch the scene closer to see if he could get any more information from the sketchy scene. He zoomed in on the man in the backseat, a guy dressed in an expensive-looking suit wearing sunglasses at night (like an asshole), silver rings adorning his fingers.

“No way,” Dick mumbled, taking a picture of the rings to send to Barbara later. One of them in particular looked familiar, but he couldn’t exactly place it. “How the hell did she…”

After whoever it was seemed satisfied with how the scene looked, the person got back into the car and it pulled off, the tires screeching in the quiet of the night. As soon as Dick finished his patrols for the night, he sent the picture off to Barbara. She called him as soon as she ran the picture. “Hey, where’d you see this guy?”

“By the scene of that drive-by a couple weeks ago,” Dick explained. “I recognize that big ring he’s wearing on his middle finger, but I have no idea where from. Can you help me out?”

“Yeah, that’s a Baglio family ring,” she told him. “I can’t get an ID on the guy, but you remember that Italian family we were having trouble with out here? Same family.”

“Damn, she was right then. Technically not gang related. Hey, does the mob count as a gang?”

“I mean, technically, but they aren’t really recognized as gangs when it comes to like popular recognition. Does that really matter, though?”

“It’s a matter of me being technically right, so yes.”

“You’re annoying, has anyone told you that lately?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Okay, good talk then.”

**********

Actually having a solid lead meant that he was able to close the case a lot sooner than he previously thought. Sure, he wasn’t able to actually bag whoever was in the back of the town car, but he was able to track down the shooters. At the press conference announcing the arrest of the shooters, he could see you right there in the front row with the other reporters. Dick caught your gaze for a second, and he almost missed the small nod of approval you gave him. For a moment, he thought he’d finally get on your good side again.

Then again, the peace could only last for so long. Every single case he was on, he could bet there was an article about it soon to follow. You’d appear at every crime scene, moving on from antagonizing Rodriguez to finding Dick and immediately bothering him. You’d drop your little cryptic hints when he was having trouble with cases, and somehow they’d actually be useful once he decoded them. The thing that probably bugged him the most was how you managed to get to his desk almost every day he was working on particularly difficult cases. You never let him get to the point of forgetting about cases, especially for the ones that involved people that stayed away from the Underground.

He could understand not wanting cases to go cold, but the fact that you were coming into the precinct every single day to bug him about developments was a bit much. Dick could handle a healthy amount of shit talking, but there was just something about your shit talking that got him on edge. Everything about you just got under his skin, and seeing you so often was really not helping that out. It got to the point where he started trying to avoid you just to keep his sanity.

“Grayson, (L/n) just got on the scene, you wanna run?” Rodriguez asked as soon as he spotted you talking to the officers at the tape. Dick quickly looked around, trying to find someplace he could disappear to. The only real option would be to go look like he was talking to the CSI team, but he didn’t want to disturb them actually doing their jobs. Before he could make a decision, you were already approaching.

“Grayson, stop running from me. You know I know where you work,” you called out to him.

“I should really get you banned from the precinct,” he shot back, a small frown on his face. 

“You know you’d get bored without me,” you said, rolling your eyes. “So, whatcha got for me?”

“Why are you talking like you’re on this case? Technically I don’t have to tell you anything more than the other officers told you.”

“So what I’m hearing is go ahead and write whatever I want.”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Ooo, that’s the first time I’ve heard you curse. I like it. So, what’s the news?”

“It’s a robbery, one injured, but we have a couple witnesses and it sounds like we have a pretty solid perp description. We’re just waiting for the witnesses to meet with the sketch artist and then we’re sending out the sketch to the papers and news outlets,” Dick told you. “There, satisfied?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Glad this one’s an easy one, I’d hate to have to write about you again,” you told him, turning around with a small smile on your face. “See you later, Grayson.”

“I sure hope not,” he decided to call after you. He could faintly hear your laugh, but the thing that caught his attention was the fact that you decided to flip him off as you walked away. Dick froze for a second, not sure if he should be highly amused or pissed off. He settled for somewhere in the middle, leaning more towards being pissed off.

When you put out your article, it was a simple, tell the details, share the perp sketch type of article. Dick was pleasantly surprised that there were no real call outs about him; as a matter of fact, his name was only mentioned once with the request that anyone who sees or has information about the suspect contact the tip-line immediately. He smiled at his laptop, taking the lack of criticism as praise. He was even willing to take the shit talking from Rodriguez, because as far as he was concerned, Rodriguez was just jealous that he never got this type of reaction from you.

**********

Dick didn’t realize he actually somewhat enjoyed your company - if he could call it that - until you stopped bothering him. You moved on from targeting him, bugging other detectives and officers about their open cases. He would hear complaints, as well as some pretty unsavory things, about you from the people you were bothering, and he was surprised about the amount of times he almost jumped to your defense. You were the biggest pain in his ass - constantly bugging him about his cases and making sure that he didn’t forget about your existence - so why did your disappearance bother him so much?

He got used to seeing you around the precinct (just not talking to him), but then he noticed when you stopped showing up. You didn’t show up to crime scenes, you didn’t show up to the precinct, you just weren’t there anymore, and that worried him. He tried asking around about you, seeing if maybe you were there and he just didn’t happen to run into you, but he met the same response: relief that you’d stopped coming around. It got to the point where he was checking the Bludhaven Gazette’s website to see if you’d written any new articles. Nothing.

Dick figured there’d be no way to really contact you; it wasn’t like he could just call your job and be like ‘hey, why isn’t this journalist bothering me anymore?’. He tried pushing you to the back of his mind, but he found himself still looking for you. It annoyed him - even when you weren’t there, you still managed to find a way to bug him. Before he knew it, a month had passed without seeing you. Then, as he was trying to schmooze up to a DA at the Policeman’s Ball, he could hear the telltale groan of another officer. You were there.

Sure enough, there you were in a black cocktail dress, a flute of champagne in hand, talking to someone he vaguely recognized from a different precinct. He wanted to excuse himself from his conversation just to see where the hell you’d been, but he knew he couldn’t risk it. He’d just have to find you later.

Then you slipped away yet again. Dick kept seeing glimpses of you here and there, but he could never catch up to you. It wasn’t until you went to the bar that Dick finally found his opening. You were talking to someone, but he didn’t really care at the moment. He slid up beside you at the bar, ordering a drink. He could see you straighten up at the sound of his voice, knowing he had your attention. As he took a drink of the whiskey in his cup, he turned to look at you.

You were a lot more done up than you normally were when you were working, but he couldn’t say he strongly preferred either. You looked amazing either way, just in different ways. “(L/n), funny running into you here.”

“Grayson,” you greeted, taking a sip of your own drink. “I can hardly believe this is an accident considering the way you’ve been watching me all night.”

That took him off guard, just enough to make him choke on his drink for a second. As soon as he regained his composure, he tried to figure out how to come back from his blunder. “Well, yeah. I thought I was seeing a ghost considering how you just disappeared.”

Not his best work, but you gave an amused smile so he would count it as a win. “Aw, you missed me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. It was just weird not being bothered every second of my work day.” You tipped your glass back, the last of your drink passing your lips. He watched as you swallowed before putting the glass back on the counter, leaving some bills folded under it.

“Ah, I see. Well, I guess I’ll see you around, Grayson.” You stood from your seat, giving him one last look before turning to disappear back into the crowd. Dick would have to work fast if he wanted to catch up to you before you slipped through his fingers yet again. He paid for his drink and left a tip as fast as he could, scanning through the crowd for you again. You were about to disappear down the hallway towards the bathrooms, and he still had to make his way through the crowd as politely as possible while also avoiding conversation. Damn social conventions. 

You walked down the hall, wanting to escape to the bathroom for a few minutes to compose yourself, when you felt a hand around your wrist. You whipped around, not knowing who would be daring enough in a room full of police, just to see the last person you wanted to. “Grayson, let go of me.”

“No,” his voice was firm before he realized it must’ve been a little jarring to just get grabbed. “Sorry, but no.”

“What do you want?”

“Why are you even here?”

“It’s my job. I’m reporting on this damn thing,” you practically hissed, trying again to tug your wrist free from his hold. “Why do you care so much?”

“You’ve been MIA for a month and then suddenly you just appear here of all places? What gives?” He said, stepping towards you. You took a step back, trying to keep the distance, but your back just hit the wall behind you. You were forced to look up at him, the storm in his blue eyes surprising you. Why did it matter so much?

“I got sick, alright? My editor thought this would be an easy returner,” you snapped, trying to maintain your glare with him. It was a little difficult with how close he was to not get flustered, but you did what you needed to. “Why, did you miss me?”

You could tell that pissed him off by the smallest flare of his nose, but before you could take in the victory, he hit his arm on the wall above you. He kept it there, trapping you between his body and the wall. He wasn’t pressed against you just yet, but you wouldn’t be opposed to it if it was. “Why do you like pissing me off so much?”

He really didn’t see the opportunity he presented you with. You grabbed his tie the slightest bit, giving him the chance to pull away if he wanted to. When he didn’t, you used it to pull him down to your eye level. “Have you ever considered how fun it is?”

There was a moment of pure silence between the two of you, the faint noise of the party still going on just down the hall reminding you that you weren’t actually alone. Your gaze flicked down to his lips for just a moment, and then it was over. You don’t know who closed the distance first, but it didn’t really matter. The kiss was heated from the beginning, messy with tongue and teeth but you weren’t going to complain about it. Your hold on his tie tightened, pulling him closer to you. Dick’s arm moved from pressed against the wall above you, one hand fisting in your hair and the other wrapping around your waist to pull your body against him.

“God, I hate you,” Dick panted soon after he broke the kiss.

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t?” You tried teasing, even though your voice was a lot more airy than you would care to admit.

“You annoy the hell out of me.”

“I’m a journalist that doesn’t give cops any wiggle room, of course I do.” He rolled his eyes, making you smile. You pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “But you still missed me.”

“I guess I did. Do you maybe wanna get out of here?” You raised your brow, knowing he had to know how that sounded. It took him a second, but it finally clicked. “Not like that! Get some food or something. You probably aren’t annoying all the time.”

“You underestimate me,” you joked, making him smile. He has a pretty smile. “But I’ll take you up on that. Just make sure you behave yourself.”

“You’re the one who kissed me!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” You freed yourself from his arms, making your way back down the hallway towards the exit. It took him a second, but you heard Dick following close behind. He pressed a hand to the small of your back, making sure you wouldn’t slip from his fingers again.

**********

Dress Inspiration

Permanent Tag List: @treatallwithkindness, @laic2299, @delaber

[myckicade]

Prompt: OMG. Love the Taza imagine! If you're OK with that, would you be OK with a Bishop one? I'd love to see him jealous!

A/N: Uhm. Yeah. So. This is now a thing. This one is a little different, in more ways than one. (I have a feeling I’ll be doing a second part). I should warn about some ugly language in this one, just in case. I want to wish you a happy read, and to apologize, at the same time.

Title: Bottom of the Bottle

Teaser: Your world has gone on, as normal. You just haven’t included Bishop in it.

Two days.

It’s been two days, Bishop reminds himself. Two days since he’s heard from you. Two days since you left his bed, his home, his life. It’s dramatic as hell, and he knows so, but the bottom of his bottle is whispering ugly thoughts in his face.

(Y/n)’s cheating.

(Y/n)’s dead.

No, (y/n)’s definitely fucking another man.

Groaning, Bishop pulls the bottle away from his mouth, and scrubs his free hand over his face. “This is insane,” he growls, snatching his phone from his nightstand.

Two. Fucking. Days.

Opening up his recent calls, Bishop stares at the screen. He’s made fifteen calls, in the last forty-eight hours. Two to Taza. One to Marcus. The other twelve all have your name on them. All twelve, no answers. All twelve, unreturned voicemails. He scowls. He’s sent more text messages than that, even. Those haven’t been returned, yet, either.

Fuck, he has it so fucking bad.

You’re fine, he knows that much. He’s been by your apartment, more than once. The cat is fed, and content. Litter box has been changed. There are clothes all over your bedroom floor, coffee mugs on the kitchen counter. Mail hasn’t piled up. Your world has gone on, as normal.

You just haven’t included Bishop in it.

He doesn’t understand it. What went wrong? He can’t remember being that big a dick to you, before you left. He’d teased you about the smudge of mascara under your eyes, from the night before, but that was it. You’d given him a kiss, and one of your brightest smiles. There was no indication, not that Bishop can see, that you wouldn’t be coming back.

See you soon. That’s what you’d told him. See you soon.

Forgive him. He doesn’t consider fifty-four hours, and some change, to be soon.

Heaving a sigh, Bishop abandons his stare-off with his call records in favour of a swig of vodka. He can’t call, again, he just can’t. It’s getting pathetic. He’s getting pathetic. He can’t remember the last time he was like this, even before his divorce. Lovers come, and lovers go, in his life. That’s just a part of the life. But, you… God, you’re something else, entirely. You don’t intermingle with the Club, very often, but there’s no tension (that he’s aware of) over how he earns a living. It’s refreshing, he has to admit, both halves of his being playing so nicely, together. (It’s so damn close to harmony, he won’t look at it, too closely, for fear of disappointment). He can work the whole day away, and come home pissed off, and worn out, and ruin every damned plan you have for the night… And, somehow, you adapt. You. You. Bishop swears, there’s nothing you won’t alter. A nicely-set table becomes plates in front of the television. A night out drinking becomes shots at home, cards and conversation filling the spaces between. And, on those rare nights he’s too tired to pleasure you? He hasn’t heard a peep about it, by way of complaint. You just accept that he’s going to shower, and hit the hay, and that’s the end of it. Sometimes, Bishop feels like he takes advantage of your good nature.

Oh, good nature, hell, you’re a fucking Saint.

He really should have seen this coming, this all blowing up in his face.

Is that it, though? Has he really driven you away, by not paying attention to your needs? He hasn’t seen the signs. You’re such a damned sweetheart, there probably haven’t been any signs to miss, at all. You’ve just smiled, and smooched, and carried on as normal, until it got to be too much.

That’s it. He’s forced you away, and that’s why you’re ignoring him, and fucking another man.

A low roar forces its way from Bishop’s throat, and, a second later, glass is shattering against the bedroom wall. Shards are sticking up out of the carpet, vodka streaking down the wallpaper. Fuck, he hates that wallpaper. He can’t remember why he put it up, to begin with. He’s been asking you to pick a colour to paint over it with, any colour that isn’t white, and you’ve been finding it in yourself, each and every time, to remind him why he shouldn’t paint over wallpaper. Sometimes, he brings it up, just to make you laugh. Just to hear the explanation, on repeat. Now, he’s never going to hear it, again.

Fuck, he needs a fucking cigarette.

And, of fucking course, the pack is empty. Crumpling the paper in his hand, Bishop tosses it to the carpet, beside the growing vodka patch. He’s in no condition to be driving, a rarity, these days. (He won’t admit it, under pain of death, but he’s been drinking considerably less with you around, too). Probably why he’s two steps from sloshed, now. He should just stay home, yes, he should. There’s no need for cigarettes, not at this hour. He should keep himself calm, and go to bed. Wait for your call.

Standing to his feet, Bishop grabs his keys, and his wallet, and heads for the door. Without you around, what is he saving himself for?

*

Well… Okay, so, that’s decidedly not the convenience store.

Bishop stares at the apartment building – your apartment building – in something akin to wonder. He has no recollection of how he ended up here, parked in front of the entrance. It’s been twenty minutes, easily, that he’s been staring up at your living room window. The lamp beside the couch is on, the soft glow almost inviting to his impaired senses.

He really should go knock on the door.

He really should have stayed home, too.

So, you’re definitely home. Looking around at the parking lot, he doesn’t see your car. But, you never leave lights on, not on purpose. Whether you’re paranoid about fires, or worried about an expensive light bill, Bishop can only guess. Right now, he’s thankful. It gives him something to focus on, something to calm him… Something to entice him closer to your front door. Step by step, he tries to talk himself out of it. But, he can’t stand this, living this way, not knowing where you are, or what you’re doing, or who you’re doing, if it’s not him. It’s distracting, and he truly can’t afford to be distracted, not even by you, not like this. He has to go up, he just has to. He has to know, to figure this shit out, face-to-face.

Knock, knock, knock. Bishop finds himself comforted by the solid connection of your door against his knuckles. He could use his key, but it doesn’t feel right, not now. He could scare you, or piss you off, neither of which is on his list of desires. You’re a civil person, peaceful to a fault, so he might get away with it, sure, but… But…

This has to go right. He has to do this right. Whatever he did, or hasn’t done, Bishop’s confident he can fix it. You two have a good thing going. Sure, he’s got a few years on you, and there are gaps in understanding one another, every now and again. And, yeah, you’ve had a spat or two, in the last few months of your relationship. He’s always seen that as a sign of things getting comfortable, though, not a warning of bigger problems. Your arguments aren’t dire, anyway.

Who the fuck is ‘Nicki Minaj’, and why is she on my speaker system?

Why is your toilet paper on the roll, the wrong way?

How the hell can you be a Mets fan?

No, I’m serious. Who the fuck is ‘Nicki Minaj’?

That’s not enough for you to be screwing around on him, right?

As your door opens, and Bishop gets a good look at what’s been going on… Well, apparently, it’s enough.

“Who the fuck are you?” Bishop spits out, before the man at the door can even get out a greeting. Not exactly his nicest choice of words, but all Bishop can see is young, and tall, and handsome. If this motherfucker is a day over thirty, he’ll go vegan for a fucking year. Well-dressed, smells decent (he’s close enough to tell, okay?), without a frown line, or a speck of grey on him.

He’s not insecure. He’s not fucking insecure.

Handsome smiles, albeit a bit forced. “Oh, ah, hi! Are you looking for (y/n)?” He’s so polite, it stings. This kid – kid – is the poster child for Ivy League education, for all the right things in life. So clean-cut, his creases have creases. Meanwhile, here Bishop stands, in yesterday’s jeans, boots, kutte, and a wrinkled shirt he can’t swear is fresh.

He can’t stand this, either. As a result, in the blink of an eye, he has Handsome backed against a wall, hands fisted in his now-not-so-perfect shirt.

“Hey!” Handsome shouts, trying – and, failing – to shove Bishop off of him. Bishop can’t really fathom how, must be from sheer force of rage, probably fueled by his liquid indulgences. He can’t help it. His heart is in his throat, rhythm a little sketchy, at the thought that this is what you’ve chosen, over him? This? Some kid with a million-watt smile, and fucking Dockers? What fucking year is it, anyway?!

The idea forces an extra shove into the wall. Bishop hopes something cracks.

“What the fuck are you doing, here?” He hasn’t raised his voice, not a bit. If anything, it’s probably dropped an octave, settling into a low, dangerous growl. He’s two steps away from redecorating that perfect little face, just for the sheer joy of it, make it something you definitely won’t like, anymore.

That’s when he hears it.

“Obispo!”

It’s you. Even through the deluge of seething rage threatening to consume him, Bishop knows your voice. He looks over his shoulder, finding you standing in the still-open doorway. There’s a duffel bag slung over your shoulder, a bag of groceries in your other arm. You look surprised, but who wouldn’t be surprised to be caught, red-handed?

“What are you doing?” you ask, setting your bags down.

“I could ask you the same thing!” Bishop finally shouts, hands still twisted in your little boyfriend’s shirt. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Your confusion seems to be growing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He sneers. “You know what I’m talking about. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two days!” Bishop points back to your unwanted visitor, ignoring the way his hand shakes. “You ignore me, to whore around with this prick?!”

“The fuck did you just say?” Bishop nearly has a coronary, as a second guy steps into the doorway, behind you. Where the hell did he come from? This one… He’s just as tall, but he definitely doesn’t miss a day at the gym. If Bishop tries to put this one against the wall, he’ll find himself pile-driven into the floor. His arms may be full of groceries, but the look on his face is threatening bodily harm, and worse.

Doesn’t stop Bishop’s mouth from running, though.

“Oh, wow,” he chokes out, forcing a laugh from somewhere that feels wrong, cut-up and bloodied and wrecked. He shifts his eyes from Muscles, to you. “You running a whole thing outta’ here? Taking ‘em, two at a time?”

Muscles puts his bags down, advancing on Bishop, who lets go of Handsome, and takes a step back. Muscles puts himself between Bishop, and everyone else. Defensive. Protective. And, does that ever fucking hurt. If this guy is so ready to go to bat for you, he’s known you a lot longer than two days.

How did he fucking miss this?

Again, Bishop’s eyes find yours, and the sight of your beautiful face completely destroys the bravado. He feels his shoulders droop, chest deflating, defeat slowly creeping in. He’s still angry, he’s still hurt, but the devastation, the thing he’s worked so hard to avoid having to feel, in his life, ever again, is beginning to win.

“How?” he asks, arms spreading out to either side of him. “How could you do this, (y/n)?” He shakes his head, slowly. It’s been so good, everything has been so damned good. He’s trusted you, all this time. How could he be so stupid? “No, you know what? I should’ve known.” His words are blending with his thoughts, a little mismatched, but he doesn’t much care. A finger is suddenly pointing your way. “You’re full of shit, just like every other cunt out there.”

Instantly, he knows he shouldn’t have said it. He can’t take it back, no matter how hard he prays on it. Your expression is one he’ll remember for the rest of his days, coming back to haunt him in his darkest moments. Hurt, betrayed… Heartbroken… Oh, but, your words. The quiet murmur that follows that look, voice teetering on the edge of tears, will put the final nail in his coffin.

“This… This is my cousin, Alexander…” You gesture to Muscles. “And, his husband, Curtis.” A nod to Handsome.

Those… Those names sound awfully familiar. A recent conversation, if memory serves. And, shit, as he thinks about it, you did mention them, didn’t you? Which means that, all this… The last two days, no calls, no texts… It means that you were-

Is it really possible for blood to ice over?

“We just got in from that music festival…”

Music festival. The one Bishop hadn’t wanted to go to. The one you’d had your heart set on. Who the hell went into the desert to listen to music? How the fuck did instruments even work, in that much heat? He remembers asking those questions, remembers telling you to go with whoever you wanted, but to leave him out of it. You… You’d laughed, thanked him for his permission. He’d found your snark so damned cute.

Now… God, now, there’s nothing he won’t do to get that wet shimmer out of your eyes.

He just can’t get a single word to come out of his fucking mouth.

Silence stretches on, uncomfortable, no one knowing what to say, what to do, and with good reason. As the tension reaches its peak, you clear your throat, gently. “Sit down, Obispo…” You instruct, quietly, before he can even try to offer anything. You’re already heading for the kitchen, not looking at anyone, any longer. “I’ll make everyone some coffee.” You want him sober up, and he knows it. Won’t let him drive back, so obviously drunk, even after what’s just transpired. A Saint, to the fucking end.

Fuck, what has he fucking done?

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[interstellargatorskinboots1812]

Tapped Into Your Mind & Soul Chapter 5

WARNINGS: It’s an Alfie fic, so obviously SWEARING.

As always, i am a complete comment whore so PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE drop me a line to let me know what you think of the story so far.

All Things are Subject to Decay and Change

Alfie's red Bentley barges it's way through London- a city of vibrant smog which is helping Arabella feel at ease.  There is plenty of beauty to her in the soot-hazed stone of the passing buildings and even the Londoners who hunch by with sour faces and their misery reflected in the colour of the sky.

She is glad of the car's padded seats which absorb each of his sharp turns and brutal stops.

'It's like a circus round here', she comments with optimism, pushing her head further out of the window. Miles upon miles littered with curiosities - street artists providing depictions of escape on the cold pavement, costermongers shouting their trade and yards of train advertisements pasted onto lampposts in every colour. Alluring as the sound of jazz and the sight of the Charleston might be, London shrouds itself in so much more potential for her than flappers and frivolity. His irked voice snaps her from her thoughts.

'It's fuckin' 'orrible, too many animals in this circus'.

His knuckles are white from his grip on the wheel, intense focus directed to the trams and wagons weaving ahead of them. The car agitates over the metal tramlines, as a brown Hovis truck cuts in front of the car, coercing Alfie to slam on the breaks.

'Oh fucking hell!'. His tone is booming as  he reaches into his pocket , pulling out a pistol to aim at the offending driver. Arabella's mouth slowly drops open, capturing his arm and pulling the gun under the dashboard, obscuring it from view. With narrow eyes she quickly looks around to scan the area.

'Have you lost your mind, Alfie?'

'Treacle, these idiots, they only understand one language.'

'Well, lets not have you arrested on my first night in London, eh?'

A small grunt emits from his throat. He yanks his hand easily from her grip and stashes his gun back into his coat pocket.

'Suit yourself,' he grumbles. The car has been overtook now on more than one occasion, another headache to add to his list. Still, best not to piss her off on her first night  and so he turns his eyes back to the road ahead and daydreams of shooting the bollocks off the Hovis driver.

Twisting an unstrung strand of hair repetitively around her finger, she can't help but think about where they are going. It's going to be her new home for the foreseeable future and given the volatile looking environment of his work place, Arabella isn't holding out hope.

Moments later, the noise level begins to filter away as if they have turned down a road that is miles from any civilisation. Thriving with colourful flora within well tended gardens, regency era town houses stand majestically at three stories and with the fanciest of facades. A short and  stoutly older woman canters down the pavement, before turning right into one of the houses and desperately trying to manipulate two heavy shopping bags in order to open her gate. Alfie slows the car down to a stop and beeps his horn, making the poor woman almost jump to the moon, she briskly turns around.

'Oh, vey Alfie! Are you trying to bring me closer to God?' Alfie opens the car door and takes the bags from her hands, opening her cast iron gate with ease.

'What did I tell you Mrs Goldman, mhm? No lifting and carrying these heavy bags, eh? Ishmael can take you to the market and bring you back.'

'Ah Alfie that poor lad does everything, I don't need him helping me as well. I ask God not for a lighter burden but for broader shoulders'. She simpers at him with a twinkle behind her brown eyes that Arabella did not observe before the lady spoke with Alfie.

'Worryin' about you yeh, will be the death of me! Now, tell me that landlord of yours 'as sorted that broken light fixture?'

'He's getting round to it'.

'So, that'll be a no then?' Alfie furrows his brow, making it crease with line after line and tilts his head to the side. 'You need me to have a word with him?'

Mrs Goldman chuckles earnestly before pinching his cheek between her thumb and forefinger.

'Don't be a Schmuck Alfie, the last time you did that my rent went up to pay for his hospital bill. Now, who is this beauty you're sharing your car with hmm?'' Looking around Alfie's broad shoulders, her gaze falls on Arabella who feels rather sheepish under her matriarch stare. Sighing, he pinches the tension from the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needs is for Mrs Goldman to start shooting her mouth off at her knitting circle and have the whole of the Jewish community gossiping before he has had time to formulate how he can position Arabella into his life.

'It should be fuckin' noted right, that nothing gets past you'.

Catching Alfie unawares, she uses her now free hand to provide a sharp whack to the back of his head, making his eyes scrunch. Arabella's eyebrows curve upwards as she swallows down the urge to laugh.

'This is Arabella Shelby, the sister of one of my close business associates. She's going to be staying with me until she gets settled in London'.

So, that's how he plans to play this. Arabella exits the car.

'Nice to meet you Mrs. . . erm...'

'Goldman, dear'. She shakes Arabella's hand, her light touch and weak grip showing just how delicate she is. Alfie was right, she shouldn't have been carrying those bags.

'Please accept my apologies for Mr Solomons lack of manners, I assure you dear, he does possess them somewhere'. She sends her a wink.

'I'll let you know when the search party I've sent out, actually find them.'

This tickles the grey haired lady who stomps her foot letting out a huge guffaw and patting Arabella on the arm.

'I like her Alfie, she is sharp of tongue as well as looks'. She flashes him a knowing smile, one that makes him shift from foot to foot. Much as he likes Mrs Goldman, he can muster no interest in her insinuating words.

'Right, well as much as I'd like to stand here as if i'm fuckin' not and be insulted, we have to get going. Miss Shelby here 'as 'ad a rather eventful day so, goodbye Mrs Goldman'.

She throws a harried glance at Alfie before returning a polite smile at Arabella.

'Now my dear, just you remember that I am but five doors down and that makes us neighbours. Should this  Mazik get to you, just pop on to my door and i'll make sure you're always greeted with a cup of tea and a listening ear.'

Alfie knew that her words served only to aggravate him. He places a hand on Arabella's arm to lead her back to the car and curses his poor decision making for stopping here in the first place.

'Lovely to meet you Mrs Goldman, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of one another'. Alfie's gentle push to the car, turns into a shove.

'I'm sure we will my dear, and it's Nelly to you.'

Alfie watches to make sure Mrs Goldman enters her house safely.

'Sister of a close business associate? Dread to think how you'll introduce me to people when I'm your wife.'

'Arabella, that woman has a mouth wider than the Thames, best to give her as little detail as possible and save her choking on gossip'.

Crossing her arm over her waist and tucking it in at her elbow, she turns toward her window. With a roll of his eyes, he starts up the car. They don't have to travel far before the vehicle is once again stationary. Straightening  up in her seat, she observes the building in front of her.  All of the houses on the street were identical in their architecture, stressed in uniformity – this one however,  was built with a desire for individuality.  

'There ya go, look. Home, sweet-fucking-home'. He walks around the car to help her out. She is mesmerised by the grand blossom tree that pushes the house into almost obscurity due to it's size, looming over the black front door. Pale pink pieces that have been wooed from the tree by the spring winds, gather under her feet, a reminder of life's fickleness. Concealing herself behind Alfie, her cautious spirit holds an inner negotiation with her resilience as they walk up a black and white tiled pathway.  Inside the warmth of the house engulfs them both along with a nauseating charcoal smell. Her foot suddenly slides on something slippy on the marble floor. Bending down she picks up a folded piece of paper that is lay in the doorway. Alfie's name is written on it in the scrawled handwriting.

'Alright now, let's have a look and see if your suitcase has been dropped off... what's that?'

'You tell me, it's got your name on it.'

The blithe and animated Alfie Solomons she is getting to know  is barely recognisable now as an ashen and turbulent man stands across from her, a wrathful look in his blue-green eyes. Frantically he grapples the paper from her hands and faces away from her to peek at the contents.

'Must be something awfully important'. She says, standing on tiptoes to see over his shoulders. The note buckles into pieces as he folds it in his fist, harshly.

'Who's asking you?' his quick-tempered reply takes her by surprise and she narrows her eyes at him, making him clear his throat.

'It's a betting tip if you must know. As an occasional bookmaker, I do need to keep a sharp eye out for the fastest horses'.

He stashes the note into his deep pocket. They both stand facing one another, Alfie towering over her by a good few inches. Neither of them speaking, just eyes setting fire to the other pair. The door at the end of the hall bursts open and commotion on four paws comes bounding excitedly towards his owner.  

'Oh, 'ere he is look, the behemoth with a wagging tale. Ello mate, did you miss me?' Placing his hand onto his right hip, Alfie slowly bends down to fuss and stroke the solid bulk of his bull mastiff.

His incensed constitution replaced with playful humour by his four-legged friend. As if sensing the presence of a stranger, his dog bolts into an alert position and begins to bark anxiously and warningly at Arabella. Alfie prepares himself to calm down his probably panicked fiancé. He's not expecting the hand that comes to his elbow, pushing him aside as she crouches in front of the slobbering beast, offering her hand to smell.

'Hello, you. I've heard so much about you, don't you know?' She strokes her hand roughly over the top of the dog's head, which he immediately cocks and begins to excitedly wag his tail.  'See, your gruff and tough owner here is a huge softy when it comes to you, he doesn't shut up about you'. Alfie watches on as  she undauntedly makes a fuss, not caring about the amount of froth being drooled onto what looks like an expensive, if not gaudy, coat.

'Well, his name is Cyril and he's supposed to be an all powerful and protective breed, but I will acknowledge that it appears I was fuckin' lied to about that'. He crinkles his forehead as he watches Cyril gracelessly roll onto his back so Arabella can rub at his belly.

'Well I think he's just perfect., i'm sure we'll get on like a house on fire.

'Let's see if you're still saying that when he's all over you at five in the morning because he wants to go out for a piss'.

Arabella looks up at him and shakes her head. 'I can see Cyril here holds all the power in this house'.

'Oh yeh? An how do you work that out?'

She pushes herself up to standing and offers him a condescending smile. 'Because Alfie, power lies in loyalty and I can see how dyed-in-the-wool you are with him'.

'That so? Well, lets see where my loyalty gets him tomorrow when Edna sees these muddy paw prints on her mopped floor'.

'Edna?'

He scratches Cyril behind his ears as he steps closer to her.

'My maid. Lovely woman she is, reminds me of me Mother. You'll meet her tomorrow. Now, do you wanna see your new home?'

****************************************

Arabella piano-plays her fingertips on the dark walnut dressing table, listening to the rain outside as it pelts the windows and drips from the alien roof. She could float half way to heaven as she kicks off her slippers and the plush carpet hugs at her swollen feet. Alfie has spent some of the evening showing her around his impressive home. A big house, one she dreamed of owning as a child with it's polished wooden floors and graceful bannisters. Nothing like her Small Heath dwellings. Is it possible she is beginning to get homesick for a place she isn't even sure exists? One with love and where her soul is understood. However, when he had shown her the fully plumbed copper bath tub, she was ready to say 'i- do'  post haste.

Alfie is steadfast becoming a curious paradox – his abode is a beautiful palace, gleaming with a spotless silence. It's king, all the same is harsh and unpredictable with a flare of intelligence and good looks. Although she is hasten to admit it, he intrigues her.

Until Tommy sorts  the delivery of the rest of her things, all of her is compacted into the small suitcase that she pulls from the bed to put away She puts on her nightie, a soft cream silk slip – although well worn, still immaculate.  After an argument with Alfie regarding sleeping arrangements, they finally agreed that they should be adult enough to share a bed to make their relationship more realistic to his house staff. Standing in front of the floor length, mirror she watches as his mother's locket swings off her neck like a stranger. She pats the soft garment over her stomach - full from a delicious stew his maid had prepared, which she enjoyed alone. Alfie has secreted himself in his downstairs office and she has not seen sight nor sound of him all night..

The sound of smashing glass makes her jump, she can hear the thundering voice of Alfie barking out words she can't make out. Whatever the furore is, it's emanating from the upstairs landing. She quickly steps out of the room and sees the bathroom door ajar. Inside Alfie is desperately trying to wrestle Cyril inside a large fluffy towel. The floor around him is immersed in water and Alfie's shirt is saturated.

'Cyril, keep-the-fuck-still'. His fractious tone echoes off the bathroom tiles as he battles against his dog.

'Alfie, do you need some help?'

'No we've got this under control, ain't we boy'. As Cyril succumbs to submission, allowing his master to begin to towel dry his fur, Alfie looks up to acknowledge Arabella, his eyes immediately give her a once over and he feels the inside of his throat dry up as he spots her legs. Cyril takes advantage of his master's distraction and bounds his way out of the towel, bouncing his head off the copper bath in the process, before galloping his way to Arabella.

'Cyril! Ya daft, mad cunt! Get back 'ere now!' Taking not a ounce of notice, Cyril jumps frenziedly onto Arabella, wet paws pushing away at her.

'Get off 'er now ya demented lad! CYRIL! Fuck sake!'

Uncontrollable barks bite their way back at Alfie who is now tugging at his dog's paws, trying to gain purchase to pull him off her, flattened and trapped as she is against the wall.

'Fuckin' hell Cyril, what are you playing at, get off. . . stop trying to wrestle . . .CYRIL! I'm warning y. . . '

'SIT!' Her voice is loud and stern as she points to the floor with a free hand. Cyril obeys and sits down, Arabella following him to the ground, untwisting the towel from  around Alfie's fisted hands and slowly patting down Cyril's blubbery body. The dog sits calmly, with his head held up majestically as if he is content in being obedient for her.

'Right fuckin' turncoat ya are Cyril. Get one whiff of a woman and you forget about me, eh?' He folds his arms and leans against the door frame, watching as Arabella softly finishes drying.

'It's all in the tone, Alfie. You have to be stern not erratic'. She stands up smugly in front of him.

'S'at so?' He looks her up and down once more, only this time he notices just how wet Cyril has made her and he swallows hard. The light fabric of her night dress is now translucent and he can make out the shape of her ample breasts and the enticing colouring of her nipples. The quick glance he gets before looking away is like a blow to his chest. Her body is certainly holding his interest but he knows he can't take any more of her in. He does not want to look at all, but this was unavoidable.

Clearing his throat and picking up the towel from Cyril, he gestures to her chest.

'You might need this, to erm cover . . . ' She looks down and immediately covers her chest with her arms, taking the towel from him to dry off.

'I'm sorry about Cyril, he can be a right lunatic when he wants to be.'

'They're just tits, Alfie', she says as she notices how he has turned his body away from her.

'No, they're not just tits- they're yours and it's not up to my maniacal dog to expose them because he can't keep bloody still'. He moves past her into the bedroom and reappearing a few seconds later.

'You can wear this if you like, whilst you dry that off. I promise it's clean'. He hands her one of his white shirts which she gladly accepts.

'You're nothing like I thought you would be, Alfie'.

'Yeh?' He moves closer to her. 'That's because, right, true power lies in the unexpected'. They both stare at the other, as if taking notes, before he breaks the chain and walks away toward the staircase.

'Cyril, come on', he pats his leg and Cyril follows, leaving her flustered on the landing. Was it possible that Solomons possessed a more human side that contradicts his reputation? She turns away from the stairs and hurries into the bathroom to change. Closing the door, she notices Alfie's black wool coat hanging from the hook. The coat he placed his secretive letter in earlier. An uneasy feeling washes over her, she always respects privacy, to her far too many people can't live in silence for fear of missing applause from an audience who don't even care. She has to see what has him so vexed though -  if she wants to be ahead of him and her brother then she has to do some necessary digging. Before she can talk herself out of it, she plunges her hand into his pocket and pulls out the piece of paper. As she turns it over she can see that this is not the same note. This is a pink betting slip- after further rummaging, she realises he has moved the note elsewhere.

'Fuck' she says, annoyed. One final glance and she sees what looks like a phone number on the back.. She leaves the bathroom in a hurry, her hand concealing the slip.

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[aboardthehavocmarauder]

Beautiful Mischief [Pt. 3]

Bad Batch x Reader • Angst/Fluff/NSFW (yknow the whole deal) • Mechanic [hidden Jedi] ! Reader • Female reader

Fall on your knees, sweet girl

Sweet girl...

——

“SHES A FUCKING JEDI”

“And how the fuck would you know that?”

“HER PETITE FUCKING ASS CANT TAKE DOWN A TREE IN A SINGLE PUNCH”

“You think she used the force?”

“She did! Don’t believe me?! Wait till the next incident”

Y/N frowns outside the cockpit hearing Cross talk about what he saw with Hunter and Tech. She straightens up when Echo came into the common area seeing the angered look on her face. He didn’t say a word. They stood in the silence and Y/N felt overwhelmed all of a sudden causing her to leave the room, before he could reach—-

“Don’t touch her Echo. We don’t know what she’s capable of” Tech states witnessing what just happened as Echo gave him a worried look.

——

“You’re taking on a Padawan? You know what Anakin turned out to be. You think you’ll produce a normal one?”

“They are Anakin’s age now. Not a child. I believe I can train them to be the best”

“A little late to find a force sensitive being”

“I didn’t find her, she found me”

“I trust you Obi Wan. But—“

Don’t be surprised by the hardships

——

Wrecker finds himself in the storage compartment looking for extra ration bars in their food supply when he saw Y/N sitting on the ground propped up against her crate staring at the ceiling.

“Hey?” He tilts his head confused seeing the redness in her eyes and swollen cheeks. “Hey Y/N...what’s wrong?” He decided to sit with her waiting for her to respond and if she didn’t, he would’ve stayed as a comfort.

“I’m a monster Wrecker”

“What? I don’t think so”

“Crosshair does, he’s telling everybody what he saw in the forest. Just another monster in this galaxy full of darkness”

“Okay now that’s a lot of talk. I’m going to need context”

“He didn’t tell you? None of your brothers did?”

“Honestly I ignore what most of them say” Wrecker laughs as he handed her a ration bar seeing her take the offer.

“I worked on your ship for a year before you decided to add me on this journey with you all. Then it’s been six months and as much as you’re all close with one another...I don’t think I’ll ever been looked at normally ever again”

“Y/N...from the time with the scar thing. Scars are scars. It was stupid of us to push you to tell us what happened. As for this recent thing. Speaking for myself, I don’t care what you are. You’re Y/N. A badass mechanic that knows a lot more than we expected. And if shit changes. Who gives a fuck? Imma still like you for you. Besides. Half of my face is a scar and I don’t give a fuck” Wrecker smiles hearing her laugh a little, feeling better.

——

“Two lightsabers? Ha! This will work nicely for you young apprentice”

Y/N stares with grey covered eyes standing still like a solider as the dathomirian receives the kyber crystals for the hilts before handing the new and improved sabers to his mindless slave.

“You’ll receive a new look. Keep you hidden away from the so called Jedi you used to call your family. Little do they know your parents died and adoptive sister left. Or you left her. I’ve always wondered why you did so”

“I wanted to become a Jedi, Odious...” Y/N says groggily before freeing when he started to force choke her. “I’m sorry sir...”

“Mmm. Are you truly, sweet girl?” He smirks pushing her against the wall and keeping her there like a wall ornament. “We don’t want you to remember to good old days...we need information and you will kill for it if it deems necessary” Odious laughs squeezing his hold hearing her choke. “You will kill if they won’t expose their secrets. We will take down the Jedi council”

Soon Y/N dropped on her side feeling the cold ground turn into a cold surrounding. Feeling like death was crawling in but she quickly stood to their feet seeing Odious’s accomplices approach her to start the appearance change.

No one said it was pain-free

——

Returning to Coruscant, Y/N thought she was being dropped off but Hunter assured her it was for Echo to receive some simplicity with his brothers in blue.

Even the clones need to go back to their home.

“You coming?”

“No”

“But come on. The mess hall will have more of those ration bars you like” Wrecker adds as Y/N stayed glued to her seat feeling a weight grow in her chest when she sensed him. “Y/N?”

“I can’t Wrecker...I know we’ll be here for three days but I’m safe here”

“Well you know where we’ll be” He smiles being the last stepping off the ramp as it closed behind him.

But it didn’t take until nightfall for Y/N to step out and take a look at something that over came their thoughts.

——

“You’ll be staying”

“No Obi-Wan”

“Y/N you’ve come so far. Why give up training now?”

“Your master was a grey-Jedi because he didn’t believe in the rules the council had held accountable on us all. I can’t live in a cult that doesn’t want me to seek out for more in my life”

“But you can—“

“I’m not becoming a whore of the Jedi council all because I can fuck every man that steps into the facility. I want to fall in love. I want to be free. Free from my personal burdens. Reunite with my sister. Go home. I won’t be corrupted Obi Wan. You can keep your tabs on me if you like. But I cannot be here”

“Y/N. Please”

“Take a look behind you Obi Wan, and what do you see?”

Obi Wan turns around to look at the city of Coruscant erupt in colors and volumes of plenty. He was about to say something but when he turned around.

She was gone

——

And now she’s returned

Y/N stepped into the quarters she stayed in during her time there. The nostalgia started to hit when the familiar feeling returned.

“Leave”

“Y/N—“

“Leave me alone” She frowns clenching her fists. “You shouldn’t have come out of whatever corner you were in”

“Y/N it took courage for you to come back inside this place. Please just let me spe—“

Obi Wan suddenly hit the wall outside of her room as she stepped out quickly leaving.

“General I heard—“ Cody stopped talking seeing Y/N and his General on the floor, triggering him to take out his weapon. “You stay right there”

“Don’t hurt him Y/N”

“I’m not a monster like you Kenobi” Y/N frowns lifting her hands and before Cody could even do anything, she booked it in the other direction.

“What the—“ Cody started chasing after her as Obi Wan quickly gets on his feet following in suit after the two.

Having no obstacle in the way made it easy, until Cody called in reinforcements from Rex and a few more from the 501st.

“This—“

“It’s Y/N. Why would Cody—“

“Cody explain?!”

“Cody stand down for maker’s sake” Obi Wan states. “You can’t just—“

“They—“

“NO” He snaps as the distress in his voice made Cody finally stop thinks but the actions still confused his brothers. “Now leave. All of you. Except Y/N”

As the sun sets on today

We’ll never know about tomorrow

——

“General Kenobi. New information has come up”

“What about this time Cody?”

“About fugitive x. You said to dig up anything on them and we got something”

Obi Wan turns to Cody seeing the information on the datapad and taking it, leaving to process this all.

Fugitive X

Name: Y/F/N Y/L/N

Found in the streets of the black market wielding duel lightsabers. Nothing life threatening. But they were found with a kyber crystal that was floating around in the market.

“This...isn’t giving me anything...” Cody frowns flipping through the pictures and finding the video from one of the street cameras of them taking out a knife and suddenly—-

Fuck

——

“Why didn’t you come back once you escaped?”

“Why would I?”

“What do you mean...”

“Just because you had spies in my life to keep tabs on me. Doesn’t mean they saw everything. You......” Y/N stops talking as she brings her knees to her chest staring out in the scenery as Obi Wan sheds his robe to be comfortable around her just enough. “You...you lost your master. Imagine that pain, but with your humanity, sanity...”

“Y/N, what happened?”

“A lot...”

A lot that nobody knows

Until now