#bastard had the audacity to say “something terrible has happened here” | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jimlingss · 4 years

Note

ooo exciting !!! jungkook + romance/fluff + "kiss me" + e2l

Anonymous said: Can I request a fluffy jungkook fic with a touch of angst. Any AU you want and maybe a friends to lovers? Feel free to decline :)

Anonymous said: a fluffy “oh! you’re jealous” prompt with Jungkook pls? any au is fine☺️

Anonymous said: jungkook, prompt list 1 - #27: “Are you blushing?” :> i hope you have a lovely holiday season!!

Anonymous said: Friends to lovers!! Or enemies to lovers pls!! I love that shit

This is the most ambitious crossover of requests since Avengers lol jk.

↳ Suspended, Seduced, Surprised!

1.9k || 99.5% Fluff, 0.5% Angst || Jeon Jungkook || E2L, Huddle For Warmth!AU (sort of)

It started off with Jungkook coming out of nowhere and nearly scaring the living daylights out of you.

He laughed — that noisy sound that makes his nose scrunch — and you rolled your eyes, turning back around in the line. When the ski lift chair arrived, he asked if he could come too. You told him to kindly fuck off, but in the next second, he slid next to you, smiling widely.

It was too late for him to get off. Not when your feet was already lifted off the ground.

You don’t know why he’s so adamant about bothering you. If Taehyung didn’t tell you at the last minute that Jungkook was coming along, you would’ve just not come on this trip and ruin your winter break like this.

“Why didn’t you go with Sana?”

The ski lift is ascending upwards at an incline, moving past the coniferous trees and those skiing down the mountain beneath you. Luckily, it wasn’t too sunny or snowy out. But the air was still sharp with frost that’s long made your cheeks numb. Every exhale past your parted lips creates a cloud of condensation.

Jungkook’s thick brow lifts and he pushes his ski goggles up onto his head, on top of his blue beanie like yours. His doe eyes look at you. “Why would I go with her?”

You shoot him an incredulous expression. You don’t know why he’s playing dumb. “I thought you were trying to get cozy with her.”

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth slyly curls and he leans in. “Oh. You’re jealous.”

Instantly, your face contorts into a disgusted expression and a boyish laugh bubbles out of him.

“I would,” he says, “but she already has a boyfriend.”

“She does?”

Jungkook hums. “Some guy two years older than us, majoring in finance.”

Oh. You didn’t know that.

Suddenly it sinks in that you’re having an actual conversation with Jungkook. One where he’s being a cocky asshole only a tiny amount and you can actually bear through it. It almost feels like you’re….friends.

But right as the thought comes to mind, the ski lift chair halts and momentarily swings. You jolt, looking at the chair ahead of you that’s frozen as well before turning around. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Everyone is seemingly as confused as you are. “It looks like we’re stuck.”

You groan. “Oh shit.”

Five minutes later, Taehyung comes wandering underneath you. He stands by a tree on the sidelines and cups his gloved hands around his mouth. “Oh my god!” he screams at the top of his lungs. “I finally found you guys!”

“Taehyung!” You shout back at him. “What’s going on?!”

“Well, I was looking around for ages and Jimin wanted to give up since he thought you went down to the lodge and I told him no way—”

“Dude!” Jungkook shrieks and you wince at the sheer volume of his voice. “We get it!”

You remember why he grinds on your nerves so badly. Everything Jeon Jungkook does just irritates you. Including the fact that he was currently trying to burst your eardrums.

“Right! Sorry! They said it would be fixed in half an hour! Hang in there!” Taehyung fist pumps the air with a rectangular grin as if it’s enough to encourage the two of you and you sigh loudly.

“Whelp.” Jungkook settles back into his seat. “Looks like we won’t die.”

“Great.”

“Are you cold?”

You turn to the boy, surprised that he’s actually considerate enough to—

“We could always get naked, you know,” he adds, shattering the image of him that had curated in your mind for point two seconds and it flees as quickly as it came. “To converse heat.”

Your mouth opens, speechless. You shake your head. “Right when I thought you were being nice to me for once.”

Jungkook grins unabashedly. “I am being nice. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t flirt like this with anyone else and if you ask me, I think it’s working too.” The bastard leans in and you lean backwards to keep more distance. He bats his pretty lashes. “Are you blushing?”

You deadpan, “It’s literally negative thirty degrees out.”

He laughs again.

The both of you get comfortable, laying your ski poles across your laps, and looking out at the snowy mountain landscape that’s all too peaceful. Or at least until you feel a poke through your puffed jacket.

You look down to find Jungkook handing you a heat pack from his pocket. “It’s not much but it might help.”

“....Thanks.”

Strangely, the guy doesn’t brag about how kind he is or how much you should appreciate the gesture. He simply starts to hum to kill time. It’s soothing. Kind of nice to listen to even.

You enjoy it until he abruptly stops and asks— “Why do you hate me so much?”

You look at him. “Seriously?”

Jungkook smiles and it’s somehow reminiscent of a rabbit. “What? Nothing like confronting people when they’re trapped in a spot with nowhere to run, right? Plus, this is a good opportunity to be reflective, don’t you think?”

You scoff, not sure where to begin. But there’s no reason why you should spare him from the truth of why you grew to have such a strong distaste for him. If he wants to know, you’ll happily let him know.

“How about for never calling me back after you slept with me? Is that a good enough reason for you?”

Jungkook’s head whirls over. The bomb’s been dropped.

You feel his stare on your profile. It goes deathly quiet.

It’s the biggest resentment you held against him, what made his cocky attitude even uglier to you. Maybe you shouldn’t be so angry. It wasn’t like he vowed anything would happen afterwards. Maybe he thought it was supposed to be a no-strings attachment thing. But it wasn’t like that for you.

Jungkook acted interested when you first met. He sweet-talked you. He led you to believe there would be something more. And when there wasn’t— well, the rest is history.

You wonder if Jungkook’s shriveling up and cringing for asking in the first place or if he’s remotely ashamed. You hope he is. It serves him right. The audacity he has to talk to you casually after ghosting you so brutally like that is insulting. You wonder how he’ll respond, if he’ll regret bringing the subject up, if he’ll try to conjure some kind of half ass apology—

“Because you never gave me your number.”

This time, your neck snaps towards him. Jungkook’s gaze is unwavering.

“You’re the one who ditched me,” he says. “You were gone when I woke up.”

“I wrote you a note. On a napkin on the dresser.”

The man, in the blue snowboard jacket and black ski pants, frowns. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. Do you think I would lie about this?”

“Then I never saw it.”

It’s easy for Jungkook to lie. One of his many talents is his pretty lips that has easy words rolling off his tongue like butter. But by his expression, the slight pout of his mouth, the furrow of his brows, you can tell he’s being genuine. There isn’t any facade, any flirtation.

“I would’ve remembered if I saw it cause that morning Taehyung woke me up and he never wakes up before me. But he was whining because of his allergies and needed me to run to the pharmacy—”

The pair of you go silent.

It dawns on you both.

Kim Taehyung.

Knowing Taehyung and his godforsaken allergies, he must’ve taken the napkin and sneezed right into it. He probably threw it in the trash or took it with him and crumpled it into his hand. God fucking dammit.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jungkook murmurs, his eyes rounded at the realization.

You shift uncomfortably. The possibilities of what-if storm your mind. What if Jungkook saw it, what if he texted you or called you afterwards like he promised. What if you didn’t meet again on accident through Taehyung but continued the communication yourselves. Could he be sitting here next to you as someone more in your life?

But you brush the thoughts away as it overwhelms you.

“That’s funny,” you pipe up, mustering some stiff laughter, breaking the silence. “At least we solved one mystery.”

“Y/N.”

“It’s cold.” You wrap your arms around you. “We should stop talking and conserve heat.”

Jungkook nods and the pair of you quiet down. But without conversation, time drags on slower.

You peek a look at him and instead of being deep in thought like you thought he’d be, Jeon Jungkook is looking around, blinking with his doe eyes, the black strands from his bangs nearly pricking into them. He’s completely nonchalant and you internally sigh to yourself.

You’re not sure what you were expecting.

Jungkook is Jungkook.

That note on the dresser probably wouldn’t have changed anything.

“Y/N.” He speaks up a minute later.

“What?”

“You know how we could keep warm?”

“What.”

“Kiss me.”

You could not roll your eyes harder.

An enormous grin spreads into Jungkook’s cheeks, irises twinkling from the snow’s refraction. The little shit has too much fun annoying you and he jumps at the chance to continue to egg you on, “Why? Too scared to? Think you might fall in love with me now that we cleared the air and you don’t hate me anymore?”

He bats his lashes exaggeratedly.

You scoff. “Yeah right. As if.”

“Then why not?”

Your head spins around to face him, momentarily taken aback at how he’s a few inches away but you conceal your expression just as quick. You don’t know why he’s so insistent on this terrible joke. “Why? Do you want me to kiss you?”

Jeon Jungkook’s grin taunts you.

You loll your head to the side, eyes narrowing into slits. “You think I won’t do it.”

“I’m just trying to improve the mood.” He sits back and shrugs, having too much fun watching your explosive reactions. “It doesn’t matter what I say to you. You’re a dog with all bark but no bite, Y/N. I know you too well.”

Your jaw clenches at the challenge. At his mocking tone. At the bastard’s audacity.

And just to prove him wrong, you grab Jungkook’s face in your hands and turn him towards you. In one breath, you aggressively slam your mouth against his. It almost hurts. Your teeth nearly clash. But you barely feel anything with your numb lips except for how chapped his lips are.

It’s a brief kiss, but enough to prove yourself.

You pull away with a cocked brow and small smirk, relishing in his wholly stunned expression.

At that same moment, the ski lift jolts and starts to move again. Someone behind you cheers.

“You don’t know me at all, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur softly, seductively and with the smirk still plastered on your features. The unloading zone approaches, so you move the safety bar, stand up from the ski lift chair and glide away.

Jungkook’s delayed, but follows after you helplessly a second later. You turn around while you still have the chance and he stares at you, blinking owlishly.

“If you want to make me blush or get jealous, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than you have been, Jeon. You should probably work on your kissing skills too. Staying like a dead fish isn’t appealing to me.”

You glide away on your skis before he can get another word in. In the meanwhile, a grin slowly spreads into Jungkook’s cheeks and he decides to accept your challenge.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook reader insert #jungkook scenario #bts fluff #bts reader insert #Anonymous #Jimlings

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

( SOMETHING COMFORTING. )

Jeon Jungkook loves Overwatch, drinking games, and Halloween. What he loves more than that? You.

pairing. gamer!jjk x named f!reader.

genre + rating. idol!au set in room filled with bunnies and a cotton candy machine that’s exploded. it’s just that fluffy. (but also explicit cause why not.)

tags / warnings. established relationship, gaming (overwatch), dorky weeb references, mentions of drinking, yugyeom makes an appearance (!!), fingering, soft soft soft love making in the shower.

wc. 9.7k

beta reader(s). the lovely @kerikaaria read through this to make sure i didn’t get too nerdy. tysm! 💛 i may like further changes once my beloved @hobi-gif gets her hands on it but i’m a potato who wanted to post this quickly. oops...

author note. this fulfills the “jeon jungkook” square of @btsholidaybingo‘s bts holiday bingo 2020 and this is the couple from angels & airwaves. while this story isn’t super plot-driven, it’s meant to be a little peek into the lives of a couple that live in my mind rent-free and continue to make me soft and gooey inside. i hope you enjoy it!

You don’t know how he talked you into it or how it really happened. You remember, faintly, the mention of a party. Something about it being a small thing - just a few close friends, the members, etc. He’d said it so offhand, like commenting on the sky or asking for another package of Choco Boys, so you hadn't given it a second thought. If it was important, he’d bring it up again and if not, well, you hardly remembered it anyway. Win-win or whatever.

So you’d given up some intelligence points, traded them for space to fit more gaming knowledge. Somewhere along the line went your memory too - the conversation wiped from your brain like Will Smith had lasered it clean.

“Zarya’s one! Zarya’s one—“ You’re not sure how many times you can repeat yourself, shrieking through comms to a team that doesn’t seem to want to listen. You’re blasted into oblivion, Mercy’s prone body launched across the map as you watch your Rein fall too. There’s an irritation bubbling in your stomach, fizzing uncomfortably like the Japanese honeydew soda you’d had at lunch. “Zarya’s actually one!”

No one cares. She’s healed by the time you respawn and make it back across the map.

“Jesus—“ Your push-to-talk remains off for that flippant comment, distaste colouring your words a bitter shade of blue. You almost want to let your Ashe get headshot by the enemy Widow, only switching the stream from damage boosting to healing when your teammate starts spamming their hotkey.

I need healing! I need healing!

What you need is a team that listens to your calls or at the very least communicates in some way. Doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen though. There’s near radio silence in the voice chat, the only other person remotely helpful being your bouncing booping Lucio that’s trying to keep a flanking Tracer off point. Stupid. You almost feel bad for him, Guardian Angeling to him when no one else seems to want to offer any support.

Ah, the life of a support player in masters ranked. So infuriating and yet— nope. Just infuriating.

You lose the first round with 1:56 to spare, to no one’s surprise. Okay, maybe to your Reinhardt’s surprise. He’s being surprisingly chipper in text chat, sending WP and a dorky smiley face. You think he must volunteer at the local animal shelter and buy coffee for the people behind him in the drive-thru. He’s far too well-adjusted, not shooting off a single accusation to anyone on the team. A silver lining, you suppose.

Your second round starts well enough. Your comp is solid - as much as it can be in the current off-tank dominated meta. Hog, Zarya, a private profiled GM Widowmaker, Tracer, Lucio, and you as Ana. You’d prefer to play Mercy - find the most comfort in her skill set - but on an attack map, you’re not risking a headshot right out of spawn. Broken maximum damage good stuff means healers are squishy and you don’t have your usual DPS to boost. (He’s off doing god knows what - maybe filming an ad for Samsung or breaking the internet with his permed man bun.)

You make it through the choke without much ado. The enemy Rein is wildly out of position, eager to make some big brained play that goes terribly wrong. Your Lucio chuckles through voice and you join him, tossing a nade when your Zarya looks like she’s about to die to a poorly executed 360 shatter.

“You winning?”

It’s your boyfriend peeking over your shoulder, so close you nearly scream, mouse launched across your desk with the intensity of your reaction. You hadn’t heard him come in, the stupid sneaky bastard as quiet as a mouse.

(It’s not your own fault. He knows you can’t hear anything when you’ve got your headphones on, the noise cancelling in your state of the art Sennheisers not something to scoff at.)

“Jeez, Kook!” You want to be more mad. Really, you do. You’re scrambling across your desk to retrieve your mouse, squeaking a quick apology into team voice when your hero stays in one place for too long. Luckily, Hog - previously sweet kind Rein - throws his big fat piggy self directly in front of you, effectively saving you from an otherwise miserable death at the hands of Torbjorn.

“What?” Jeon Jungkook has the audacity to look scandalised, shiny eyes so wide and innocent they feel more as if they belong in an early 2000s anime.

You’re not even looking at him when you huff - too invested in your Overwatch game to give him the hell he deserves. All you manage is a swift don’t scare me like that! as you pump your tanks back to full health.

You notice Jungkook hasn’t moved away, still peering curiously over your shoulder. You know he hasn’t had much time to play lately, too involved with appearances for their comeback, his schedule too packed even for you some days. You don’t blame him when he pulls his chair up behind you, rolling into place so he’s just within your periphery.

It’s a little distracting; he smells good, like his - and by extension your - favourite laundry detergent and a fruity, nectarine-heavy shampoo you’d picked up for him when he’d run out of his usual. You notice then that his hair is wet, just the wrong-side of too damp with droplets beading over his neck. Moisture soaks into the top of his shirt and you think it might be more soaked than you can see; it’s hard to tell when it’s a jet black shirt, one of the many he keeps in your closet for the nights he stays over. You realise then that he must’ve been home far longer than you’d thought, if his freshly washed pink cheeks are any indication. (Because he takes seriously long showers, nearly doubling your water bill in the year you’ve been together.)

You want to ask what he’s doing here - you’d sworn he was busy for the next few days - but can’t find the adequate brain power to do so. You’re playing an incredibly high skill character (your words) and if you don’t get this goddamn shot on your Lucio to keep him up, your team is going to die (your ego’s words).

‘Ask Kook about his day’ gets scribbled on a paper on the desk in your head and filed away under To Do Later in your overflowing brainiac filing cabinet.

“Can we pleaaaaase focus their Zarya? She has grav.” Though you offer the tidbit of information, you don’t assume it’s going to be relied upon. Your team is well on their way to taking first point - surprisingly - and there’s still nearly three minutes left on the clock. If the six of you idiots can keep it together and kill that goddamn Zarya, there’s no doubt in your mind you’ll win the game.

Alas, fate is but a cruel mistress and said Zarya gets said grav off, sucking your own Russian tank and Tracer-turned-Soldier into her hell void. Not even your well-timed nade can save them from the Genji that dragon blades directly into their faces. Your poor Lucio dies to the same ult and you imagine you or your Widow are next. Your Hog’s just respawning, his lumbering silhouette not even on screen.

“Rip,” says your boyfriend - like the sound, not the letters - from beside you, a droplet of water splashing across your wrist when he shakes his head. He looks disappointed - as if he’s the one that’s lost the match. It makes you laugh, the sound tripping off your tongue despite the overwhelming rage you’re currently battling.

“Rip is right,” you mumble back, tossing yourself off the map. If you’re gonna die, it'll be on your own terms. Jungkook chuckles at that.

By the time you respawn, both you and Widow are joining a fight that looks like it’s going surprisingly well. There’s no one on point and you’re capping uncontested. Widow even headshots a wayward Moira.

“You should go top left.”

You don’t turn your head. Jungkook’s always been a bit of a backseat gamer, whether he’s watching your stream while he’s out of town or sitting right beside you. Sometimes, you love it; other times, you hate it. Most times, though, he’s right. He has surprisingly good game sense, despite being lower ranked than you (something you remind him of constantly, without shame).

“Can we go top left?” You parrot into your speaker.

For once, your team listens, most of them running up the sidewall with Widow right down main. Not for the first time you wish you were playing Mercy, if only to be able to damage boost your sniper while she distracts the enemy team. Still, you make due, taking your boyfriend’s next piece of advice when it comes, unsolicited. “You should be back right by the stairs. You can see up the hall and still heal Widow on top.”

You’d kiss him if you weren’t so intently focused, unable to tear your gaze from the screen when the enemy team seems to pluck their strategy directly from Jungkook’s skull and hold conservatively on point. Amazing.

“Your Zarya has grav. She’ll probably throw it on point so you should nade as soon as you get in and Widow can pick them off without full charge.”

If he were anyone else, you’d probably be giving him hell for mansplaining your favourite game to you. As it stands, you follow his instructions to the letter and the Team Kill marker flashes across your screen.

“Told you,” he quips, ever the snooty dork you adore.

“I was going to say thank you.” Just not right now. You can’t multitask quite like he can.

If you could look over, you think you’d see him grinning from ear to ear, buck teeth and dimples on full display. “I know.”

As it stands, the other team has trouble getting on point fast enough and you’re left with a whopping 3:56 left on the clock. Thank freaking god. You can win this, you think. Easy. No problem.

“Go Ana on defense.” At some point, Jungkook had gotten up to find a snack and he returns now, bag of shrimp chips in his hand and packet of matcha Pocky held between his teeth. You open your mouth for a stinky tasty treat and he shoves four crisps in, unceremoniously and with his signature dummy grin.

You manage to crunch crunch crunch through it all but shoot him a glare the entire time. He only smiles wider, all perfectly white enamel and enough cuteness to make your heart skip a beat.

“Do you just want to play?” You don’t mean it seriously. You don’t mind him watching and you know he enjoys pretending like he’s better than you. It’s a strange give and take but one that’s uniquely yours, built over nearly a year of online friendship and another year of a real-life relationship.

“Nah, I’m snacking.” He punctuates his response as a child would, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. You wonder, briefly, why you love him so much when he’s a certifiable goon.

The third match begins and you’re not too proud to say you spend most of it following Jungkook’s directions. He tells you to sleep the enemy Genji trying to scale the right wall - you do. He tells you to nade once their Rein gets in because your own Rein is going to shatter - you do. He tells you to do the macarena and— okay, that, you don’t.

You sweep the match, leaving the other team without a single tick.

When it comes to the final round, he seems to have lost interest in the game, instead rolling himself back to his computer with a parting, wayward ruffle of your hair. You don’t blame him but you thank him nonetheless, blowing a kiss before he settles his headphones over his ears.

You, of course and unsurprisingly, win the game. There’s nothing like using a Sym portal onto point when they’ve got a Bastion set up off point and no shield to protect him from the back.

Satisfied, you don’t bother requeueing and instead force yourself into your boyfriend’s personal space, draping your arms across the idol’s neck as he scrolls through YouTube like a zombie. “We won,” you sing-song into his ear, proud and a little smug.

“Of course you did.” He sounds equally smug and you suppose the win does belong to the both of you. He’d been a great coach.

“What’re you doing here?” It’s pure curiosity offered in the form of a kiss to his cheek, fingers locked across the broad expanse of his chest. He’s delightfully warm beneath you, familiar and unyielding as you sink over the back of his computer chair. (You can feel the chair creaking as it reclines. You don’t care.)

“Whaddya mean?”

The look he levels you with makes you think you’ve grown a second head.

“Your schedule said you had a thing tonight.” You remember, because you’d been disappointed. Halloween was one of your favourite holidays and all you’d wanted was to watch some campy horror movies and use him as a personal eye shield and security blanket combo.

“We have a thing,” he states, like he’s talking to a moron. You know it isn’t meant meanly, too emphatic and amused to hurt your feelings.

When you echo his words (“We?”) you swear you see him roll his eyes in the reflection of his computer screen. Luckily, he laughs, sweet and cracky, somewhere high in his throat - a barking hyena. It’s so cute - your favourite thing in the world - that you don’t have it in you to shame him for it.

“Yeah, we,” Jungkook repeats around something close to a snicker. “Halloween party, baby. Seriously— you forgot?”

It’s then and there you have two crises: (a) you don’t have a costume and (b) Halloween party? You didn’t think idols had those. Weren’t they all too hip and cool to get together to dress up and act stupid?

(You know the answer is no. Exhibit A being the costume-wearing dance practices BTS put out.)

“I don’t have anything to wear.” It’s truly the one thing holding you back, creasing the soft skin between your brows to resemble a peach. It’s also nearing seven in the evening and you’re absolutely certain you’re not going to find something so late in the day.

To your surprise. Jungkook looks flabbergasted, that same you-have-two-heads stare wrought across his face. It’d be endearing if it were directed at anyone else but with it trained on you, it’s rubbing you and your confusion the wrong way. Why’s he looking at you like that? Why’s your memory so bad? Why hasn’t he said anything to answer all of life’s questions?

“You said you’d go as witch Mercy.”

All at once, you’re pulled back to the offhand conversation, the pleading in his eyes, your half-asleep acceptance. It’s the memory you’d lost somewhere along the way in upgrading your in-brain video game storage. A conversation had in bed, his cheeks so big and full of joy they’d waned his eyes into crescents, and your uncoordinated answer because you’d just wanted to go to sleep and not think about anything after indulging in a few too many mochi cream buns.

“I— don’t remember that.” You’re lying through your damn teeth. Your parents would be devastated, all their hard earned money wasted on the braces-straightened enamel that was now letting lies pass.

“But you did!” He’s like a kid being denied candy, rounded bottom lip dropping into a pout that should, frankly, be illegal. It’s far too powerful on him, paired with those Bambi eyes that scream don’t eat (hate/deny/etc.) me! You can only scowl at him, because you know your own puppy dog eyes only work 100% of the time half of the time whereas his track record was immaculate.

“Okay, but I forgot to get the—“

“I have it!”

Jeon Jungkook has an answer for everything, it seems.

“I picked it up on the way here. It’s in your room along with my costume.”

The knowledge of his own intrigues you, squarely centring your curiosity on that and not the fact that you apparently need to get tested for early onset dementia. “Who’re you going as?”

“You’ll see.”

Your costume is spectacular. You can’t even find it in yourself to put up much of a fight when your boyfriend reveals it like you’ve won the lottery, throwing his arms wide in a flourish.

It’s incredibly well made, intricately tailored in a way that makes you worry how much it costs. (When you bring it up to him, Jungkook simply shrugs. You think it’s as much a gift for you as it is for him.) It’s witchy and eye-catching, the belt hung across your hips clipped with an actual book - hollowed out, thank god but also poor thing. The hat that sits on your head is neatly crumpled, sitting at such an angle you worry whether you’ll need to avoid too-low door frames. Your wings - well, you’re almost too afraid to touch them; Jungkook has to help you pull them over your arms, falling into near hysterics when you twitch your elbow the wrong way and smack him right between the eyes.

“I don’t think I can pull this off,” you state, somberly, despite the fact that you’re not terribly self-conscious. (You were, once. Being in a relationship with someone that worships your body has helped with that.)

The top of your outfit is fitted, boned and ribbed and snapped together in all the right places. Leather stands in stark contrast to your skin - summer-soft and gently golden - and hugs curves that don’t quite exist, falling short in a way that has you glaring down at your own chest. You’ve never wanted a Playboy body but in this sort of costume, it practically demands it. (You try not to dwell on the fact that you’ve been conditioned to want to look like an impractically designed video game hero.)

From the foot of your bed comes a snort, a derisive sound that draws your attention. Jungkook’s unabashed in how he admires you, stare roving over every inch like he’s about to devour you. You’re not sure how you can feel so soft for him when he looks completely the opposite, jaw set and expression sharp. A Greek god carved from hardened honey, dressed in Balenciaga blue. “You look great, angel.”

Your heart skips a beat - plays a funny little game of tag with itself - and you can’t help the smile that comes, brought to life by his reassurance. It isn’t necessary to rebuff him then - eyes rolling, laugh spilling - but you do it anyway. “You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend.”

“I don’t have to say anything,” he retorts, levelling you with a look that has your insides molten. It’s the look that reads don’t test me but also I love you and you’re my idiot. It’s your favourite look in the world, lending wings to your flimsy heart. “You look great because you always look great, no matter what.”

“What about when you found me in the shower ?”

Jungkook hesitates then. He’s no liar and he had almost had a heart attack the first time it’d happened. He’d been minding his business, half-asleep and battling the need to piss, when he’d noticed you curled up in the bathroom. How he hadn’t realised you were missing from bed, he’s not sure. All he knew was that you’d terrified him, mentioning something about invading refrigerators when he was pulling his dick out of his boxers.

His scream was what had woken you up; yours was what had him bashing his head into the wall, foot slipping on the soft pink bathroom rug. You could laugh about it now but at the time, you’d thought he’d cracked his skull right open, shouting his name so loudly the neighbours had complained.

(Lucky for you two, they were a nice elderly couple who sometimes had you babysit their grandson. They’d laughed it off when you’d apologised with a loaf of fresh bread and a bandage wrapped around your boyfriend’s head.)

“Okay— that was scary. I thought you’d crawled out of the drain or something.” A shudder rolls through Jungkook’s body, shaking him from his shoulders all the way down to his knees. It’s a strangely adorable reaction from someone who looks like he could bench press you.

“You’re calling me the Grudge?” You’re deeply offended, gloved hands clasping over your chest as if to pull out the treacherous dagger he’s just lodged there. He only rolls his eyes, leaning forward to catch you in his arms; he’s relentless as he drags you to him, side of his face pressed to the bare skin of your thigh. His cheek’s searing but you’re not surprised; Jungkook ran hot, keeping you warm in winter and sweltering in summer. (Ah, the price you paid for love.)

“Yeah, you haunt me in my dreams.”

“That’s not the Grudge, Kook.” Your scoff earns you a pinch, right where the top of your stockings end. It blooms red beneath his fingers, a little reminder of his competitive I’m-never-wrong nature. You swat his hand away, not too bothered when it only finds a home elsewhere, hooked behind your knee. Jungkook had a habit of needing to be in constant contact. A little quirk of his you adored.

“I’m serious. You look—” You should clock the look on his face, the wiggle of mischief up his nose. A dead giveaway shining bright - a beacon. “—bewitching.”

If the book weren’t attached to your hip, you’d be clobbering him with it. Instead, you’re left to whack him with the equally intricate Caduceus staff, booping it over his shoulders. You feel like a certain shamanic mandrill, Jungkook the idiotic lion that’s asking for an earful.

“Shut up!” You’re laughing despite yourself and he is too, holding you so recklessly close it’s hard to hit him without hurting yourself. All part of his plan, you suppose. “You’re so freaking corny.”

“It’s because I’m a-maize-ing, ang—”

Another wap! to the head, shielded only by a tattooed hand that curls over his ear.

“Okay! Sorry!” Except he doesn’t look very sorry. More pleased that you’ve stopped the assault, dark hair pushed back from his forehead as he stares up at you. You hate how he’s so handsome - how you forget yourself when he smiles that smile, nearly yeeting your whole heart directly into the sun.

“Are you going to put on yours yet?”

It’s quarter past nine already and all you’ve done is rope him into eating some chapaguri - you’ve been obsessed with it since a few weeks ago - and play real life Witch Barbie. You have a feeling if you don’t get him into his own costume soon, you’re never going to leave the apartment. (Not that you really mind.)

Your boyfriend - bless his heart - pretends not to hear you, suddenly intently focused on an indiscernible spot past your hip. It’d be more believable if he was glued to his phone or doing anything remotely interesting. Instead, you stare down at him and count the seconds until he realises just how silly he looks. It usually comes around six, paired with a forced chuckle and that lisp you love.

Today, it comes after the fourth count.

“You’re gonna think it’s lame.” Well, of course you will. As his girlfriend - and one of his best friends, you’d like to think - it’s your relationship-given right to shame him for his more often than not absurd ideas. It’s what you deserve for suffering through all his bad jokes and 3 AM Instagram spams.

With a hand on his cheek, you squeeze the apple like you’ve seen a certain member do a million times. “So?”

He’s not really sure how to respond to that, mouth drawn into a pout that reminds you of children’s television show about penguins. It’s unfairly adorable. Still, you push. Jungkook’s bad at saying no to you - always has been, even before he really knew you. From “one more game!” to “bring me bingsu”, you always got what you wanted.

(Which wasn’t to say you asked for a lot. You were happy - more than that, ecstatic and over the moon - with the bare minimum. A selfie while on the plane, some shoddy cinematography during dance practice, a voicemail to wake up to. You didn’t love Jungkook for all the things he gave you; rather, you loved him for who he was, who he’d always been even before you knew who he really was.)

“Don’t laugh.” By the look on his face, you’re worried it’s something awful. The cheesiest thing in the world come to life to haunt you on your beloved spooky holiday.

It turns out to be the opposite: one of your favourite characters realised in the form of your achingly handsome boyfriend. He looks so good you’re not certain whether it’s your attraction to him or him in that particular guise that’s stronger. You figure it doesn’t matter one way or another. For tonight, they’re one and the same.

“Joker? Seriously?” You can’t hide the delight. It colours every syllable, sets them glowing like a neon sign.

Your boyfriend only rolls his eyes, as if he’d predicted this reaction. Dressed as he is, the movement is impossible to miss, brought into focus by the white domino mask. “Don’t sound so excited.” It’s an actual concern of his. He’s seen you sink upwards of ninety hours on the video game, playing it in the early hours when he’s fast asleep and you’re battling another night of insomnia.

Once, he’d asked whether you loved him or Joker more. He hadn’t liked the answer (joking as it was) and had spent the better part of the evening pouting.

This time, you’re sweet as pie, eyes so dark and twinkly he wonders whether he’s staring at the night sky. You wonder the same yourself almost every night, lost in the constellations of his irises. It’s the most intimate form of stargazing you can afford, a luxury you indulge in frequently. You’ve mapped the different formations, named them in honour of all the special moments you’ve shared; you think to label one for this night too.

“You look so good.” You don’t hesitate to brush his hair from his eyes. It’s still relaxing from the perm he’d gotten days ago, curling like classic calligraphy over his eyes. It’s surprisingly soft between your fingers, silk despite the constant heat styling. Bastard. “I can’t believe you’re going as Joker. You don’t even like Persona 5!”

By how Jungkook looks at you then - the same way he did the first time you met standing on the street corner in Dotonbori and a hundred more times since then - you realise it doesn’t matter. He’s dressed this way because you like the character.

“Oh,” you say, because there’s not much more to say. Nothing that needs to be said as he grins down at you, so heartbreakingly handsome you’ll never get used to it.

“Yeah,” he parrots back, a little smug.

Bangtan’s golden maknae is having the time of his life. He’s four cups deep into a game of beer pong that’s played like the Wimbledon classic, back hunched, jaw set. You’d think he was battling it out for the title of God of Beer Pong if you didn’t know better. (You suppose he is.)

“Angel, come here!” He’s giddy - slightly glazed in the eyes - as he waves you over, a red-gloved hand beckoning you to his side. Despite how good he looks in the costume - every weakness of yours encapsulated by the intricate dress shirt that hugs him like a second skin - the gesture is decidedly adorable, an eager puppy seeking unconditional love. There’s simply too much affection in his voice, so much sugar-spun love that you can’t deny him (even as you consider jumping his bones at a party full of people).

He’s shining as bright as the sun and you want nothing more than to live within his warmth.

With your fingers twined, he pulls you to him, drawing you tight against his side like he doesn’t need that same hand to throw another ball. You don’t mind. You know he’ll sink it even with his left hand.

“I’m winning,” he states, as if it weren’t wildly obvious by the fact all cups remain untouched on his side.

Across the table, Yugyeom’s eyes roll so far back you want to laugh. Jungkook’s competitive side is endearing at best and infuriating at worst. Luckily, his competition is enjoying himself too much to give him shit.

(He’s also probably too drunk to, given how badly he’s doing.)

“I see that.” You’re not a big drinker yourself but you like seeing Jungkook in his element. He thrives in this sort of setting, showing off all the talents he has and then some. It’s just another stage to him, somewhere he can prove himself (even if it’s over something as small as how good his bounce-shot is). “How many games have you won?” Because he’s been at this table for the last hour, dropping his competition like flies.

“All of them.” God, his ego. You know you shouldn’t stroke it but you can’t help it, brushing a hand through his tousled hair in the way he likes best. Fingers over his scalp, thumb rubbing soothing circles across the nape of his neck. He nearly melts then, tilting his head into the gentle caress.

“Good job, Kook.”

You’re so lost in your own little world that poor Yugyeom has to pull you both from it, launching a poorly-aimed white ping pong ball at the two of you. To no one’s surprise, it careens past your heads, hitting the wall behind you and disappearing off to god knows where.

“Can we play?” Again, that eye roll, visible just past the bandages that loosely wrap his cheeks. You know he’s only teasing, that he’s actually quite a fan of your and Jungkook’s dumb coupling (he’s told you), but you return his mockery with a raised hand, thumb and forefinger waving in salute.

“Losers don’t get to complain.”

The idol throws a hand to his chest, the gesture bordering on sloppy from the liquor that threads his limbs. Still, it’s cute, earning a sweet laugh from you and a witch’s cackle from your boyfriend. (How fitting.) “I’m hurt, Yoojin-ssi.”

It’s Jungkook’s turn to tease, brattiness flipped on like a haywire lightswitch. “No, you’re just bad at games!” He’s a sniggering schoolgirl, lines wrapping the delicate skin of his nose, streaking joy into the wrinkles beneath his eyes. Slightly-too-big front teeth are on full display, his expression the embodiment of an “uwu” emote.

That riles Yugyeom up, powder puff of hair bounding over to you before you have time to blink. In the next moment, your boyfriend’s half-wrestling with him, their arms locked around each other like some sort of weird four-limbed octopus. (Video game protagonist vs. hot mummy— who will win?) You jump back just in time, avoiding a wayward fist and laughing merrily. Idiots, the both of them.

“You guys have fun.” And then you’re gone, off to busy yourself with people who won’t accidentally give you a black eye or knock over the nearest thing not bolted to the ground.

You can still hear them tussling when you latch yourself to the back of a certain blond. He’s dressed like one of your greatest nightmares - an actual clown, drawing inspiration from a certain 2017 blockbuster - and yet somehow still manages to look good. You don’t understand it and frankly, you’re a little envious, but such was life.

“Jimin-ssiiiii.”

“Ahhhhhh, stop!” It’s the same reaction he always has, paired with wiggling shoulders and sweet laughter that bounces around the room and stirs to life your own. Indisputable and lovely, the sound is brighter than the sun or the lights that currently swing through the chandelier lights above your heads. “You two are ridiculous.”

“He’s ridiculous, not me!” You know it isn’t true. Separately, you and Jungkook were idiotic enough, finding humour in the silliest things (funny threads on r/Relationship_Advice and four year old Vines). But together? It was a two-person circus, graduate professors at clown college.

You absolutely loved it.

“Sure, sure,” the dancer hums, delightfully disbelieving as he takes another shot. One of three lined up across the counter, clear in little orange cups made to look like pumpkins. A whiff tells you they’re strawberry soju - your least favourite flavour. You decline with a wrinkled nose and waving hand when he offers you one. Jimin shrugs and downs the next, delicately wiping the corner of his mouth when he misjudges the pour. “Aren’t you drinking?”

You wiggle the half-empty Cass bottle in your hand in response and receive a scoff, different bottle - green, unopened - thrust into your other.

“Drink this!”

“You want me to drink an entire bottle?” You’re incredulous. Jimin’s seen you on the edge of intoxication and more than a little sloppy, giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s not unbecoming - you know better than to get blackout - but laughable nonetheless. Something to record and post on Snapchat with a voice-altering filter.

“It’s Halloween!” The pumpkin shot glass makes you go cross-eyed before he’s knocking it back too. “Live a little!”

Who are you to say no to the recent birthday boy? It would simply be bad manners and you were nothing if polite (though, you’re sure some might beg to differ - Yoongi, maybe?).

The remnants of your beer are swallowed down in the next moment, so quickly you almost choke on it. Your life flashes before your eyes, Jimin’s hand on your shoulder as he beats breath into your body. “Don’t die!” He cries, despite the fact that it’s his fist that’s making it worse, doubling you over with hacking coughs.

“K-Kook’s g-going to kill you—”

“No, you’re fine.” He’s reassuring you just as much as himself, laughing too loudly as you straighten up. You wonder how red your face is when he takes your place, slapping his own knee as he shakes with amusement. “Your face, oh— Your face.”

It’s not meant to be offensive but your buzzed brain demands payment for each giggle.

The base of the green bottle collides with the back of his knee - gentle, gentle - just hard enough to have him properly toppling over, collapsing onto the carpet like a frail old grandpa without his cane. You can’t help the snicker that careens off your liquor-laden tongue.

That is, until he’s pulling you down with him and the two of you are a giggling, giddy mess, tucked beneath the edge of the bar as you laugh together. It’s a chorus of sound, unrelenting and building the longer you both sit on the floor. Jimin’s practically hunched over, head caught between his propped up arms. You imagine it’s a funny sight - two people in their twenties acting like college freshmen.

“Baby?” It’s your boyfriend, amused and confused as he stares down at your and Jimin’s prone bodies. He’s got that dent between his brows, the colour of his eyes all but swallowed up by the way his cheeks press wide with his smile. “What’re you doing down there?”

“Just hanging out,” you answer, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. At your side, Jimin’s still trying to collect himself, parroting your words around his lungfuls of quieting laughter.

“Are you drunk?”

You’re not, but that doesn’t stop you from gasping, overdramatic and with your unopened bottle of soju held aloft. A modern day olive branch. “No?”

Jungkook snorts and then all at once, he’s close. Too close - smelling of beer and your favourite cologne of his, citrusy and woodsy and every other nice thing you like. It fills your senses just as his smile does, blindingly bright and bunny-like. Even behind the mask, his good looks take your breath away. You must be staring up at him idiotically, all one hundred and sixteen pounds of ooey gooey tenderness. “You sound drunk, angel,” he teases, warm red-covered palm coming to cradle your cheek. It sears heat everywhere it touches, guiding the same hue over your skin. It creeps up your chest and over your ears, standing in contrast to the material of his gloves. “Pretty.”

(He really is, you think.)

“Get a room,” comes Jimin from beside you. There’s no malice in his voice - just soft affection for a couple of lovesick idiots.

“That’s the plan,” Jungkook replies, as if he’d been waiting for the moment. It skips off his tongue and settles into your ears, tipping your head curiously as you stare at him. He’s never been very shy about wanting you - at least, not since you’d made things official, so many months ago - but you’re surprised by the insinuation. When he speaks again, you realise your brain has been rolling around in the gutter, fallen out of your ears like candy from a worn pillow case. “Want to head home?”

You do. You really, really do.

When you stumble into your apartment - the same one with the polka-dot welcome rug and crisp white paint - you realise you were perhaps wrong about how drunk you are. Everything’s coming at you quite quickly, the ground beneath your feet somehow suddenly rushing at you like Mach Five.

“Whoa—” There’s an impossibly solid warmth against your back, fingers locked around your wrists that feel more like flimsy chicken feet. “Careful.”

Your boyfriend’s keeping you upright while stepping out of his boots - impossibly expensive supple dark leather - and you’re giggling all the while, practically sinking against him as he does his best to shuffle his shoes away and get you further into the hallway. “Sorry,” you offer in a terrible stage whisper, smiling wide when you catch sight of his, small and endlessly amused. It slips across his face even as he tries to bite it back, warring with the patience he holds in spades.

“Let’s just get these off.” He means the boots - the intricate, vaguely absurd things that creep up almost the entirety of your leg, neatly wrapped and knotted midway up your thigh. Dexterous as he is, it’s a task to unravel the strings and thread buttons when you’re weighing on him like a bag of bricks.

You’re fumbling for the tops, haphazardly smacking his hands away. “Here, let me.”

Somehow, you manage to get them off in what feels like record time. (In reality, it takes a good five minutes of futility before they’re left on the ground and Jungkook’s swept you into his arms, seemingly over waiting for you to do much else.)

“Oh, my prince charming,” you tease, clinging to him like a koala. You’re locked around him, practically suffocating him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s used to it when you’re this way, just a little too much liquid courage turning your level of affection to eleven. “Or are you the court jester? That’s what Joker is, right?” It’s a joke and a bad one at that. Still, your boyfriend indulges you, depositing a forced laugh against your shoulder as he navigates to your bedroom.

“You’re drunk.” He says it more kindly than you expect. Perhaps even more kindly than you deserve. You know he’s not exactly sober himself, his gaze verging on heavy-lidded. There’s sleepiness blending seamlessly with intoxication, softening the edge of his jaw, the narrow of his stare. It’s terribly tender, skipping your heart when you look at him dead on.

It comes without thought. You have to tell him. Your drunk brain and your puppy dog heart demand it. “I love you.”

Jungkook returns the confession with humour, eyes sparkling despite the haze of alcohol that dims them down. As always, he indulges you, giving you support in the form of his heart and his hands. (Literally, he’s still holding you even though you’ve reached your destination.) “Love you too.”

“Is it time for bed?” You’re surprisingly tired, despite the fact that you’d slept until late in the afternoon. You certainly wouldn’t mind falling face first into your mattress.

“You need a shower first.” It’s a simple statement of fact, you know that. You’ve got at least ten pounds of makeup on and your hair’s the furthest thing from soft and silky, carefully coiffed to mimic Mercy’s signature style. You still pretend like you’re just a bit offended, scowling into the face of your boyfriend even as he rolls his eyes, already somehow able to read the words written into your expression. “I meant we and no, I’m not calling you stinky.”

He’s stolen your thunder, as he so often does. You pout, as you so often do.

“Okay,” you relent, finally, moving to rest your head against his shoulder. You could get down - walk on your own two tired feet - but you’re enjoying the closeness, how warm and real he feels in comparison to the swimming surroundings. “Will you wash my hair?” You don’t really need to ask but do anyway, because you like the sound of his voice when it’s so close.

“You know I will.” Because he always does when you shower together (and it falls on a designated hair washing day - that was important).

You offer your thanks with a kiss, laid right over the jumping pulse in his neck. When Jungkook hums in acknowledgment, you feel the way the muscles constrict, his Adam’s apple jumping beneath your lips. You zero in on it with laser precision, mouthing over his throat. Somewhere above you - against the shell of your ear - he exhales a laugh, breath hot.

“We’re showering, baby.” As if that’s meant to stop you. He, more than anyone, should know how adamant you get, singularly focused on whatever’s got your attention. He’s been on the receiving end of it more than enough times, strung into playing another one, two, ten matches of Overwatch or hunting down the limited edition Funko Pops that now sit proudly on your white shelf (and behind your plants and on the ledge by the front door).

“We can shower and have fun,” you mumble into the expanse of his chest. He’s so pleasantly warm, unyielding and firm and so, so comfortable. You think you could live in the feeling of his arms. (You’re lucky you get to.) You don’t even mind the sudden cold of the counter or the space that forms between you when he sets you down, because he’s still caging you in where it matters most. “Right, JK?”

It’s a nickname you rarely use now - one that only comes out in times of desperation. You’ve never quite understood why it affects your boyfriend the way it does, stuttering the rhythmic beating of his heart, but you love it nonetheless. It makes you grin, high on power and giddy with nothing but sweetness.

He’d explained it to you once. Jay was how you’d met him, the version of himself you’d loved first. Jungkook was the side of himself he’d wanted to give you but couldn’t. JK was the in-between - the chaos and the calm. Hearing you say it brought back all the memories of year one and he liked that. You could only laugh at his sentimentality and tuck the piece of knowledge somewhere deep, to be pulled out in instances like this.

“Right, angel.” You don’t miss the colour on his cheeks - so pretty you reach your hands out to cup them, squishing them between your palms like an old grandmother testing a watermelon. You continue to hold him until he pulls your hands from his face, guiding them to the edge of the counter with gentle pressure. “Gotta get undressed to shower,” he chides, that twinkle in his eye that makes it hard to look away.

Really, how can he expect you to do anything when he’s got an entire unexplored galaxy hidden in his irises? It’s an absurd ask.

“Or I’ll help you.”

Your clothes fall away while you’re still staring up at him.

First, the gloves, peeled from your fingers with utmost care. Kisses fill the spaces between each finger, passed from knuckles to wrist, all the way up to your elbow. You squirm when his teeth graze the sensitive underside of your bicep. He stifles a snicker into the skin.

Next goes your cape and wings, hung on the door handle. His mouth warms the suddenly bare skin, pressing affection into the line of your shoulder, up over your neck. You don’t squirm this time, instead humming a noise of delight. You hardly notice when the corset goes next, undone by surprisingly nimble inked digits. There’s hardly a moment to savour the freedom - you can finally breathe - when his hands replace the cups, palms eager over your chest. He doesn’t hesitate to hold you, pinching your perked nipples with a sly grin.

“I thought we were going to shower.” The words are barely out before turning breathless, stolen by the way he easily palms your breast, dropping his face into the crook of your neck.

“We are, angel,” Jungkook teases, rolling your bud between his thumb and forefinger, other hand moved to splay across the now-bare small of your back. It’s almost embarrassing how easily you fall into him, drawn against him like a moth to a flame. “Just need to get you warmed up first.”

“The shower’ll be warm,” you say - or think you say, anyway. It isn’t quite articulated, half your brain left somewhere at the party (or maybe caught dead centre in the coil that’s tightening in your stomach).

“Do you want me to stop?” It’s so quiet you almost miss it, too distracted by how he slips the rest of your costume off. Shorts, thong, stockings, silly witch’s hat. “Tell me if you want me to stop, baby.” Ever the gentleman, he’s patient, meeting your glazed stare with something close to concern. You almost laugh in his face then - stopping short only when you note just how serious he is, the tell-tale set of his jaw shining like a familiar beacon.

You return your hands to his face, palms cradling his chin like he might break otherwise. “I never want you to stop.”

That’s all Jungkook needs before he’s slotting himself between your legs, mirroring your motion with hands creeping up the side of your neck, fingers ascending into the roots of your hair. He holds you close and kisses you like it’s all he’s ever wanted. “I love you,” he breathes, speaks against the corner of your mouth.

You parrot the words back at him and he grins, stepping away in the next moment. He laughs when you pout, offering a kiss in apology as he undoes the buttons of his dress shirt, slipping the soft cotton off. You stop then, entranced by the revealed skin, how it shifts with each adjustment of muscle, sinew tight over his arms and shoulders. You wonder, not for the first time, how you’d managed to luck out so spectacularly.

“Start the shower.”

You hop down with the direction, slipping past him to do exactly that. You don’t miss the way he rotates, brings himself closer as you move away. The magnetism is undeniable - always has been.

“I love you,” he states, again, bare against your back as you hover by the edge of the glass door, one hand stuck past to test the slow-warming stream. He’s solid, familiar and comfortable, as he slinks his arms back around you, heat burning the shape of his hands over your ribs, the shape of your hip. You think he might mark himself there, just as neatly as the floral ink does. You wouldn’t mind.

The water is welcome, bathing the both of you in steam when you step inside. It’s an incredibly relaxing feeling, being caught between the spray and the hard body behind you. You hum a noise of pure delight, turning your face toward the one that nuzzles itself into your neck, and bring your hands to rest over his, fingers slotting between ink.

“Hair?” You’re not in a terrible rush but you like redirecting his attention (pretending to, at least) - the teasing that formed the base of your relationship presenting itself in the quiet reminder. It earns the laugh you expect, muffled into your hair, featherlight over the delicate shell of your jewelled ear.

“Patience, baby.” It’s something Jungkook tends to say a lot, whether waiting in queue in Overwatch or in bed, with you a complete mess. He repeats it easily, like he’s the poster boy for the virtue. (He isn’t.)

“What am I waiting—” The question dies, swallowed whole by the gasp he draws from you with a wandering hand. Fingers slip across your stomach, digits deftly seeking out warmth as if you weren’t already enveloped in it. It’s a touch that’s tantalisingly slow, unfairly light, but it still makes you keen when it drags over your lips. A single digit pushes past muscle - so shallow you’re not sure you’re not just imagining it - before retreating, dragging your slick back up to your clit. The moment the pad of his finger makes contact with the sensitive bundle of nerves, you almost jump. Would, if he weren’t caging you with his other arm.

You feel the cold of his teeth bared against your neck then, the throaty laugh that pulls out of his chest and deposits itself into your hair. “Patience,” he repeats, swirling his fingers over your clit, his mouth moving in tandem with the twist of his wrist. He peppers love and affection in the form of kisses, presses devotion with the edge of his teeth, soothes all your nerves with a sweep of his tongue.

“Kook,” you sigh, already well on your way to being a boneless mess. There’s tingling in your toes, fizzing in your stomach, butterflies in your chest. A whirlwind of emotion and sensation that he stirs to life effortlessly.

“Relax for me.” You do so because it’s easy, because he’s so devastatingly good to you.

The figure eights skating over your clit cease, fingers dropping further down to nestle against your cunt. He pauses there, almost experimentally flexing against the muscle that aches and clenches around nothing, eager for more. You think he’s smirking by the way his lips form with his kisses, a little lopsided and devilish. (You wish you could see him.)

A single digit enters you then, to the third knuckle as if your body was made for this, for him. (It was.) He coos against your neck when a garbled mess skips off your tongue and nearly laughs when another slips in alongside it, turning the mess into nonsense. Despite how badly you want it - need it, really - it’s a sensation that’s too much and not enough all at once, toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

It was how Jungkook loved you - recklessly, shamelessly, in no half measures. With more love than you could ever hope for, giving you things you didn’t even know how to ask for.

“Relax, angel,” comes as he begins scissoring both fingers inside you, stretching you out with an otherworldly amount of care. Even your neglected clit is given some sort of relief - anything to ease the sting of two long fingers - his thumb gliding over it with each stretch of your walls. He knows exactly where to touch you, how much pressure to apply, and you’re melting, lost in the feeling.

When he’s had enough and he curls his fingers within you, seeking out that particular spot, you’re trembling, caught off guard. Heat builds quickly with the precision of which he taps against that spot; it starts low in your back, climbing each vertebrae of your spine until you’re quivering in his arms.

“K-Kook.” It’s both a plea and a demand, nonsensical as he guides you through your orgasm, keeping you upright against him when your knees feel like they might give out.

“I’ve got you.” And he does - hook, line, and sinker. He holds you steady as the pleasure crashes over your head, keeps you anchored to the here and now and the pleasure that rolls through you like a relentless wave. It sinks beneath your skin, settles heavy into every atom, and he never lets you go. He’s got you.

When sensation returns - slowly, so slowly it feels like you’re stuck in the Twilight Zone - you only want to turn. See him, hold him, whisper sweet nothings as you kiss him silly and thank him for his service. Instead, you’re held in place, two hands firm upon your hips even as you crane your neck to look over your shoulder at him. You should recognise the look on his face. “Kook?”

“My turn.” It’s a statement more than anything, a kind heads-up as he nudges you forward. There’s that same twinkle in his eye, the only source of light around the pupil that’s blown out, otherwise engulfing the constellations he so normally offers you. It’s a black hole and one you’d gladly get lost in. “Hands on the wall, baby.”

You’d never been one for shower sex - it’s too small a space, too much happening at once, a guaranteed freak accident waiting to happen - but you can’t deny him when he asks so nicely. (It really hadn’t been that nice but you were a certified sucker for one Jeon Jungkook.)

Hands find themselves on the wall, palms flat, fingers splayed. In the same instance you wiggle your hips, there’s a ghosting touch over your spine. It trails up and down, soothes the residual heat that lingers, and then slips higher, palm gentle over your throat. His thumb rubs reassuring circles over the nape of your neck, pressing gently into the sensitive spot behind your ear. It’s distracting and you realise much needed when he sinks into you with one fluid press of his hips, filling you so full you can’t help the gasp that bounds past your lips and bounces around the glass enclosure. “Oh fuck,” he sighs, his grip on your hip tightening incrementally.

He sounds like sin and feels like heaven.

“Always so good for me.” Another thing he says, often and without prompting. It still feels just as good the umpteenth time, sparking pride deep in your chest as he pulls out and drives himself back in, staring in rapt fascination at where your bodies meet. “Always so perfect for me.”

“Because I love you,” you quip, more than a little out of breath and jostled by the way he thrusts into you, measured and with enough force to shake your legs.

“Love you too, angel.” He doesn’t need to say it back - you know, can feel it by how he holds you, drives you to brink of insanity with his cock - but he does it anyway. He always says it back, no matter what, even if he’s half-asleep or distracted. He’ll never stop saying it.

The hand on your hip falls, slinks across your hip and between your legs, and you’re pushed further forward, his feet gently kicking yours further apart. Jungkook assaults your clit then, timing each pass with each thrust. An attempted glance back has fireworks going off before your eyes, specks of pleasure lighting up your vision; it’s a technicolour lightshow, framing the way his face scrunches, brow set and jaw hard. He’s determined, focused on bringing you to another orgasm before he hits his own high. You assist him as best you can, swiveling your hips and grinding back against him even as the coil pulls impossibly tight in your stomach, barely held together by threadbare strings.

“Kook,” you whine when the tension becomes too much, hands scrabbling across the wall of the shower. The same overwhelming tingle sparks beneath your skin, entire body trembling like a leaf when the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you at just the right angle.

He doesn’t relent, rhythm turning almost punishing as he drives you over the edge, launching you headlong into your second orgasm. You’re not sure how you stay upright, near sobbing when you crash into euphoric bliss, neither his fingers nor his thrusts ceasing. It’s almost too much and yet you know how close he is, so you push back, whimper words you know he wants to hear.

“P-please, Kook. Please.” You’re reaching a hand back, desperate to interlace your fingers with his. He gives in easily, catches your hand in his own and plants it on the swell of your hip as he chases his own release with desperation. “Come for me, Kook. Fill me up.”

Jungkook does just that, balls tight as he spills himself inside you, hand at your throat so tight you’re seeing stars. Somehow - with the feeling of him grinding into you, overcome with so much sensitivity - you come for the third time, crying very real tears as the sensation washes over you. It’s weaker than your first two but unravels you all the same, seeping the energy from your limbs. You’re grateful for how well he knows you and the fact he catches you before your arms collapse, pulling you to him with gentle movements.

“I love you,” he whispers against your temple, out of breath and sweat-slick despite the water that rains down upon you.

“I love you,” you answer, pressing a kiss to the hand that still twines with yours. “But I still need you to wash my hair.” It’s cheeky and you know it so you don’t even mind when he bites into the meat of your shoulder, leaving a pretty red mark that’ll bloom for the next few days. “Ow!”

“You’re a brat.” Said even as he’s reaching for your shampoo bar, teasing it through your roots with practiced movements. He’s careful despite his scathing tone, gentle despite how he glares at you from the corner of your periphery. Each tangle is neatly undone and not a single bubble gets in your eye, much to your joy.

“I thought I was an angel.” You’re taking a page out of his book, speaking in fluent pout.

He catches your lips with his own, pushing your lathered up head beneath the steady stream when he withdraws and speaks. Suds run across your cheeks, eyes shielded only by the hand he keeps steady along your hairline. Even so mean, your boyfriend is still terribly nice. “You’re my angel - but you’re still a brat.”

You can’t argue with that.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi

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joontier · 3 years

Text

Subliminal in Scrubs | V1; report ix

pairings: dr. jeon jungkook x female reader

chapter rating: NC-17 | genre: doctors! au; humor, romance

warnings: swearing

word count: 1.8k

g/n: ((unedited skfslkdf)) also,,, i will be releasing Parallel Palpitations very soon [which features this Jimin hehehehe stay tuned for that] PLUS, im very excited to release the report x AHHHHHH send me your thoughts pleaseee

[taglist]: @nottodayjjk @ditttiii @zeharilisharaban @btsbunny07 @turquoiseandplaidinautumn @aamxxrii @codeinebelle @btsmakesmehappy

Subliminal in Scrubs (the records) | navi. | m.list

You open your new group chat first thing in the morning, wanting to check on Soomin and Jimin. Just yesterday, the two had informed you of their concerns separately, both worried over the same thing. Soomin’s mother wanted to hold a small congratulatory celebration for her daughter’s KMLE results, and her subsequent acceptance at Woocheon, so there was going to be a party exclusively for all tenants of the building at the restaurant just next to the cafe.

The two hadn’t worked out their budding acquaintance, as you had practically forced them to greet each other the last time you were at the cafe, so you thought this might be a great way to have them start over their tricky relationship.

As you’ve expected, both of them had even tried to convince you to come, in the hopes that a mutual friend could help diminish the awkward air around them. You’ve declined each of them politely, not wanting to intrude on their little get-together. Besides, (just like you hadn’t forgotten to mention to them), this was the perfect opportunity to get rid of this wall hindering their friendship (to which, both of them had also quite strongly disagreed upon).

A mere three hours after their outpour of sentiments, as you’re rewatching episodes of Dr. Romantic with Chohee, the pair drunkenly call you, requesting a video chat. You’re pretty sure not one of them is aware of what’s happening, especially with Jimin refilling his shot glass every thirty seconds; Soomin speaking gibberish, and Chohee literally teasing them through the screen of your laptop and yet none of them seem to mind a damn thing about it.

So, with hopes that each of them arrived home safely last night, you type in your text message.

‘What is this place, really?’ you mutter to yourself, slightly regretting your decision to take the subway instead of a cab. You only ride taxis for places you’re not familiar with (such is the case with today) but you didn’t want to spend twice as much solely for transportation so you took the train to the building.

Now you feel lost. You’ve just gone to the main entrance of the building, but there was scaffolding barring the entrance, and now you’re struggling to look for Entrance B with the singular tarpaulin saying “Please use Entrance B” and a faded arrow below pointing to the left. After a grueling ten minutes of asking people for directions and walking all over the place, you finally find Entrance B and hurry on your way inside.

There’s already a small crowd forming where the directions for the processing of your license is posted, and you can’t seemingly read the directions all the way down with people clearly taller than you blocking the way.

“What’s the matter? Can’t see the directions, smally?”

Your instant recognition of his voice makes you hang your head low. You figure there’s no way you can get rid of this guy anytime soon.

“Hello, Jungkook.”

Why is it that he’s always there wherever you are? He couldn’t be stalking me, could he?

Jungkook almost spits his water on the girl in front of him. Oh, so he heard your thoughts then. “Yeah, you wish, woman. I wouldn’t do that even if you had one million strapped to your neck.” You roll your eyes at him.

“Wasn’t asking for any conditions for you to do that, but thanks for letting me know your thoughts.”

“Awh, you mad, babe?” Shaking your head at him, you try to continue peering over everyone’s shoulder to check the post. “If it makes you feel any better, I would for two million though.”

You were just about to retaliate with a smart comment, but you see a girl walking towards Jungkook while twirling her hair with her newly manicured fingers. “Jungkook-oppa, you’re here!” she says, hooking her arm on his elbow.

Ah yes, it’s the same brat that kept defending Jungkook’s ass during the KMLE exam. “Why don’t you come with us? My mom works here,” her voice gets down to a whisper, but loud enough for you to hear. “If you come with us, you wouldn’t have to fall in line, then maybe we could have lunch together.

Jungkook removes her hand from his, “No thank you, I’ll just wait here.”

“With her?”

The audacity of this bitch.

“Yes, with her.” Jungkook says, not skipping a beat. “She’s...better company.” Oof, that’s gotta hurt.

You try not to show much of your currently soaring pride on your face, but you can’t help but clear your throat as a terrible disguise for a snort. The girl becomes silent after that, with most of her friends trying to control their facial expressions after Jungkook’s reply.

“Fine then, your loss,” she says with a flip of her hair, then makes her exit.

You're unsure what to do now as the girl has already left, and you’re also not sure if you’re entirely happy about being left with Jungkook now. “Why didn’t you go with her? Could’ve saved you a lot of time considering the people here.”

Jungkook clenches his jaw, as if in thought. “I don’t like cheating. I believe that there’s a different value in the reward that comes with something you worked hard for.”

You’re surprised. You really hadn’t expected this kind of quote, coming out of Jungkook out of all people, but you find yourself nodding as he speaks, quite impressed that you share the same principles.

As the crowd starts to disperse, you and Jungkook finally get your turns to take a look at the poster. “Is it often?”

“What is?”

You point a thumb backwards towards where the girl had gone to, “Having girls throw themselves at you all the time?”

“Oh that,” Jungkook chuckles, then gives you a lopsided smirk, “Yeah, that. Hadn’t realized being this hot was so tiring.” Squinting your eyes at him, it then again dawns on you that you shouldn’t even have asked him that sort of question at all.

“You know,” he says, nudging your shoulder with his, “I’m quite jealous of you really,” your brows crease together. This can’t be good. “At least you don’t experience all of that, cause you know…” he says, gesticulating his hands over his face.

He did not just insinuate that you were not...attractive at all. Huh. This bastard can wait for his license alone then.

“Goodbye, Jungkook.”

“Hang on! ________, wait! I was just messing with you,” Jungkook laughs, running after you.

The cashier is already scanning the last items on your grocery list by the time Jimin and Soomin had texted you that they were done with their licenses, and you three had agreed on meeting up by the mall’s concierge. It doesn’t take long before you all decide on having Italian for dinner, after seeing the restaurant nearest to where the concierge was.

“Wait, it took you guys only half an hour?” you exclaim, recalling how you had to endure at least more than an hour with Jungkook as you waited for your licenses to finish. Thankfully though, the latter had other errands to run so you two parted ways as soon as you got your IDs.

Jimin, always the gentleman, offers to get your group the utensils as well as a few condiments and spices you might need with your meals. “Soomin-ssi, do you know anybody else who’s going to Woocheon too?” he says, setting the silverware atop the napkins.

Soomin thanks Jimin for the thoughtful gesture, sending a small smile his way. You squeal inwardly, wanting to know what happened last night for them to interact like this. “Um, also, I’m not so sure about the others who will be attending Woocheon too...I only got a glimpse of the list, sorry.”

“Ah, no worries about that. So, how was the dinner party last night?”

The two glance at each other, seemingly communicating with their eyes. Oookay, what’s going on between these two? What exactly happened last night? If they wanted to be alone, they could’ve just said so…

“It was fun,” Jimin initiates, plastering what seems to be a painfully wide grin on his face. Soomin nods along with him as she adds more, “Honestly, I don’t remember much about last night, but I do recall Jimin calling me ‘sajangnim’ the whole night. And I told him to not call me that, but Jimin here is a stubborn man.”

“Yeah, you complained about that too last night,” you laugh, cutting your garlic bread into pieces. “Wait, what?” Jimin squints his eyes at you, “Were you there last night? How did you....”

“I’m guessing you both don’t remember calling me last night too, didn’t you?”

“We did?!” they say in unison, making your eyes go wide. “Did I do something stupid?” “Please tell me I didn’t say something I shouldn’t have?”

“Hmm, well, it was quite the conversation last night,” you tease them, wanting to see how far this can go, “plus Chohee was there too so I have another key witness.”

“What?” Jimin squeaks, lips pressing into a thin line, “what’s the key witness for?”

“That, my friend, is up to you to remember and figure out.” You give each of them a wink, before turning your attention back to your pasta.

Transferring all your groceries to one hand, you fish your keys from your purse, shaking it lightly to hear its jingle as you blindly course your fingers through your bag. As the elevator doors open, you see your neighbor down the end of the hall, trailing after a man.

Ayoung hears the elevator bell ding and turns to your direction. She excitedly points her thumb to her back, mouthing ‘new tenant’ to you. She keys in her code and lets the guy in first. The moment he’s inside, she leans by the doorframe and whispers how hot the guy actually was and how much of a lucky neighbor you were going to be.

You shake your head at her, leaving Ayoung to entertain her guest. Of course, not forgetting to pray that she manages to score you a hot man next door.

#jungkook x reader #btswritingcafe #bangtanarmynet #btsghostie #jeon jungkook #bts aus #bts fic #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff

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haliyam · 4 years

Text

Asset

zeke x reader/oc, slight levi x reader/oc

summary: Levi slips into the Liberio internment zone during the festival and finds himself distracted. (Season 4 and manga spoilers ahead)

Reader does have a background that’s hinted at, default name Lucy, but if you have the InteractiveFics browser extension, please feel free to use it to change your first name! This is actually part of a series I'm hoping to write (brain willing lol), but this can stand alone too.

AO3 link if you prefer to read there

hello! i haven’t been on tumblr in a while but stumbling back into aot made me need to write something, and everyone’s fics and gifs here are amazing!

Jean looks around, tilting the brim of his hat forward just before they cover his eyes. “You sure about this, Captain?”

“Nothing wrong with making sure they haven’t caught on,” Levi nods, adjusting the lapel of his jacket. “Or that that bastard hasn’t changed his mind and informed on us to his superiors.”

Jean’s eyes flicker to his at the very thought. He spots a familiar hesitation in them, but it’s quickly fettered away with a nod. When Levi is sure he has nothing more to say, he returns it, and Jean departs for the crowd with a casual swagger that belies his doubt.

Levi hasn’t asked them their opinions on this operation. Of course, they’ve all offered it anyway—but Hange has decided, and he trusts their decision. On that point, the Scouts had all agreed.

Today the internment zone gates are open to all visitors, Eldian or not. Triangular streamers of all colors canopy the streets, and flutes and drums and instruments he’s never heard sound out in joyous cacophony in the near distance, tempting curious ears from beyond the gates. The festival is definitely a trap—but admittedly, a beautiful one. He’s never seen this much cheer since Historia’s ascension, or maybe since they retook Wall Maria. Back then he hadn’t exactly participated, much less left his quarters until it was later and Hange insisted he show himself… but this celebration is in full swing. Between Jean, Connie, and Sasha, Jean was the best choice to bring along. He’s the most likely to stay on track.

...Which is why it shames Levi when he’s caught off guard staring into a stall filled with all kinds of … food, he can only guess. Onyankopon introduced them to new desserts, but this is different. Bright and vivid, the tangy scent of them fills the air, but they’re not lollipops or candy or chocolate. He was supposed to turn the corner into an alley right before this one when he spotted it, and now…

“Here.”

A packet of one of the strange desserts is shoved into his face so quickly that he almost darts back. He reins it in at the last minute, only fixing a glare upon whoever dared invade his personal space like that, much less present themselves as a threat.

You.

A young woman in a simple dress, hand clasped around a packet of mouth-watering orange-yellow strips of the stuff.

“Here,” you smile politely, apparently unfazed by the suspicion he levels at you.

“What is that?”

“Dried mangoes,” you reply, taking a step or two closer to let your arm relax. “You were looking at them, right? They come chocolate-covered, too, but I say try these before the other variants.”

He doesn’t answer. The people manning the stalls beneath the vivid tents in the festival have all been overly friendly, but that’s par for the course, and they know to turn to their next prospective customer when he quickly walks past. Damn his own eyes. They almost make him regret his rule not to accept anything from anyone unvetted. “No thanks.”

Now you give him a different look. A curious one, which makes him almost curse under his breath. He’s supposed to blend in; not draw attention to himself. Levi turns away, heading down the road again and meaning to turn for the alley once he’s shaken you, but you’re already walking next to him.

“Have we met?” you ask, still looking at him.

“No.” He thinks he would remember if you had. And this isn’t good. Now you’ll try to commit his face to memory.

But you look away instead as you bar his way once more—down, to be specific, so you can fish a small piece of the dessert from the packet and take a bite. “Not poisoned,” you promise, clearly biting back a grin while you pause to chew. Infuriatingly, you begin to mirror his squint. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

He stares at you, and is still deciding between bewilderment or irritation when you continue, “It’s not a bad thing. I’m glad that you decided to drop by.”

“What?”

At least the look he gives you makes you recoil just a little now. That’s more what Levi is accustomed to. But it doesn’t stop you from talking. “You’re not from the zone,” you answer, motioning to his bandless left arm. “Not many outsiders want to come, in spite of the festival… so thank you for giving it a chance.”

You extend your arm again, your hand and the packet almost touching his chest in this renewed offer.

He really shouldn’t be doing this. He should be pointing you toward a distraction and leaving, or otherwise putting you off to the extent that you voluntarily leave him alone yourself. But the hope in your gaze is too tender to spoil, reminds him of too many in the past who deserved more than him to be here now—or it’s the festival getting to him.

With a sigh, Levi takes a strip of dried mango from the packet and watches your lips curve upward into a bright smile. He shakes his head, barely just stopping from rolling his eyes as he thinks about how you probably picked a dessert far too sweet for his tastes—but he’s in for another shock when he takes a bite and finds it sour instead. Well, sweet in parts and sour in others. It’s different, but he doesn’t dislike it at all.

It must show on his face as he chews, which is terrible, because you take it as an invitation to speak again. “They’re from the southeastern archipelago. Eldia never conquered much of that continent—and thank goodness for that,” you seem to add quickly for good measure, “but it did pick up a few of their delicacies. It’s common Eldian fare whenever they’re in season.”

“I see,” he says, just to be forgettable. “Thank you.” It’s likely that being rude will make someone like you remember him more, and that isn’t his goal here today. As he swallows the strip (it was too small), Levi almost doesn’t notice you nudging him forward toward the next stall. But he does, and he gives you a look. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You grin sheepishly, knowing you’ve been caught. “I never meet non-Eldians within the zone. Especially none like you. I'm going to tour you around the stalls a little - I know the scents might be confusing, and the armbands are… well. But there are good, honest people here.”

“That so?” the remark is aimed toward you, because his suspicions remain, but he realizes his mistake when your eyes look even more earnest than before.

“There are. And good food, as you can tell,” you say proudly. You offer him the packet again. “Let me show you.”

He should really get going. He and Jean mean to rendezvous in an hour, and he still hasn’t left the festival grounds.

But the look in your eyes tells him you’re going to be very annoying if he refuses. Or maybe that’s what he tells himself when he lets you.

This is how Levi finds himself guided around the festival that afternoon, getting all sorts of history lessons on food (and tea) as he tries them - but only bites, and very reluctantly of course, because he doesn’t care to get too full before tonight, when his stomach has already begun to turn. It’s that he knows he has no right to enjoy himself with the novelty of this event, with the optimism in your quiet laughter when he balks at the spicy undercurrent in the skewer of meat you have the audacity to stick into his hand. Not when he knows what’s going to happen tonight. Not when he doesn’t even know your name.

You tell him, finally, when you take a break by a quiet corner in the festival. Over here they’re selling older Eldian art pieces, some painted and others carved figurines, and the scent of lacquered wood faintly invades his senses. He gets a brief respite only when you lean closer to him to let a passing merchant through. Lilies. “I’m Lucy. I thought you should know the name of your tour guide.”

The name sounds familiar. It’s probably a common one he heard during their last visit.

You’re holding your hand out to him, expectation now in your gaze. He’s clearly spoiled you.

Levi stares at your hand. He doesn’t care to shake it, but again—better to be forgettable. He wracks his mind for a name.

“Kenny.”

Kenny? Levi inwardly sighs.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kenny.” You exchange a good, solid handshake, but you are quick to pull away immediately after. Why? Has he been compromised?

He hopes not, as you give him a reassuring smile and look ahead. At the far, far end of the next avenue is the plaza where the crowds will settle tonight, but you can’t see it from here. “Are you here for Willy’s play tonight?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“Between you and me,” you say, leaning just a bit closer again as you move on from the area and smile at a waving shopkeep, “It’s probably going to be boring. I would leave after the festival.”

Levi looks down at you, meets your gaze with a critical eye for the first time since your meeting. He ignores the way the afternoon sun sets a golden highlight around your hair. “You think so?”

If you notice, you deflect his look with a little snort. “The Tyburs,” you almost spit the name, with a venom not unfamiliar to someone in his line of work but uncharacteristic enough of what he’s seen of you that he spares you a blink. “The Tybur family’s official policy is to leave the rest of the Eldians on the wayside while they live in their beautiful estates. Why speak now?” Your hand, gentle all this time paying the vendors, passing him food, tossing it in your mouth, now clenches at your side. “He’s a coward. So…”

You trail off, biting your tongue as you turn away briefly. Hatred is something far too familiar for Levi to balk at, and so he doesn’t. Because it wasn’t hatred he saw in your eyes, but a strange defeat. He has to wonder, but he stops himself before he can. That will be moot after tonight.

“He’s saying something now,” he replies blankly, letting you hear the shrug in his tone. He doesn’t really care to defend someone with only a few hours left to live, but maybe he feels guilty for knowing even that much. Death has always been a certainty in his life, but the how and the when? “Some people never say anything at all.”

His words break you out of your stupor. It appears you weren’t really talking to him after all, but now he wishes he bit his tongue. The idea of you leaving before the play actually sounds like a good one, and he should not have gainsaid it.

“I suppose you have a point,” you say, looking slightly abashed at your outburst. Sighing, you gesture around the area. “So what do you think? Not bad for a home of devils, right?”

The question has him turning toward you so sharply that you begin to squirm under his gaze. The truth is you’ve been able to deflect his uninterested, even hostile expressions so far, but this one is new. His eyes are walled off for the most part, but a telling indignation flashes across his grey eyes so quickly you wonder if you even saw it. He sees it in the way you search them.

You gulp and then clear your throat. “I lived here when I was younger,” you explain, appearing both frightened and encouraged. Ultimately unable to withstand his gaze, you start to walk again, down the road toward the plaza.

He hardly notices himself following suit. “You left?” You were allowed to?

“My family isn’t from Liberio,” you admit, slowing to keep apace. “I came here to join the Warrior program when I was little.”

Now the expression in his eyes is indecipherable, but curiosity gives it the smallest edge as his gaze flits to your armband. Pale grey, almost white.

“I didn’t make it,” you say, quickly, since bringing up Marley’s prized Warriors with anyone from outside of the motherland is an awful idea this soon, “so I was called back home. But I had fond memories of this place, all things considered, and now I’ve chosen it as mine.”

A strange feeling now worms its way into Levi’s chest. He’s already managed to shut off his thoughts and apprehensions about tonight’s operation - they can’t afford doubts, after all, and anyway those have never stopped him from getting the job done - but it makes him uncomfortable.

“Where do you live?” Will you be spared the worst of it?

You look surprised, but you smile all the same. “A few blocks from here. An old doctor and his family let me stay with them when I was little, and I still stay there now. Now I… work at the hospital in the zone.”

“You’re a doctor too?”

The question seems to dismay you. “Not exactly.”

He frowns before he can help it. “You’re pretty dodgy for a tour guide.”

Now you can’t help but laugh in what almost looks like offense. “Me? I’m the one who’s been talking about myself, between the two of us,” you say, your indignation diluted with your ringing mirth. It sounds clearly over the din. “I don’t even know where you’re from!”

“You do. Not here.”

Levi feels the side of his mouth quirk when you laugh at such a small remark, but you manage to get a hold of yourself before he can respond.

You meet his gaze again, shaking your head in disbelief, and something appears to click in your mind as your lips part with revelation.

“You’re a war veteran, aren’t you?’

Levi graces you with another blink. “What?”

“I won’t ask where,” you promise again, raising a hand in surrender. “You just remind me of someone I’ve met at the hospital.”

He quirks a brow. “How should I take that?”

“Oh! Not as an insult!” you laugh again, covering your mouth, but your lips are pursed, still stifling another smile when you lower your hand. It takes another moment for you to compose yourself. “I meant rather that… you have soulful eyes.”

His soulful eyes stare straight at you, utterly deadpan. “Soulful.”

You stand by it, clearly suppressing mirth again. “Soulful.”

Levi sighs with some exasperation, as if to wonder how his life choices have led to him having to put up with all this, and it must be the most you’ve gotten out of this man since you interrupted his consideration of those snacks. Somehow you can tell that even his irritation should flatter you. “Anyway,” you say, when he seems resigned to all this, “if you aren’t completely sold on watching the play tonight, maybe you can drop by the hospital instead.”

Levi narrows his eyes at you. “Why would I do that?”

“Well… we don’t get visitors often. But the patients always appreciate them.” After a pause, you add, “Not always. But even just sitting with them is something.”

His furrowed brow relaxes. Not that he’ll be able to say yes - not that he wants to - and not that he’s ever cared all that much for bleeding hearts. It’s really more the determination in your gaze that gets him. Like you’re not exactly going to take no for an answer, or worse, and maybe closer to his heart, that you refuse to let the possibility cross your mind.

“There’s one patient I would love to introduce to you,” you continue, when you catch the hesitation in his silence. “He calls himself K—“

“Lucy?”

A familiar voice calls your name from amid the crowd. The smile that simply illuminates your features as you turn to look over your shoulder draws Levi’s eyes to yours rather than to your mouth this time.

Before you can look, a pair of arms encircles your waist, a beard nuzzling your neck while you squirm and laugh, trying to elbow your way out of the embrace to no avail. It’s token resistance that leads only to his nose nudging at your jaw, mouth grazing your neck. “Zeke, stop!”

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he murmurs, his glasses nudging your cheek, whisper tickling your skin. “Meeting ran late. You know how Magath is.”

“I know,” you say as you manage to wrangle your way out of his grasp. “But please don’t do that in front of my new—“

You glance to the side with an apology ready for him, but Levi has disappeared. Your hands grasp Zeke’s sleeve for balance as you get on your tiptoes, but you cannot spot his hat among the crowd.

“—friend.” You frown. “He was just here.”

Zeke quirks a brow. “Who?”

“Kenny,” you say. “He was wearing a dark suit and a fedora. Just a little taller than me, black hair… you didn’t see him? And—are you all right?” You reach for his fingers, kneading at the pads of them with yours. “Your hands are so cold.”

Zeke shakes his head, dismissing your second question. “A little taller than you,” he enunciates instead, withdrawing his hands to make a show of stroking his beard. “So did I see another runt? The answer is no, sorry.”

You give his hip a light smack. “I’m not a runt. I’m taller than Pieck!”

“By an inch.” When you make a face at him, Zeke smiles, hands pawing at your shoulders before running down your back and pulling you to him, your chest flush against the wall of his stomach. “Do you want us to look for your Kenny?” he asks, his thumb ghosting your lip.

“He’s not my Kenny,” you give him a look, even though he knows his hands are already giving you other ideas. His other one is stroking your waist. “I just thought he looked lost.”

“My bleeding heart,” he says fondly. “You can’t save everyone.”

You shoot him a look that he ignores. This isn’t the place to get into that discussion, so you shrug it off. “I guess I was imposing on him. At one point he seemed like he’d rather drink rotten milk than listen to me. I just thought we’d built a rapport...”

Zeke snorts. “Okay, okay. I’ll listen to you.”

You squint at him. “Don’t let me twist your arm.”

He grins, leaning closer to whisper in your ear. “I think I let you do a lot more to me than just that, Miss Blanchard.”

The flush that predictably spreads across your face makes him laugh, that warm, hearty chuckle that makes your knees weak. He bends down to touch your lips with his, smiling when you seek his mouth to deepen the kiss. Your hand fists around his shirt, the slightest hum of enjoyment from your throat drawing him further into your thrall, but the nudge of a passerby makes him pull away after a moment. His lips envy the disappointed pout that seizes yours as he closes your hand around his. Zeke lifts it to plant a more chaste kiss to your knuckles in apology.

“But before all that,” he says, “how about that festival date you promised me?”

Zeke gives you a questioning look, as though a part of him might actually doubt that you’ll say yes. Really it’s that he wonders if you’ll still gaze at him with those tender eyes this time tomorrow, but you can’t possibly know that.

You shrug, intertwining your fingers with his. “I’ll let you twist my arm.”

“You let me do a lot more—“

“Yeager...”

“Heh heh.” He withdraws his hand so he can wrap an arm around you instead as he guides you back to the heart of the festival. “I ran into the others while looking for you. The kids wouldn’t shut up about some good wrap nearby—and while their faces were full of pizza. What do you think?”

You lean against him, unable to help the warmth that you practically radiate as he holds you. He knows it too, pulling you closer. You shrug him off briefly to take a last glance around for Kenny, but he really is nowhere to be found.

Ducking back under Zeke’s arm, you smile. “Why not?”

Out of sight, trying to stave off the nausea, Levi watches the pair of you walk away from beside one of the many festival stands littering the avenue. How couldn’t he have realized who you are? Lucy is the name of the asset that sack of shit wants retrieved before the operation begins. He had wondered why, thought it some political ploy that would come into play later on. He didn’t expect the reason to be so... mundane.

He can’t believe he almost felt worried. He knew there had to be something strange about you, ignoring how he was clearly trying to get away. Had you been taunting him? A trap, just like this festival?

It hadn’t seemed like it. Your smile appeared to be genuine.

Not that it matters. He gets smiles all the time that he doesn’t care for; why should a beautiful woman’s remain with him or be any more noteworthy than another’s?

Dismissing the sight lingering in his mind’s eye, Levi turns for his true objective. He’s wasted enough time.

...And anyway, any person who would take up with that monster probably has some skeletons of her own.

Levi supposes he’ll find out later.

---

Thank you for reading! :)

The series I mentioned planning should be zeke x reader/oc, but because levi is very tempting, I'm also planning/considering a levi/reader AU (or ending??) of the ending post-rumbling (we'll see).

EDIT: This is a oneshot which can stand on its own, but if you're interested in a series I've posted the first two chapters of interim, the first of the Zeke-centered fics I mentioned I intended to write! It's a prequel that starts in Liberio after Zeke, Pieck, and Reiner come home post-S3. It'll go into Reader/Lucy's relationship with the Warriors, particularly Zeke, + how exactly they ended up where they are here in Asset. Levi makes a return appearance once we get to the sequel to Asset, going into the Raid on Liberio and onward.

EDIT 2: And if you'd like something completely Zeke-focused in the same year as Asset, here is a short fluff oneshot to accompany art I commissioned of Zeke and Lucy. It will have Lucy's appearance there (and I suppose her appearance is a spoilerish for the family name which you will discover in interim chapter 1), so if you don't want to see what she looks like then don't click it or just scroll down before the art loads. XD these trivial moments takes place some time before Asset, but still within the month that passes between the end of the Marley Mid-East War and the Raid on Liberio.

#zeke x reader #zeke x oc #zeke yeager x reader #zeke yeager x oc #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke jaeger x oc #levi x reader #levi x oc #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x oc #slight #eventually maybe #zeke yeager #levi ackerman #jean cameo because i love him #aot #snk #haliyam #asset

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kenvais · 3 years

Text

title: dark royalty.

reader: female

au: royal

characters: tooru oikawa, hajime iwaizumi, issei matsukawa

part: 2/?

taglist: @chrisrue15 @ak-may (list will be moved if it grows.)

recommended song: lilith - ellise

warnings: profanity, mild violence, death mention

♕♔♕

---

oikawa pov

"Be careful with her." Issei said nonchalantly as he took a bite out of his apple, glancing towards the brown haired male.

Tooru raised an eyebrow, shooting his friend a questioning look. "Mm, why should I be afraid of some petty queen? She seems like the obedient type, does she not?"

The latter male shook his head. "Miss Y/n is very far from obedient. You might want to watch your back."

A wide grin spread across the emperor's lips.

"Is that so? Well that just makes me feel even more intrigued." He chuckled, making his way to the other side of the room where Hajime was asleep on a couch.

Issei nodded. "She'll be a tough one, but I think it'll be worth it. All the gold in their kingdom is enough to make us the most powerful of the empires." The male hummed as he took another bite.

"Sounds like fun, I think it's a worthy gamble."

"You're gonna get yourself in trouble one of these days with your habits."

"Mmh, if you say so. I think it's fun.. Anyway, there's absolutely no way that someone as powerful as I would lose to a silly little girl. This is child's play."

"Whatever you say, Tooru, whatever you say."

♕♔♕

---

y/n pov

"Your majesty, I deeply apologize to wake you at such an hour, but it seems that we have an emergency--I would request that you make your way to the safe room as soon as possible." One of your butlers said, his voice filled with worry and panic.

Already mildly alarmed, you sat up in your bed, sliding out of the silk sheets and picking up your nearest robe.

"What happened?" You asked as you put the maroon colored robe on, wrapping it around your body and putting on your slippers.

The butler bowed quickly before looking directly into your eyes, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. "It seems that there has been an intruder--they seem to be armed, and there has been a dead body found in the dining hall."

With a click of your tongue, you relaxed your shoulders and frowned, glancing at your butler.

"Claude, please don't alarm me with such trivial affairs." You deadpanned as you shuffled over to the other side of the room and pulled a dagger from the top of your dresser.

"Your highness, what is it that you are doing-?" The male asked, the panic in his voice becoming more and more prominent by the second.

With your eyebrows furrowed, you looked over your shoulder at the trembling man.

"I am doing what a queen is meant to do. I protect my kingdom, my castle, and everyone inside of it. Now is not the. time to panic, it's the time for you to be informing the knights and officers." You stated flatly, sending the butler a sharp glare.

He shook his head quickly. "My queen, I cannot simply allow you to risk your life in such a way!"

"I do as I please, Claude. Now go inform the knights and officers so that they can lock all the doors and windows."

"..Yes, my lady."

"Good. Now, do be a dear and have Beatrice make me a cup of tea while you're at it." You hummed cheerily.

Claude nodded again and bowed. "As you wish, your majesty."

"Ah, and Claude, one more thing."

He raised an eyebrow, looking up.

"Please address me as Y/n, I am not a fan of all of these unnecessarily fancy nicknames that I have been receiving since coronation. Princess was cute, but this whole 'Your majesty' thing is creepy as hell."

The male nodded again and you walked out, roaming the halls in search for what had caused all the commotion.

"My, my, my, what do we have here?" A voice chirped from behind you.

You turned around, eyes wide as you saw him.

He wasn't terrible looking, you had to admit.

But that wasn't what you needed to be thinking about at that moment.

Immediately, you jabbed the dagger into the wall right by his head, pinning him against the wall mercilessly and damn-near choking the male.

His eyes had gone a little wide, seeing as he didn't expect you to be so hostile.

"You know, the violence isn't necessarily needed." The brunette hummed, glancing at you with a frown.

"Shut your damn mouth. Why are you in my castle?" You snapped, taking your hand off of him, although you left the dagger in the wall.

He shrugged. "Mmh, no reason really. I just wanted to meet my future wife in person. You really are quite the looker." He laughed.

"Well now you've met her. Leave." You stated sharply, pointing to the hall leading to the exit.

With his hands up, Tooru nodded. "Don't worry, your royal highness, I'll own this castle before you know it and you won't have any say in it."

"Whatever you say, asshole." You retorted.

The brunette stuffed his hands into his pockets, strolling towards the exit nonchalantly as you seethed with anger.

He had the audacity.

The drive.

The motivation.

The nerve to enter my castle.

He knows what he is.

He knows who he is.

I hope he burns in hell with the rest of his fucking lackies.

You pulled your robe around yourself again and yanked the dagger out of the wall, storming back up into your bedroom.

Had me walking all of those stairs for no valid reason.

And now there's going to be a dead body in the dining hall--that'll definitely stink the place up.

I wonder who it was.

Maybe it was Elliot.

I hope it was Elliot..

Elliot is an asshole, I should've killed him myself.

'A queen can't rule by herself' my ass.

"Claude, Beatrice, where's my tea-?!" You called as you sat down on your bed.

A moment later, a tall, pale woman with exactly 42 freckles entered your bedroom with a cart, holding a tray with some tea.

"My apologies, your high--eh.. Y/n, we had to arrange a cleanup for the body in the kitchen."

You nodded, taking the cup off of the tray and setting it in your lap. "Mmh, who was it?"

"It was Elliot."

"Good, at least that bastard can do something right."

"Pardon-?"

"Nothing, nothing, you all can take the day rest of the week off. You've had enough stress to last you a month within these past days."

A wide smile appeared on the woman's face.

"Thank you, it's highly appreciated!"

"No worries, now head to bed."

"Will do!"

I like Beatrice.

Beatrice is nice.

---

♕♔♕

©skvrtii - do not repost, edit, or modify my content without direct consent from me.

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zelenacat · 3 years

Text

When We Were Young- Chapter 24- An Obitine Story

Lunch was served in the main hall, but Satine did not attend. Instead, she sent Korkie, Khaami, Parna, and Hera in her place. Parna had returned with multiple copies of the audio, which were hidden all over the palace. Tristan and Tyra were engaged in espionage activities, so Satine ate her lunch in silence and then slept. Her night up with the twins had suddenly hit her and in the moment she could barely keep her eyes open.

“Your Grace?”

The Duchess groaned.

“Please, Lady Mother,” Tyra whispered, “I have news from the Council.”

Satine rolled over to find Khaami and Parna preparing a new outfit.

“What-”

“Almost dinner,” Tyra pulled her mother up, “and we have much to discuss.”

The Duchess was wearing one of her favorite gowns, the one she wore to meet Padme all those years ago when she was Queen of Naboo. It was blue and purple ombre with the Mandalorian star system embroidered on it.

“You look glorious, Lady Mother.” Tyra clapped.

Satine snorted, “Thank you, darling, but this girdle feels less than glorious.”

Parna laughed.

Khaami raised an eyebrow but couldn’t stop herself from smiling, “The news, Tyra.”

“Right,” Satine noticed her daughter was already dressed, “there was an ancient Sith who is believed to hide a powerful relic here, they say it’s on Concordia.”

The Duchess huffed.

“There’s more,” Tyra frowned sympathetically, “the Jedi believe he wanted to frame you for the creation of Death Watch to turn the people against you.”

Satine shook her head, “I hate those same old tricks.”

“Finally,” Tyra continued, “Mara and Boba have captured a couple criminals and are holding them in the cellar.”

The Duchess’ eyes went wide, “All this happened while I was asleep?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Khaami answered, fastening a ring of pearls around the Duchess’ neck, “Tristan is currently dressed as a regular servant and has been delivering the Count’s necessities.”

“Oh, poor Tristan.” Satine frowned.

“He’s doing well,” Parna assured, “we hope he’ll overhear something.”

Satine nodded, picking up her pearl-drop tiara.

“I want to see these vagrants before lunch,” she turned to Tyra, “please take me.”

The dungeon was a place Satine rarely was, and the last time had been because she was betrayed once again, so she was not looking forward to it. Fortunately, Mara and Boba clearly didn’t feel the same way.

“Mara,” Tyra gasped at the scene before them, “what is this!”

Sheepish, Mara extracted herself from Boba’s grip, “Hi, Tyra.”

“We’re dating,” Boba grinned, giving the Duchess a polite nod, “took Mara long enough.”

Satine raised an eyebrow, Tyra squealed.

“The criminals?” the Duchess prodded.

“Yes,” Mara blushed, “I’ll take you, Tyra must have special duties to attend to.”

Tyra turned to her mother, who nodded.

“We shall discuss this, Mara.” Tyra warned, wagging her finger before leaving.

Boba gave Mara a look, and she giggled.

“The criminals?” Satine asked again.

“Down the hall,” Mara pointed, “we’ll take you.”

As they approached the cells, Boba warned them not to get too close to the shields, but when Satine saw who was in jail, she took a step closer.

“Viceroy Gunray?”

The man’s head snapped up.

“Duchess Satine,” his voice made her skin curdle, “there clearly has been a mistake.”

“Certainly,” the Duchess agreed, “you were most certainly not invited, unless of course, you happen to be allied with the Separatists and are here to stir up trouble among the Mandalorian people?”

“I assure you, Your Grace-”

“Are you aware of what I am accusing you of, Viceroy,” Satine asked, a harsh edge to her voice, “will you answer my questions?”

Gunray sneered, “The Mandalorians are a peaceful people.”

“But we do not take kindly to nefarious acts that brew discord in our system,” Satine countered, “you can be sure Mandalore’s heritage is still dear to many of us.”

“You would not risk war.” the Viceroy stated.

“With who,” Satine questioned, “the Trading Federation? You have no army of your own.”

“No,” Gunray narrowed his eyes, “but Count Dooku-”

“Is courting me,” the Duchess interjected, “so, you see, I have nothing to lose if you’re threatening me with people whom I curry favor.”

Boba Fett cracked his knuckles.

The Viceroy frowned, “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can keep you as long as I want,” Satine raised an eyebrow, “but if you are friendly with the Separatists, perhaps you would like to explain that to the Republic Senate?”

“You couldn’t-”

Satine pressed her comm and a small form of Padme appeared.

“Senator Amidala?”

Padme turned.

“I hate to bother you, Padme, you do look quite busy,” Satine began, “but Viceroy Gunray has been sneaking around Mandalore on the word and protection of Separatists, and I think you’d like to talk to him.”

Padme frowned and turned to face the Viceroy, “Yes, I most certainly would, although perhaps this should be done with more Senators present.”

The Duchess nodded, “I will schedule a meeting.”

Satine turned to Mara and nodded, she curtsied and went off.

“Friends with criminals,” Gunray observed, “your reputation clearly needs revisiting, Duchess.”

“Apparently,” Satine countered, “so does yours.”

With that, she beckoned to Boba Fett and left.

“Any other important ones?” Satine asked.

“A few,” the bounty Hunter nodded, “your guards and I will question them.”

“Thank you,” the Duchess nodded, “and do look after Mara for me.”

Boba Fett’s eyes narrowed, “She has a pin, you know, with your house colors on it.”

Satine only nodded.

“I work with your sister-in-law,” Boba added, “she’d love to meet you.”

The Duchess smirked, “Tell her to learn some manners first.”

Parna met Satine at the entrance to the dungeons.

“The meeting is scheduled,” she stated, bending to clean off the Duchess’ dress, “and the Count is waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Parna.”

“Also,” the lady stood and lowered her voice, “the Jedi are sending an expedition team to Concordia.”

“Thank you,” the Duchess repeated, “I shall keep that in mind.”

Satine met the Count at the breakfast table, her full retinue already there to entertain him.

“Ah, Duchess,” Dooku smiled, “you look lovely.”

“Your Excellency is most kind,” Satine replied coolly.

The Count raised an eyebrow, “Still tired I imagine?”

It took everything Satine had in her not to reveal what she knew of his deceit.

“You make for a very trying guest, Your Excellency.”

A couple noblewomen around the table laughed. At that moment, Tyra and Hera entered, bearing platters of traditional Mandalorian cuisine along with other servants. Dooku’s eyes lingered on Tyra too long for her liking.

“I don’t believe I’ve met these ladies.” the Count observed.

“My maids,” Satine gestured, “Tyra and Hera.”

Both curtsied.

“So young.” Dooku added.

“Certainly you wouldn’t object to training the young early?” Satine asked, bitterness in her tone.

Count Dooku smiled, “I most certainly would not.”

And so, breakfast began. The older Countesses, Bralor, Eldar, and Saxon, made a point of judging Dooku openly.

“And what makes you think you are worthy of Mandalore, Your Excellency.” Countess Saxon had the audacity to ask.

Satine grinned.

The Count shrugged, “An ancient empire needs a modern one to ally with.”

Ursa Wren ground her teeth. Currently, she wasn’t talking to Satine since Sabine had been discovered as a spy and sent to a special school for rebellious children. The Duchess wasn’t pleased with the Count’s answer either, however, and decided to go on the offensive.

“At least the Republic’s army is alive.”

“Yes,” Dooku smirked into his soup, “alive.”

Satine made a mental note to ask Obi-Wan about that statement.

“I didn’t know you were friendly with the Master Jedi.”

The Duchess practically growled, “It is impolite to intrude on personal boundaries, Count, I suppose as you weren’t born nobility you wouldn’t know that.”

Dooku’s frown set deeper.

“Yara,” Satine smiled politely, “what do you think of my new sister-in-law?”

Countess Eldar grinned, “I should’ve known you’d heard.”

The Duchess gave a pleasant giggle, “Oh, I hear everything.”

“I think it’s quite like your sister to match herself like that.” Ursa commented.

“Very true,” Satine turned to the Count, “tell me of your former apprentice, Your Excellency, do you think we should invite her and my sister to court?”

Now it was the Count’s turn to grind his teeth, “I think that decision is best left up to Your Grace.”

Satine nodded, pretending like she didn’t already know this.

Lunch was finished, and the Duchess invited the Count on a stroll through the gardens, he accepted.

“Parna, Khaami,” she announced, “you will trail us.”

Satine made a point to focus on specifically Mandalorian details of the garden, then, seemingly out of nowhere, asked if it would be seen as a traditional alignment to support enemies of the Jedi.

Dooku actually smiled, “I think many would view it that way, yes.”

“But my people must choose,” Satine’s face darkened, “Padme and I agreed on that.”

“You did, did you?” the Count tilted his head.

Satine nodded, hoping he couldn’t hear her heartbeat. Was that a force user power?

“Well, I suppose you can be friends,” he sighed, “until we marry.”

“You presume to know me.” Satine snapped.

“I know you don’t care for me.”

The Duchess turned to look at the Count.

“Our union, however,” Dooku began, carefully choosing his words, “would be very beneficial.”

“You seem to think so.”

Count Dooku grabbed Satine’s arm, “I’ve seen them, no one has to know about your bastards that smell like Master Kenobi.”

The Duchess froze, her limbs cold.

“Ah yes, I know.”

Satine began to shake.

“Marry me and no one will know.” the Count offered.

“I’ll play my part,” Satine told Dooku, gritting her teeth, “but expect a long courtship.”

Count Dooku left early, he said it was business. It did, however, kiss Satine’s cheek upon departing, which caused quite the stir on Mandalore. Now, it was evening.

“He seems awful.” Korkie mused as the Duchess and her children waited.

“Terribly,” Mara agreed, “but he knows about our father.”

As she said this, Satine noticed a ship wading through the dark sky.

“What do you know, Tristan?” the Duchess asked, sensing his unease.

“Many of my classmates are slightly horrified, or aggressive.”

“He will have to prove himself ‘worthy of Mandalore’.” Tyra added.

The ship got closer, and Satine told Mara and Tristan to wait in her personal parlor.

“Lady Mother,” Korkie whispered, “I’m worried for you.”

“So am I.” Tyra agreed.

“Thank you, children,” Satine squeezed her children’s hands, “I appreciate your concern.”

Master Aayla Secura got off the ship and Satine counted herself surprised, then Ahsoka disembarked and the Duchess was put at ease.

“I wasn’t aware I would be having such distinguished guests.” Satine told Master Secura.

“After such a famous visitor you mean?” the Jedi questioned.

“I’m just glad he’s gone.” Satine replied honestly.

“Hey, Kork, whaddup?”

“The sky, Ahsoka,” Korkie smirked, “not that you would know that.”

The Padawan feigned offense, “Dear me, what a burn.”

Tyra snorted.

“Padawan Tyra,” Master Secura nodded, “you have been very helpful.”

“Wow really? That’s a first!”

Master Secura smirked, “I hope the Duchess appreciated your enthusiasm.”

“This Padawan is certainly a handful.”

“Master Vos would agree.”

Satine gave Obi-Wan a smile resplendent of the sun.

“And did he tell you as such?”

“I know her well enough.”

Aayla cleared her throat.

“Korkie, Tyra,” Satine turned, “be a good host and show our guests to their rooms.”

The Duchess watched happily as her children moved through the palace with ease, and she grinned to herself.

“Dead!”

Satine jumped. Out of the shadows slithered Asajj Ventress, with Bo-Katan behind her. The Duchess frowned.

“Interesting,” Ventress grinned, “I didn’t know you were Mrs. Kenobi.”

The Duchess opened her mouth to defend herself.

“Everybody knows now, Satine,” Bo-Katan waved dismissively, “after a moment like that I’m surprised there aren’t riots.”

Trying to suppress her blush, the Duchess asked if they planned to stay.

“We didn’t get a chance to capture the Count,” Ventress frowned, “he left early.”

“There was no time to-”

Ventress reached out and shoved Satine, who stumbled backwards onto the pavement.

“Excuses are useless with me,” the witch warned, “do not use them.”

Shocked, Satine remained on the floor.

“Get up, sister,” Bo-Katan huffed, “you look like a fish.”

“Satine!”

Suddenly, Obi-Wan was beside her.

“How-”

Reaching out with the force, Obi-Wan threw Ventress into a mass of sculpted hedges.

“Are you well, darling?” the Jedi asked, picking her up.

“Ben,” Satine blushed, “how heroic.”

“Ugh,” Bo-Katan spat on the ground, “spare me.”

“Your manners have worsened, Obi-Wan.” Ventress called.

“They may have,” Obi-Wan admitted, “but I thought matrilineal cultures praised women who just gave birth.”

A beat of silence.

“Satine,” Bo-Katan sighed, “no.”

“You’ll never see them, Bo,” Satine promised, “they won’t bother you.”

Ventress smirked, “A family man, Obi-Wan, how interesting.”

“I could say the same about you,” the Jedi countered, “you’re married.”

Bo-Katan raised an eyebrow, “And you’re not?”

Satine looked down and blushed.

“Oh, sister,” Bo-Katan clapped, “you have bastards!”

“That’s not true,” Satine huffed, face still red, “my children are royalty.”

“How many children do you have?” Ventress asked after a pause.

Satine bit her lip.

“Six.” Obi-Wan answered.

Ventress’ jaw dropped.

“Oh, Satine,” Bo-Katan whined, “I thought you were better than that.”

The Duchess was about to answer when Tristan called down from above.

“The Jedi are asking for you, Lady Mother!”

Bo-Katan blanched, “Is that Tristan Wren?”

“I’ll be right up, Tristan!” Satine called.

Ventress clicked her tongue and shook her head.

Satine fluttered her eyelashes, “Carry me, Obi?”

“Of course, my angel.”

Bo-Katan groaned, but Satine paid her sister no mind. Instead, she squealed and grabbed onto Obi-Wan as he jumped impossibly high and landed on Satine’s balcony.

“Wow, Dad,” Mara snorted, “be more chivalrous will you?”

“That’s a big word, Mara.” Tristan teased.

“I learned it from Lady Mother’s library.”

Obi-Wan placed Satine down.

“Ben, this is Tristan, and this is Mara,” she gestured, “our second set of twins.”

The Jedi’s eyes glowed as he hugged both his children.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Sixteen now,” Tristan answered, “and I’m older than Mara.”

Mara huffed.

“Your Grace,” Jaym’s voice accompanied a knock, “the Jedi are asking for you.”

“I’ll be right out.” Satine promised.

The Duchess turned to her children.

“Behave yourselves.”

The twins looked at each other, then giggled. After an exaggerated sigh, Satine left to find Master Secura and Ahsoka.

The Padawan saw her first, “Momdalore!”

Satine smiled, “You all asked to see me.”

Master Secura shot Ahsoka a look.

“Remember your manners, Padawan.” Aayla frowned.

Ahsoka grinned, “Of course, Master Secura.”

“Duchess,” the Jedi Master turned, “we’re here to search for spyware or anything the Count might’ve left behind.”

“I’ll take you to where his quarters were,” Satine gestured, “although I don’t know what you’ll find.”

Satine sent Tyra and Korkie to her personal parlor while she allowed Aayla and Ahsoka to search.

“Be polite to your father.” the Duchess whispered.

Tyra winked.

“Momdalore,” Ahsoka piped up, crawling on the floor, “why didn’t you let Death Watch capture Count Dooku?”

“He left early,” Satine responded, “there was no time to warn my sister and have it not be suspicious.”

“He kissed your cheek.” Aayla pointed out.

“I was there,” Satine nodded, “I remember.”

Ahsoka snorted.

“Duchess Satine,” Master Secura, sighed, “the Council needs your assistance with a secret.”

The Duchess raised an eyebrow.

“Master Anakin Skywalker is married to Senator Padme Amidala.”

Satine laughed, she certainly wasn’t expecting to hear that. Even Ahsoka joined in.

“You knew?”

The Duchess hesitated, “Yes.”

“Your Grace,” Master Secura frowned, “this is a great offense against the Jedi code.”

“Senator Amidala is my friend, Master Jedi.” Satine countered.

Aayla nodded, “I understand, but I tell you this to warn you.”

The Duchess frowned, “Warm me?”

“Master Kenobi wants to leave the Jedi Order after the war,” Master Secura stated, “he confessed it was because he loved you.”

Ahsoka gasped, Satine had forgotten she was there. In a burst of emotion, the Duchess collapsed onto a chaise lounge with a sob and let tears of joy roll down her face.

“Oh, Momdalore,” Ahsoka stroked Satine’s head, “it’s alright.”

“Are you pleased?”

Trying to collect herself, Satine nodded.

“I advise Your Grace to be careful then,” Master Secura’s face softened, “it seems you’ve already picked your side.”

“Thank you,” Satine dabbed at her eyes, “Master Jedi.”

“Please,” the Jedi helped her up, “call me Aayla.”

Satine thanked Aayla and excused herself, when she arrived in her personal parlor, her children and their father were happily chatting, exchanging jokes and funny stories. Satine paused for a moment to admire the beauty of the scene, it was really all she’d ever wanted.

“Satine,” Obi-Wan smiled, “come in.”

The Duchess tripped as she made her way to Obi-Wan, who caught her in his arms.

“I knew you loved me.”

“If six children didn’t tell you that,” Satine grinned, lifting her head, “I don’t know what will.”

Obi-Wan scooped up the Duchess and placed her in his lap.

“Now, tell me children-”

At that moment, Bo-Katan and Ventress appeared on the balcony. Obi-Wan growled, Satine put a hand to his chest to hush him. Bo-Katan gaped.

“Wow, Obi-Wan,” Ventress remarked, “you have quite a large amount of offspring, but there only seems to be four of six.”

Bo-Katan recovered her senses, “Satine, are you out of your mind!”

“Bo-”

“A Jedi,” her sister asked, “I mean, I knew you hated tradition, but really?”

“Bo-”

“I’m not done,” Bo-Katan announced, “what would our parents say?”

“To be fair,” Obi-Wan interjected, “your parents were the ones who requested Jedi protection all those years ago.”

Bo-Katan blinked, “Oh, as if that’s an excuse.”

“I didn’t know the Duke of Sundari was yours though, Obi-Wan,” Ventress grinned, “a real fan of monarchies are you?”

Satine flinched.

“You lied,” Bo-Katan frowned, “you created a false brother and sullied our father’s name to hide your own transgressions, you lied?”

“Bo,” Satine held up her hands, “I can explain.”

“What is there to explain-”

“Bo-”

The door burst open and Gorg ran in with Jaym. Satine clamored out of her Jedi’s arms.

“Escort them out,” Satine ordered.

Bo-Katan snarled, “We’re not done here.”

Mara stood, “How dare you speak to my mother like that.”

Bo-Katan raised an eyebrow.

“It’s awfully rude of you.” Tyra agreed, assuming a fighting stance.

Ventress tensed.

“The Duchess of Mandalore should be treated with respect.” Tristan added.

Bo-Katan turned to Korkie.

“I’m sorry, Auntie Bo,” he stood, “but what my Lady Mother did was right.”

At this time, Ahsoka and Aayla appeared in the doorway with Jaym,

“Ventress,” Obi-Wan stood, hands out, “I suggest you follow the Duchess’ orders.”

Bo-Katan was fuming.

“Come on, Babe,” Ventress growled, “we should teach these self entitled brats a lesson.”

“It’s a foolish fight,” Bo-Katan glared at Satine, “you can’t fight someone who cheats, we’ll get them later.”

“Bo,” the Duchess begged, “you will get a chance to capture him.”

“You lie.” her sister spat.

“No,” Ventress stated, everyone paused, “he’s proposed to you.”

Obi-Wan turned to her, Satine swallowed.

“I’ve accepted.”

Pandemonium erupted. Bo-Katan lunged at Satine, but Tyra threw her out of the way. Ventress then ignited her lightsaber, but so did Obi-Wan.

“What is this?”

Satine, who had stumbled backward, stood to face Master Secura.

“There is much to discuss,” the Duchess stated, “but my sister and her wife decided to pay us a visit.”

Ventress snarled.

“We were just leaving,” Bo-Katan announced, “tell us when the wedding is.”

#obitine #Duchess Satine #satine kryze #satine x obiwan #obi wan kenobi #obiwan #korkie kenobi #korkie kryze #Bo-Katan Kryze #asajj ventress

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godkilller · 3 years

Text

@shirenui144

A more sombre question, but had me wondering... Has Gin ever cried / what would it take to make him cry? I imagine it would be verse dependent, but could a man this guarded ever visibly show such emotional hurt?

out of character. Why must you hurt me.

But it’s an excellent question, and as you say too -- Gin has become such a guarded, numbed, and twisted man. He has, for lack of better wording, killed off that part of himself long ago. He is also one of the topmost guarded characters in Bleach, even Ichigo’s little trick of ‘reading his opponent’s heart’ during battle did not work on Gin. Gin was empty. Gin wasn’t even ‘looking at Ichigo’ with his heart when fighting. They did not reach each other. Gin is so utterly closed off from others and himself that there’s an eerie absence of self present in him, a swallowing abyss, intimidating and oppressive. Gin has also spent his entire existence isolated, he joined Aizen extremely young and thus his centuries-long otherness began. He cannot show emotions akin to Toshiro, who is often used in ways alongside Gin to show what happens if one shows emotions and weakness to Aizen Sousuke via childhood friends. Renji and Rukia, too, are used in ways that contrast Gin and Rangiku subtly in the background. Gin’s interactions with Rukia about Renji, and his interactions with Toshiro about Momo are to make Gin more of an other. He is removed, unlike them.

So Gin does not despair openly like they do. He doesn’t shout or cry for the audience to see. He’s a villainous cold-hearted bastard.

This is on top of the potent sense of cultural toxic masculinity and military way of avoiding / “dealing with” emotionally charged moments, not speaking of trauma, and the whole nine yards of suppression which channels into self-worth issues and a tendency for violence. Most characters in Bleach, and especially male characters, aren’t allowed to really stop and think about what they’re feeling, doing -- Ichigo being able to do a decent amount of that, yes, with his protagonist badge, but even then ? It’s pathetically insufficient, barely a taste of what Ichigo actually should be experiencing, and no other characters are allowed to mourn losses or suffer long-lasting consequences for their actions, for injuries, for mistakes, for harmful words or acts. It’s an action / fighting series, the audience is here for big flashy swordfights and cool abilities, not emotions. Certainly not darker topics of PTSD and the like.

You can slice it any which way, but Gin grew up as a child soldier. It can be contrasted by the fact that the majority of the Gotei 13 / Shinigami characters are shown, in flashbacks, as entering the Academy whilst in adulthood, becoming Shinigami once adults, with the exception of people like Toshiro, Momo, Hiyori, who all look / are perpetually young.

Gin is a little older than Toshiro, for context, by the way -- and he is younger than Byakuya. Because Tite doesn’t know how the ages of his own characters work, it can be argued that Gin and Hiyori are possibly within the same ballpark in terms of ages. But like. Look at her. What the fuck. ANYWAYS, the point is ? Gin’s young, and his trauma is fairly fresh. From the Winter War -- and then 110 years into the past to the Turn Back the Pendulum arc -- Gin spends the majority of his childhood either playing caretaker for Rangiku, who is actually a little older than him, and then killing; first, the three Shinigami that attacked Rangiku, then the Third Seat of the Fifth Division, and then many more likely during his career of observing failed projects at Aizen’s side, witnessing horrific Hollowification experimentations, and many more things. The crucial period of development for things like higher level empathy ( Gin showcases it by sharing his food with Rangiku, a stranger, and then we see the absolute absence of it from then on ) and Gin swiftly enters into the midst of Erikson’s industry vs. inferiority stage of development; what does he have to offer the world ? What can he become ? Will he be good enough ? This is the stage in which Gin makes the connection as well as makes peace with becoming a monster; this is what I’m offering, this is what I’m becoming, this will be good enough.

He flipped a switch. It’s questionable whether or not Gin has the ability to cry once he’s an established Third Seat. It’s gone, it’s been swallowed down a hole so deep and dark Gin doesn’t want to go searching for it. He doesn’t want to cry. Gin already has a negative connotation connected to crying given his quote “I’m gonna become a Shinigami, change things for ya, so that you don’t have to cry anymore, Rangiku.” Not crying = good. Not crying means better. Rangiku crying over what was done to her was what embedded into Gin that he needed to be stronger. No crying allowed. None. In his mind, obviously, Gin doesn’t actually make that connection that ‘because Rangiku did this, I’ll do this’ no, he’s not so meticulously aware yet, but there’s certainly an imprint left on him from those earlier years in the Rukongai, dreading her tears, hating them, hating those men, and so crying = murderous intent. Crying = anger.

If Gin cried as a child, he didn’t realize he was doing so. I can see him crying in his sleep from a dream, a nightmare, a jam-packed series of emotions hitting him whilst vulnerable, whilst unable to smile and swallow it all down. I can see him waking from it and wiping at his face, feeling utter detachment like an ache in his chest, an otherness, like that wasn’t even him crying, that wasn’t him. Gin wouldn’t think more of it, he wouldn’t dare linger on the thoughts. Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know.mp4 and all that jazz.

Gin is more likely to lash out in anger than let himself cry. I have a headcanon / drabble somewhere of Gin screaming into his inner world, clutching at his hair, feeling so terribly close to crying but he can’t, it literally will not happen. He’s too bottled up and frustrated from that that when he actually has an opportunity to cry and it doesn’t naturally happen because he’s become so suppressed, it just outright angers him. Because he has latched everything up, lock and key, by the time Gin’s an adult -- if he were to cry as an adult, it’d be during a flurry of explosive emotions. He cannot just casually let loose, no, that door’s jammed shut, it’s been coiled tight in him. A pit of despair by the time the Winter War rolls by. Gin admits to feeling anxiety, dread, during that conflict -- a sign of slowly coming undone, no longer able to keep himself from hesitance, doubt, insecurity, and anticipation hovering around him like a dark cloud. Gin cannot cry, though, not now. Not when he’s so close to making all the pain worth something...

So it’s no surprise that Gin really only starts getting the actual opening to properly cry in my canon divergent verses. But the catch !!!! Gin has failed so thoroughly and so brutally that he feels he doesn’t deserve to weep about it. That this is merely a fraction of the karma he deserves. He experiences suicidal ideation, daydreaming of how it’d simply be easier if he hadn’t survived at all. He feels too hollow to cry, then, at the start. He feels too heavy, too much, it’s too much to cry about. He ruined himself and Rangiku for nothing. He did all of this for nothing. And now Rangiku wants answers, still waiting, watching him, and he can’t cry in front of her. IT’S STILL INGRAINED IN HIM FROM CHILDHOOD: she’s the one who cries and he’s the one who comforts. The audacity of him to cry in front of her after everything he put her through, as though he were the victim and her the one needing to comfort him. Gin may be morally gray, but at times he truly sees the world in black and white. No moderation, no give and take.

It’d hit him later, when he’s learning to become more vulnerable. When he’s trying to open up to Rangiku about something he has to rip from himself, his heart holding onto this sorrow for so long Gin has to surgically remove the truth from himself. AS A CHILD, WITNESSING WHAT HAPPENED TO RANGIKU COUNTS AS A TRAUMATIC EVENT. Not talking about it for 110+ years does a number or two on you when you at last, FINALLY, tell her the fucking scoop. Gin repressed what happened to Rangiku because he recognized that Rangiku did not fully and properly remember, recollect, what happened to her. He knew. Gin saw.

Compartmentalizing her trauma on top of his own, as though a keeper of it, a sin-eater, Gin would feel absolute despairing relief at finally telling her. Despairing because he’ll be inflicting upon her something he’s been holding back, holding that door shut, for the entirety of their knowing of one another, and to finally let go of the door and let that beast of trauma go charging at her undeterred ? There’s immense guilt attached to this entire affair. Gin feels childlike guilt; why her, and not me ? I wish it could’ve been me, we could’ve traded places and I’d be fine, I’d live, we could live happy together. Akin to survivor’s guilt, Gin wishes those men had found him and taken a piece of his soul rather than Rangiku’s. The ‘why’ of it haunts him. Why her. Why didn’t I stop them. Why didn’t I show up sooner. I could’ve bitten at them, kicked and hit, we could have escaped together -- or at least you could have. Gin also feels guilt at a base adult level: why am I keeping this from her ? No, it’s too late to tell her, she’s happier now, there will never be a good time to tell her.

There are so many things, feelings, thoughts, that Gin has never shared with Rangiku due to it all being tied to the unspoken secret he’s let fester inside of him.

SO WHEN GIN FINALLY TELLS RANGIKU WHY HE JOINED AIZEN, WHY HE TRIED TO KILL AIZEN, WHY HE SAID THOSE WORDS TO HER DURING THAT BLIZZARD AND BECAME A SHINIGAMI ... GIN’S GOING TO BREAK DOWN.

The truth is tied to vulnerability in Gin’s mind. Telling it means ripping himself apart at the seams. Everything he crafted himself out to be was made around this secret. It’s going to be bloody, it’s going to hit him like a fucking train. Gin’s going to feel it coming, rumbling on the tracks, he’ll hear it even, that approaching storm, he’ll know by the prickle at his eyes and the closing of his throat, but still nothing’s ever prepared him for the absolute choked finality of the truth, and he’s going to do his best to hold it back -- it’s instinctive, it’s in his blood by now to mask it, stop it, divert and drawl his way out of it. But this time he can’t just stop halfway and distract her, talk about something else. No, Gin’s cornered himself and it’s high time Rangiku got the truth from him, he can’t run away any more. He’ll have to grit his teeth and talk through it, swallow it back just enough to speak, to tell her what he’s done to them both and for what, for why, it’s the worst possible conversation they could ever have, but one they need. And Gin’s going to find himself incapable of holding back a sob the more he discloses, the more that slips out and escapes him the more the emotions tied to that sunken anchor come up too. He will feel simultaneously lighter and heavier for it.

There are numerous ways Gin’s thought about wording it. He’s thought about the numbed approach, MISSION REPORT style: Aizen Sousuke harvested souls from the 64th Rukongai District, they took a piece from you. Perhaps not, no, not like that. Maybe... back when y’were a kid, there were three Shinigami assigned to the 64th District to collect souls to fuel Aizen Sousuke’s Hogyoku. They took somethin’ from you. I saw it. I saw them hoverin’ over you, I saw it in their hands. I saw’em offer it up to Aizen in the forest, collectin’ firewood. I saw him.

WHY DIDN’T I STOP HIM, WHY DIDN’T I ATTACK THOSE THREE MEN THEN AND THERE IN BROAD DAYLIGHT WITH YOUR COLLAPSED FORM A FEW FEET AWAY, MAYBE I COULD HAVE TAKEN THEM ON AFTER ALL. I COULD HAVE CRUSHED A SKULL IN WITH STONE, I COULD’VE STOLEN HIS SWORD BEFORE THE LIFE FULLY FADED FROM HIM AND MADE IT VANISH, I COULD’VE CARVED THROUGH THE SECOND, SLICE THE TENDON AT THE THIRD’S ANKLE AS HE ATTEMPTED TO FLEE, WARN OTHERS. SLIT HIS THROAT AS HE CRAWLED AWAY. YOU’D HEAR IT, OFF TO THE SIDE. YOU’D SEE ME COME UP TO YOU WITH BLOOD SPLATTERS. YOU’D SEE ME LEAN OVER YOU WITH NOT A PERSIMMON OFFERED, NO, YOUR OWN FUCKING SOUL THEY PLUCKED FROM YOU. SHAKY HAND. BLOODIED HAND. TAKE IT, TAKE IT BACK. I FIXED IT --

Just tell her. JUST TELL HER.

DO YOU REMEMBER THE DAY WE MET, RANGIKU ... ?

#[ headcanon ] fresh snowfall; fading footprints mark his path #[ verse: redemption ] i am healing by mistake; rome is also built on ruins #me: i wanna cover more but also i. oof.

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dhwty-writes · 4 years

Text

Love Songs and Smelly Feet

So, I don't know what happened here. I had a plan with this, as vague as it might've been (namely Geraskier being awake since apparently we used to sleep in 2 4-hour periods before the industrial revolution?) Alas, these two idiots took this story two sentences in and ran away with it. Written for Day 5 - Nighttime Snow of @witcher-and-his-bard‘s winter prompts. Have fun!

Summary: Jaskier and Geralt are awake at night and bicker.

Warnings: none!

Read on AO3

"Are you done yet?" Geralt asked as he packed his freshly mended shirt away.

Jaskier yawned and dipped his quill into the inkwell again. "Almost, love." It was getting late, he knew, almost time for morning sleep. He just had to finish that one stanza...

If anyone asked him, this was promising to be his greatest ballad yet. Not that anyone asked him, of course, especially not Geralt. The witcher preferred to avoid the topic of... well, him, discussed in song; especially in songs such as this one, with love and adoration dripping from every word.

"Hmm," the witcher said, much closer than anticipated to peer over his shoulder. He sighed heavily. "Another one, Jaskier? Really?"

He rolled his eyes affectionately. "Yes, of course another one. Really, Geralt, how is a man supposed not to write you love poetry when you- when you-"

He chuckled and snaked his arms around Jaskier's waist. With a kiss to the back of his neck he asked: "When I? What is it bard, hm? At a loss for words?"

"Not at all, my dearest. It's just- What do you expect me to do, strutting around in front of me with your armour and your sword and slashing and hacking and- yeah, that. You know what I mean!"

He nodded thoughtfully. "What else are you s'posed to do, y'mean, when you know fuck all of my trade."

"Oh, bugger off, you big bloody bastard," Jaskier scoffed and shoved at him. "Keep talking and you can stay with Roach tonight."

Geralt crouched down next to the desk to make sure Jaskier caught the self-satisfied grin on his face. "Don't tempt me."

Jaskier smiled, too, and pushed his notebook away. He could finish the stanza on the morrow just as well. "And here I was," he drawled and turned to him, "thinking I was tempting you already."

He laughed quietly and pulled Jaskier's chair closer, placing his forearms on the poet's thighs. "Maybe you are."

"Well," he said slowly, raking his eyes over Geralt's body--god's he would never get sick of that sight, "considering how unbothered you are by my efforts, I'm certainly not trying hard enough."

"Let's not jump to any conclusions. You could certainly say I'm having a... hard time, at the moment," the bastard had the audacity to say. He even wiggled his eyebrows.

Jaskier stared, dumbfounded. He couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. "Gods great and small, have mercy on me. You are a terrible man, Geralt of Rivia, for making that horrid joke." He kissed him on the lips. "But I love you even so."

"I love you, too," he replied and kissed him, too. "I just wish you wouldn't sing it for all the world to hear.

He sighed dramatically and folded his hands behind his neck, leaning back. "And I wish you'd stop putting your stinky feet into my lap, and yet, here we are."

Geralt spluttered and fell over onto his butt. "These are not comparable, bard!"

"They are, they are!" he insisted. "I swear, you are what's most dear to me on this earth but they might be your most lethal weapon yet."

"I don't have stinky feet," he insisted. "You have stinky feet! Here try smelling them!" He grabbed Jaskier's left ankle in an attempt to push it up to his nose.

He laughed and thrashed, trying to reclaim his leg. "No, thank you, I can smell yours form up here, that's bad enough."

"Ha!" Geralt exclaimed triumphantly and jumped to his feet. "So, you admit yours smell bad!"

"I might be swayed to proclaim that smelling my feet might not be beneficial to the already horrendous fragrance that keeps tormenting my nose since I first got a whiff of your truly putrid, rank, revolting-- oh, great, you're not even listening."

The witcher he had been talking to, had wandered off to the window, apparently completely entranced with something Jaskier's own puny human eyes undoubtedly wouldn't be able to perceive. he got up with a sigh. They'd have to table that discussion, then.

"What is it, my love," he asked as he sauntered over to him, trying to worm his way under Geralt's arm. "What do your keen eyes see?"

"Look," Geralt answered, completely enthralled. "It's snowing."

"It is?" He squinted and inched closer to the window, trying to peer out into the dark. But it was just as Geralt said, thick white flakes drifting to the ground in the quiet night. "Oh. It is." He sighed contentedly, leaning back against his lover. "Oh, Geralt, I love this. The first snow of the year, and it's real snow already, not that wet shit we get normally. It's beautiful; come morning we will wake in another world."

"Not as beautiful as you are," Geralt whispered against the crown of his neck.

"You sap." He chuckled. "Be careful that I don't include that in any of my ballads: Geralt of Rivia, the secret romantic."

"Only for you." After a short pause he added: "Do you want to go outside? Catch the snowflakes?"

Brightly, he smiled up at him. "You remember I told you that?"

The witcher only shrugged and hid his face in Jaskier's shoulder. There was the hint of a blush on his cheeks.

'How adorable,' he thought and gently stroked his hair. "No, my love," he mumbled, "I'd much rather go to bed and let the magic happen while we sleep."

"With my smelly feet?" he teased.

"Yeah," Jaskier answered and kissed him, "with your smelly feet."

#my writing #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #winter prompt challenge

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lisinfleur · 4 years

Text

The Light in Your Eyes

The request:

Author’s Notes | It took me an era to produce, but I really hope you like the final work as much as I liked it!

Universe | Vikings

Pairing | Ubbe x Reader

Info | Viking Age AU, requested by @curioiscat

Words | 3022

⁑ Warnings: Some ANGST.

You were fully strange to him now.

The two of you were childish friends and Ubbe's strongest memory of you was your smile, always open, always making you shine. But now, it wasn't there.

You were always sad, looking down or far away. Especially when you were speaking to him - and he noticed you would still smile to Hvitserk or Sigurd, even thou it was small smiles not even close to the ones you used to have. But for him, nothing. Just that darkness inside your eyes, sometimes bigger, sometimes deeper...

It was like the girl he always knew for being the sweetest around him was slowly becoming bitter inside and Ubbe just didn't know what to do to make you feel better.

Ivar told him several times he shouldn't care so much about this since you wouldn't become his wife anyway, right? Of course, he would care! You were his best friend! And Ubbe couldn't pretend he didn't think of making you his wife when the time come for him to get a family.

Now he was still having fun with Hvitserk and Sigurd and that slave of theirs, Margrethe. And he even thought about claiming her to avoid Sigurd's passion could spoil their game. But he was a prince, after all, right? He could always get divorced and marry again or have another wife of his choice when the time was right...

The truth was that Ubbe liked you. He always had an eye on you. But he didn't want to get himself collared too soon and lose what the good things of youth could bring for him.

However, you were the best thing in his life and somehow, Ubbe felt he was losing your light. His mind was upon this situation all the time and maybe that was the reason why he failed Margrethe that afternoon.

"Is there something bothering your mind, Ubbe?"

"Yes," he sighed, getting his trousers up to sit on the sand and start putting back his shirt. "You should search for Hvitserk. I'm not in the mood today."

"Do you wanna talk about this? What is it that bothers you?" she tried, with silky hands caressing his shoulders.

However, those weren't the hands he wanted and Ubbe wasn't really on the mood for her.

"Go search for my brother, Margrethe. Tell them I'll get home later," he completed, getting up and straightening the cloak over his shoulders.

"Where shall I tell them that you went?" she tried.

As if Ubbe didn't know Margrethe's jealousy in her tone. He would have giggled in a different situation - what audacity of hers to think she could control her master's steps! But he was too worried to give a fuck about her feelings.

"To walk around," he answered, generic, starting to walk away without waiting for her to get dressed.

His mind floating in the numerous possibilities of reasons that could be numbing your eyes that way as his steps were carrying him towards your house.

He thought about knocking on your door, speaking to you, asking what was wrong. But the sound of sobs coming from your bedroom's window caused him to feel his heart clenching inside his chest.

What could be causing you to cry that way?

Curiosity kicked in and he sneaked through your garden, approaching the window, hearing someone was inside with you as you were sobbing words he would never believe if weren't coming from your mouth.

"He's in love, I can see this. He walks around her all the time, smiles at her, his eyes shine at her! What does she have that I don't have, sister? What is it that Margrethe has that attracts all of them like that?"

So, you were speaking of one of his brothers... And surely wasn't Ivar, since Ivar wasn't in love with Margrethe so... Was it Sigurd? Or Hvitserk? Maybe Sigurd, who was all over the place for Margrethe, speaking flowers of her all the time... Oh, poor you and lucky bastard his brother was! Ubbe looked down thinking how hard it would be if Sigurd could ever discover your love and decided to take you as his wife - to live his life with you as his sister in law would be excruciating! He wanted you to himself! But knowing you loved his brother, then he would never claim his right as the older brother over your heart or your feelings... His heart clenched inside his chest as your sister's voice started sounding in between your heavy sobs.

"He's a prince, Y/N! What were you waiting for? Princes have women around all the time, they get laid everywhere... And she's their bed slave. I don't really believe he's in love with her since he shares her with his younger brothers all the time!"

Younger brothers?

Ubbe's eyebrow got lifted: Sigurd was the younger of the three of them. And Ivar wasn't in the game so it couldn't be Hvitserk or she wouldn't be saying "brothers", but "brother"... Were you in love with...

"Ubbe is a Viking, sis! He has no such bullshits like jealousy when it comes to his brothers. And you said well: she's their bed slave. She belongs to all of them. But once he decides to marry her - and I've heard he's thinking of it from Hvitserk's mouth! - then I bet he'll stop sharing her with them. Oh, gods, what will I do? I rather throwing myself from the waterfall than making myself a dress to stand at his marriage!"

It came like a heavy stone over his head: you were in love with him! With him! Not Sigurd, nor Hvitserk, with him! Everything made sense now that the truth was revealed!

The many times he saw that darkness inside your eyes becoming bigger; when you tried to flee from speaking to him... Whenever Margrethe was around, you would be sadder. Since he started walking around with her and that game with his brothers, you started speaking lesser to him and he noticed you were becoming distant, but now everything was clear like water for him: you knew what he was doing.

And it was hurting your heart.

"You should forget this, Y/N," your sister's voice spoke and Ubbe tried to pay attention one more time.

He was feeling terrible for spying you like that, but the gods would forgive him - somehow he could feel it was their doing he was there to listen to those things so he would take this as their providence and take his chance to understand what was happening so he could decide what to do.

"Fadir is not here anymore. We have almost nothing to offer. Let us be honest, my sister, I know your love is the purest, but they're princes all of them. I hardly doubt queen Aslaug would accept a peasant like any of us to be their wives. I hardly doubt this marriage you say will effectively happen! She's a slave! Queen Aslaug will surely be against it, but anyway, this is not our matter, my sister. Try to clean your heart. There are plenty of men from our level that would want to get married to a beautiful lady like you. Choose one of them... We focus on our lives and try to save our father's farm and then you'll see this will pass soon and your heart will recover from these broken dreams. Maybe Iklos' brother...".

No!

Ubbe knew your father passed away not far from that month, but he didn't know you were passing through hard times! He knew your sister was about to get married to your neighbor's son, but he couldn't let her cross your ways with her brother in law! Not when he wanted you so badly!

It was enough of hearing behind your window: Ubbe walked towards your door, knocking on the wood, sure of what he wanted now.

It was your sister who came to open it for him.

"Prince Ubbe?" she said, surprised by his presence when the two of you were speaking of him about a moment ago.

"Y/N. I wanna talk to her," Ubbe said, kinda impolite.

But he was nervous inside... He was sure she would be able to understand it later on.

"Y/N is not in her best moment. Is there something I can..." she started, trying certainly to prevent you from having to show up with your face marked by tears.

But you came through the corridor, and your eyes found his blues, wide and certain of what he wanted.

Ubbe passed your sister and walked towards you, ignoring the surprise in your face or the way you gasped to exclaim his name, taken aback for his sudden appearance in your simple home.

"Prince Ubbe, I..." Your voice silenced when he touched your face, wiping your tears slowly.

That terrible way of calling him "prince" you got in the last months now sounding even sharper than before to his ears.

"We need to talk. Please," he said, getting you worried.

"Y/N," your sister tried, but you calmed her down.

It could be something important - after all, you were still one of his mother's seamstresses and you had delivered a package for the queen not far from that day.

"It can be something important," you said.

And he reinforced.

"It is," Ubbe said. "It is the most important conversation we ever had."

It was enough to have your eyes looking at him with more than that darkness inside of them.

But it was fear, apprehension... Could nothing good come from him for you? How far did he go in that cliff he was throwing you in?

Where was the light he loved so much in your eyes?

"I'll give the two of you some space..."

Your sister wasn't that safe about that conversation and he could see it in the way she squeezed your shoulder - a classic and mute sign that she would be ready to help if you wanted.

But soon, the two of you were alone in the living room and you walked away from him - the usual movement you were taking to get some distance, maybe to hide what you were feeling from his eyes. - going towards the table, reaching for the amphora of mead to serve him a cup.

Ubbe walked after you. And held your hand over the amphora, catching your eyes one more time.

"No. We don't need it. I didn't come for your mead nor for your services."

He took your hands into his. Your eyes were so full of doubt and fear...

He'll invite me to his marriage...

Or ask me to be by his side...

He'll give me something important to do, like her dress or her crown of flowers...

He'll break my heart...

Ubbe could see all those sentences dancing in the darkest well he'd ever seen in your eyes.

"Then... Why did you come? What is it that's so important, Prince Ubbe?"

Your voice was trembling.

Ubbe decided he wouldn't lie.

"I came for you, Y/N. I came because I have been noticing the sadness in your eyes. This bottomless well of darkness staining the light I always thought was so beautiful into your eyes. And I can't stand it anymore."

Your expression changed. Now, there was something like surprise... And shame.

"Am I this transparent?" you asked, not daring to keep your eyes on his.

This time the sadness was visible and the sentences were written in your eyes, but coming from your lips.

Ubbe gently lifted your face, caressing your chin.

"You are. You always were. At least, to me, you were always clear like the waters and maybe this is why I was so bothered by the fact that I couldn't understand this sadness in your eyes. You were always enlightened and your smiles could make my days bright even when the sun was hidden. But you weren't shining anymore and I didn't know why. So, I came to ask you... But your tears gave me the answer before I could ask."

The shame became bigger and he lost your eyes once again, but not before he could notice the thick line of tears drowning them.

"You were hearing us? You've heard my sister and I? This... This..."

You wanted to say it was disrespectful! That he was sneaky and had no right to listen to your intimacy like that! But you didn't need to.

Ubbe lowered his head, continuing to speak, pouring his heart through his lips.

"This is disrespectful, I know! I'm deeply sorry for the way it happened and I know I should have warned you I was there or stopped hearing your conversation but I was so sure I could help you... When I heard you speaking, I thought for a second you could be in love with Sigurd or Hvitserk... I thought I could help this sadness to go away from your eyes even thou it would cost me dear."

His words attracted your eyes once again. What was he talking about?

But he didn't stop. Instead, Ubbe looked right into your eyes and you could see he was really trying as much as he could to save you from whatever he thought was causing you that pain.

"But it wasn't any of them. It was me."

His eyes became sadder, almost ashamed. And he caressed your hands in a gentle way.

"I was the source of your pain. I was the one unable to see that what I wanted was already mine. I was blind... But I'm not anymore."

Your face gained some more wrinkles and it got a smile from his lips. The sadness in your eyes was giving place to surprise and doubt.

Ubbe then released your hands just to cup your face with both of his, warming your neck, bringing you gently closer, smiling as the whole darkness in the bottom of your eyes converted in confusion and, at some point, hope.

His thumbs caressed your cheeks and he lowered his head, touching your forehead with his.

"I'm not in love with Margrethe. We got our moments, I won't lie. But she's a game I like to play with my brothers. My heart, however, belongs to you. And maybe I have been too immature to notice it is passed the time to be a man and stop playing childish games with my life..."

You froze. The words left your mouth and your eyes, for a second, had a glimpse of that glow once again. Ubbe's heart filled with hope and he brought you closer, nuzzling his nose to yours, sweetly.

"Mother is right... I'm passed the time to have children. And I see my unborn children in your eyes, Y/N. They always kept inside of them the family I wanted to build, safe with my best dreams. Now, this darkness inside your eyes is swallowing my dreams into them. Your tears are drowning them and I was afraid I had lost them forever in this vortex of sadness you're always in. I was a fool, not noticing I was the cause of your cry. I was the reason why you were so lifeless, colorless. Tell me I didn't lose it. Tell me I can still fix my foolishness and make you my wife."

Your tears were rolling down your cheeks to meet his thumbs gently caressing your skin. Your mouth was lying agape, speechless.

Never ever you thought he could feel anything like this for you. Not even in your best dreams, he had such words for you.

You always knew Ubbe was the owner of your heart. But you never really knew how easy it was for him to melt it into your chest.

"I... I don't know what to say... I thought," you started, stuttering with the words and unfinished sentences in your mind. "I thought you would marry Margrethe..."

Hvitserk told you! He said Ubbe was going to marry her!

"I thought of doing this," he confessed, confusing you even more just to untie the knots of your mind with his soft words. "It doesn't worth my life. My dreams... I told you: it was a childish game, Y/N. A game I thought about keeping, but that doesn't worth losing your heart for. I'm losing you. I can see it. I've heard your sister speaking about marrying you to another. I can't stand it. I can't stand seeing you beside anyone else. Nor Iklos' brother, nor my brothers. No one!" he insisted. "If losing Margrethe is the price I have to pay to have you by my side, then I would gladly forget she ever existed into this world. Y/N, I love you. And all I want is to see this sadness vanishing from your beautiful eyes."

Ubbe's eyes were never that close to yours. And for a moment, you lost yourself into them, as you used to do when you were a little girl and he was nothing but the promise of the beautiful man he grew into. And for an instant, all the sadness into your eyes disappeared. And Ubbe smiled, seeing his favorite glow replacing that darkness into them.

"Tell me you want to be my wife, Y/N. That's all I need to hear." he insisted.

And so, as if you were mesmerized by his words, your lips answered before your brain could really understand it was happening indeed and you were not just dreaming once again.

Your voice sounded like a whisper into Ubbe's ears.

Like Midsommar's loud laughs and songs in his heart.

"I do..."

The curve in his lips became an open smile. And he giggled in satisfaction before kissing your lips. A passionate kiss, full of joy and love, and his spicy taste you were sure you would never forget in your life.

Your first kiss was his. Your whole life would be.

The darkness wasn't there anymore. And he smiled one more time.

There were enough tears in your life.

From now on he would ensure the light of your eyes would never stop shining once again.

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bleedinghearthalstead · 4 years

Text

SWAT!Jay / Upstead AU

He's seen the guy before, hell, he's seen him a few times before, this isn't the first time they've had to call in SWAT. And honestly, he's never had any issues with SWAT before, but this guy… Adam's been irked by him the last couple of times he's seen him.

There's a dozen police cars surrounding the bank, even more police officers taking cover behind the cruisers, there's police tape going back a block, a bunch of onlookers are still milling around and SWAT just pulled up. Great. Just what you need on a Monday morning.

Intelligence has been following the robbery crew for a few days now, waiting for them to hit their next target. The crew was brutally efficient in their earlier heists, but never harmed anybody, so the plan was to bust them as soon as they led the team to their stash house. That plan went tits up as soon as a gunfire erupted inside the bank and panicked screams filled the air. Without any eyes and ears inside and not wanting to aggravate the situation any further, Hank told them to stand down and initiate a Plan 4.

And now here they are. The team except for Hank is crouched behind their cars, their guns pointed at the bank's front entrance. The SWAT commander and two of his men walk up to Hank and they appear to be talking plans, gesticulating at the bank, before they move towards the command truck.

Adam follows them with his eyes until he sees that one of the SWAT guys hasn't moved and is staring at him. Why is he staring at him? He's seen the guy before, hell, he's seen him a few times before, this isn't the first time they've had to call in SWAT. And honestly, he's never had any issues with SWAT before, but this guy… Adam's been irked by him the last couple of times he's seen him. Then Adam sees something move in the corner of his eye and it's a flash of blonde hair – it's Hailey. And when he glances back at SWAT guy, he realizes that the guy hasn't been staring at him, he's been staring at Hailey. And it's also in this moment that Adam knows why he doesn't like the other man. He was staring at Hailey the last time they saw each other too. Hailey, who is definitely trying to not look in SWAT guy's direction, except that her eyes flicker over when she thinks no one is watching, like she's nervous. He doesn't know how long this staring contest lasts until there's a crackling sound coming from beside him and it's Hank's voice filtering through Hailey's radio, telling her to join him at the command truck. She has barely stood up from her crouch before Adam jumps up as well and announces that he's coming with. Hailey only raises an eyebrow at him and walks off, Adam trailing behind her. He frowns when he notices SWAT guy following them too.

The briefing with Hank and SWAT is quick – they have established communication with the robbers who have given their demands, but everyone knows that they are only stalling them until the SWAT team can breach. They listen to the SWAT commander give his orders to his men and after a chorus of "yessirs", the SWAT team clears out of the command truck. It's a tight fit inside the truck and it's a wonder nobody else notices, but Hailey lets out a tiny surprised squeak when SWAT guy squeezes past her. And if Adam hadn't been paying attention as hard as he was, he probably wouldn't have seen SWAT guy's hand lingering on Hailey's behind. It's only for a second and Hailey seems otherwise unfazed, but Adam can't help but glare daggers at the back of SWAT guy's head until he is out the door. Hank tells them to go back to their positions and wait for further instructions.

Back with the others, Adam keeps glancing at Hailey, but Hailey does a great job of ignoring him and pretending that nothing happened. They hear over the radio that SWAT will breach soon, but nothing ever prepares you for the sudden crack of a sniper rifle firing. Adam flinches a little, others even duck, not sure where the shot just came from. Just a moment later, they can hear flash bangs and surprised shrieks inside the bank, followed by rapid bursts of gunfire. Two minutes later and the whole thing is over, hostages coming out the front door with their hands up, followed by members of the SWAT team. It seems that the robbers have all been neutralized.

In the aftermath, the team is still hanging around, interviewing witnesses and getting statements. This might be one of Adam's least favorite things to do, especially because it means a ton of paperwork even after the fact and even though they already got the bad guys. He is still keeping an eye on Hailey who is talking to a woman a few cars over. As soon as Hailey sends the woman on her way, he sees SWAT guy just a few paces behind her. Adam growls lowly and quickly strides over, but before he gets to Hailey, SWAT guy is already sauntering up behind her, once again reaching for Hailey's behind. Before SWAT guy can touch her, Hailey slaps his hand away.

"HEY!" Adam's shout not only turns the heads of the pair but also more than a few others'. He stomps right up to them and gets right in SWAT guy's face. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Adam, no!" Hailey tries to get between them, but Adam has already shoved SWAT guy away from Hailey. The guy looks angry as hell and Adam wonders if he's made a huge mistake. Before SWAT guy can retaliate, Hailey stares him down and he stops in his tracks.

"Not here!" Hailey hisses and grabs them both by the arm (painfully, Adam might add) and drags them away from their staring colleagues. As soon as they are hopefully out of earshot of other people, Hailey lays in on Adam. "What the hell was that?"

Adam is taken back by her outburst. "Why are you yelling at me? He's harassing you!"

SWAT guy has the audacity to let out a laugh, which is quickly subdued by Hailey slapping his arm. He shakes his head in amusement. "You don't even know what you're talking about, man."

"Oh my God," Hailey mutters, rubbing her hand over her face. "Adam, what did you see?"

"He touched your butt in the command truck! And he was about to do it again!" SWAT guy laughs again, Hailey only groans.

She turns to SWAT guy and sighs. "I told you not to do stuff like that at work." SWAT guy at least looks sheepish now, but Adam still doesn't understand what is going on.

"Wait, so you know each other?"

"Well yeah," SWAT guy rolls his eyes, "we work together." Hailey slaps his arm again. "And that's my wife."

Adam scoffs and looks at SWAT guy like he's just told the most blatant lie. "No, she's not."

Hailey rubs her forehead and decides this can't get any worse. "Adam, this is my husband Jay." And now Jay has the widest grin on his face.

Adam does a double take. "Wait, what?"

"I'm married to this idiot," Hailey glances at Jay who winks at her.

"You love this idiot."

"Wait, you're married!?" Hailey groans again and walks off, Jay snickering and following her, and Adam is left gaping at their backs, still trying to grasp what the fuck just happened.

* * * * *

The team decides to hit up Molly's after they finish up, mostly, or so Adam thinks, to figure out what happened between him and Hailey and that other guy earlier today, those nosy bastards. Once they walked back to the team (Jay snuck away like a fucking ninja), of course their colleagues asked them what was up, but Hailey played dumb and Adam was too embarrassed to say anything. Whatever happened, he was also not going to out Hailey like that, he wasn't that much of an asshole.

A couple of drinks later, Adam is relieved when the team stops questioning them and moves on to Kevin's plans of organizing parties at Molly's again. His relief is short-lived though when he spots Jay as he enters the bar. The guy definitely looks less intimidating without his tactical uniform and sniper rifle, but Adam still can't believe this is happening to him. He tries to sink lower in his seat, but Kim taps his arm and nods her head at Jay.

"Hey, isn't that the guy?" By now, everyone at their table, including Hailey who had her back facing the entrance, has turned in Jay's direction, who has also found them, or specifically his wife, because his stern expression changes into a goofy smile and there is no way that smile is directed at anyone else but Hailey. Jay makes his way to the back of the bar where their table is and, when she is within reach, slings his arm over Hailey's shoulder.

"Hey." He waves at the team. He gets some half-hearted "heys" in return, but the team is obviously confused as to why Hailey just let a random guy drape himself over her. Hailey, for one, doesn't look surprised.

"Guys, this is Jay." She reaches up to hold the hand on her shoulder, clearing her throat. "Jay, my husband." There are some shocked reactions from the group and the mood suddenly turns slightly awkward, nobody knowing what to say to that. Adam doesn't know what to think of the fact that Hailey's been hiding this from everyone else too.

"Congrats?" Adam tries and obviously fails when Hailey averts her eyes, but when Jay squeezes her hand, she looks up at him and gives him a soft smile.

"Hey, nice to meet you, Jay." Kevin gets up and gives Jay a pat on the back. "So you're the guy with the long gun, huh?"

Jay chuckles. "I'm guessing you mean my sniper rifle, but hey, that's what she keeps calling it too."

Hailey groans, but the others start laughing and Kevin drags a chair over for Jay to sit down. Thank God for Kevin, Adam thinks, that guy can defuse any socially awkward situation. There's a round of introductions and then Kevin tries to persuade Jay to spill the details on the SWAT operation at the bank since some of it is classified. At first, he resists, but after Kevin and the rest of the team promise to buy him several rounds of drinks, Jay not only tells them some SWAT secrets (Hailey's pretty sure half of them are lies, terrible lies), but also proceeds to tell them how Jay and Hailey met at another bank robbery that hadn't gone quite as smoothly. Hailey obviously isn't too happy about how her private life is put out in the open like this, but she seems happier and softer around the edges than usual, like she can move more freely now that her relationship is not so secret anymore.

At some point, while Jay is explaining mathematical formulas on how to account for the earth's curvature on long distance shots, Hailey and Adam's eyes meet and he mouths "sorry" at her and shrugs, but Hailey just waves him off. It's already water under the bridge.

Some drinks later, when Jay refuses to tell them how their first date went and Kevin insists on buying a round of tequila shots, Hailey feels like she needs to do some damage control. Jay and tequila never end well.

"Alright, enough with 20 Questions." She gets up and motions at Jay to do the same. "We're going home."

The others try to talk them into staying for just another round and even Jay chimes in, "I haven't even finished my beer yet!"

Hailey leans over to him and whispers something in his ear. Jay immediately gets up and chugs his beer, saying his goodbyes to the unit. "Nice to meet you guys, but we gotta go."

Kevin lets out the loudest laugh and gets up to give both Hailey and Jay a hug. "Same here, man. You can finish your story next time!"

Hailey blushes and gives Kevin a shy smile, grateful that he has made the effort to keep the evening lighthearted and fun. Adam watches them leave, Hailey leading the way, Jay's hand on the small of her back. Well, at least he doesn't have to worry about being killed by SWAT guy tonight.

#upstead #jay halstead #hailey upton #chicago pd #whoops i wrote a thing #lol i am so sorry about that title #there isn't a lot of swat action in this #i don't usually write and i never publish anything so please let me know if this isn't total garbage #idk i might write more if inspiration strikes again #bhhfic #swat!jay au

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dancedelion · 5 years

Text

Scattered

Genre: angst with a happy ending Word Count: 4063 Summary: Jaskier gets kidnapped, which is a little bit of an inconvenience. Then he realizes Geralt won't come for him this time - and well. That hurts a little more. ao3: Scattered Jaskier is a little disoriented, when he wakes up. When he wants to run a hand across his face, he can't. He's a little disoriented and vastly uncomfortable. He can't place the banging in his head – hangover? Bar brawl? Did someone hit him over the head with a mallet? He tries to remember what happened... He sang in a tavern, the usual. He left when they kept asking for a song about the White Wolf, the usual. After that, things get a little fuzzy.

Jaskier cracks his eyes open, and ah. He's a little disoriented, vastly uncomfortable, and tied to chair in a musty prison cell and possibly torture dungeon. That sums the situation up sufficiently, he surmises. So, that's... not quite the usual.

There's a gruff man standing in front of him behind the iron bars of his cell, possibly a noble. Off the top of his head, Jaskier can think of fourteen reasons this noble could have to be angry with him. “Ah,” Jaskier says, “kind sir, is this your living room? It's... homely. Ever think about redecorating?” The man grunts. Right. Jaskier can work with that. He has years of practise. “Now, I don't mean to sound rude, but I don't remember tying myself to this chair and frankly, I don't remember wanting to ever tie myself to a chair and if I'm honest, it doesn't agree with me. But if you could just undo these binds and let me walk away, I'll be willing to accept that the ale yesterday brought out hidden depths to my personality and never speak to a soul of it.”

The stranger uncrosses his arms and fixes his gaze on Jaskier. “I don't think so, bard,” he says with a low voice. Jaskier struggles a bit against the ropes, but they're wound too tightly around his wrists. There's no way he'll come free.

“Not that I don't feel honoured that you've gone through all the trouble of kidnapping me,” Jaskier says and flashes a smile, “I've got to say, that's a first, even for me. I'm just a humble bard. What could you possibly want from me?” There is no way Jaskier will free himself of these binds, but the man hasn't put a gag on him yet. And Jaskier has talked himself out of worse before. Well. Not necessarily worse. It had never been quite as bad as this before. I mean, kidnapping? Really?

He feels terribly tired, suddenly. Tired at the pain. Tired at the audacity. And where the fuck is his lute?

“There's something I want,” the man drawls, “and I've heard that you've gotten awfully chummy with it in recent years.”

“You – you're not talking about...” The name hurts to say, “Geralt. Are you?”

“The Butcher of Blaviken. The witcher. My son's killer. Ring any bells?” “Ah,” Jaskier says. It's not enough that Geralt is haunting him in every tavern he sings in and every night in his mind when he's trying to sleep. Bloody bastard. “And why, pray tell, do you think he cares about me?”

Boy, has he got the wrong idea, Jaskier thinks bitterly. “I've heard the songs, the ballads,” the stranger says and walks a little closer. “The bard is the witcher's trusty companion.” Jaskier closes his eyes. The roaring in his head, the binds, it all hurts immeasurably, but none of it hurts as bad as this. He's Geralt's curse. His nuisance at best. Companion not so much. Jaskier allows himself one quiet but deep sigh before he wrenches his eyes open again.

“Ah, I'm afraid those songs are... not an entirely accurate representation of reality,” he says. Should have known that would come back to bite him one day. “Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says and he savours the name in his mouth like the bite of something he loves to eat but is horribly allergic to. “There's nothing wrong with embellishing the truth a little. I met him. Once. Years ago. That's it. He probably won't even remember me.” Maybe Geralt will pretend not to remember, should they ever meet again. Like they truly only met once and never saw each other again. Geralt of Rivia doesn't apologize. And he doesn't do feelings. Not where Jaskier is concerned, anyway. And Jaskier's not as young and starry-eyed and stupid as he once was. This time, he'll... take the hint. (Maybe he is still stupid, because he thinks he would take the marring to his soul if he could just see Geralt one more time, sitting there in the corner of the tavern. Just lonely in that tragic self-destructive way of his. And Jaskier would be content just to watch him, because he knows by know that nothing he does will be able to fix Geralt's loneliness.)

“I'm not stupid, bard,” the man says. “You have been seen together. He will come to your rescue. And he will get what's coming for him. Witchers bleed, and what bleeds can die.”

“Clever, clever indeed...” Jaskier answers casually, “I don't mean to be a tough critic, but I couldn't help but notice one or two holes in your plan.” “And what would that be?” “Geralt won't even know I'm gone. I haven't seen him in months. And I'm not lying this time. You might as well just let me go.” “No. When I saw you in the tavern, I knew it was destiny. The witcher will get what he deserves.” “Ah, so he's hurt you. Like you're so special. He's hurt me too. He's on his glorious path of destiny and we're the collateral. Unfortunate, truly,” Jaskier says flippantly, “but that doesn't give you any right to take your revenge.” Jaskier knows Geralt didn't mean to hurt him. Geralt still doesn't know what he needs, he just... figured out Jaskier isn't it. Which is fine, really. It could have been communicated in a less scathing way, but when it comes down to it, it's not something Geralt can really change. And Jaskier is sure that however this man's son died, Geralt didn't mean for it to happen.

“It gives me every right,” the stranger says forcefully. “He will come looking for you and find his demise.”

“What if we all just sat down together, had some cake and talked about our feelings?” Jaskier suggests vaguely. He can tell by now that he won't be able to sway the man.

“You're useless,” the man says and Jaskier can barely keep himself from flinching. “You can't tell me anything about the witcher, can you? You're a pointless creature. No one will miss a maggot like you.”

Jaskier attempts to protest, but the man cuts him off. “I will return only to present you the witcher's head... or to put you out of your misery.”

He stalks off. Jaskier is alone. (The usual.)

Jaskier stares after him for a moment. He pushes at the restraints again, but they won't budge. It's dark in this cell, the only light source a torch in the hall outside his prison. There's no window. No one would hear him scream. In short, he is out of options.

That's when it really settles in. He's not just bloviating – Geralt is not going to save him this time. Jaskier is going to die alone in this creepy dungeon.

“As the great witcher Geralt of Rivia would put it,” Jaskier says quietly, “fuck.”

He ranks his songs from best to worst. Ponders which ones are going to outlive him. Jaskier has written a lot of songs in his life time. He puts “Toss a coin to your witcher” all the way to the bottom of the list.

He tries to find a shape in the shadows cast on the wall, but they're just dark and resemble nothing.

Fuck. No one is going to miss him. Hey, isn't that a plus? No one has to suffer for his death. (No one is going to pause in the middle of the day to remember him.) No one has to cry for him. (No one is going to put flowers on his grave.)

Geralt is going to hear about his death from some barmaid. It'll be an “Oh haven't you heard?” story. And Geralt will order drink after drink that night and vow not to feel anything ever again in the morning.

Is that how much you'll miss me? Will you give me that?

And then, Jaskier closes his eyes. He embellishes the truth a little. And he imagines Geralt saving him or, in the very least, being caged in here with him.

He imagines Geralt saying, “I'm sorry.” Then, “I love you.” But there's embellishing the truth and then there's outright lying, so Jaskier makes the version of Geralt in his mind add, “but not in the way you want me to.”

He imagines Geralt sitting right next to him, and he's not saying anything, because he's Geralt. It puts Jaskier at peace a little bit.

__________

Hours later, Jaskier's throat is dry. He doesn't know how long it is since he's last eaten. He wonders what will get him first – the thirst, the hunger, the stranger coming back to finish him off.

Jaskier thinks of calloused hands against his cheeks. Of white strands of hair under his fingers.

Jaskier wonders how many times he's knocked on Geralt's door and asked to be let in. He'd pushed so man times before Geralt pushed back – really pushed.

He thinks of every shade of yellow in Geralt's eyes.

That's the life Jaskier nearly built – the life he's about to lose, it was nearly -

Someone was nearly about to miss him, about to cry on his grave, about to tell stories about him to strangers.

You were nearly my family.

Jaskier starts to compose a song, but stops when he realizes no one but him will ever hear it.

__________

Later still, Jaskier thinks about twenty-two heroics deaths he could have died if he had still been with Geralt. Twenty-two heroic deaths he wouldn't have died because Geralt wouldn't have let him.

This wouldn't have happened if he'd never written a single song about Geralt, if he'd never met him. (None of the pain either.) But Jaskier has no regrets.

He's just tired. Of hurting. Of wanting. Of losing. Jaskier is about to fall asleep again when he hears the commotion. He hears a scream or two, human. Then the blood-curdling scream of a monster. Slices and crashes. It goes on for minutes. Maybe more. Jaskier's not too concerned about what's happening. It can't get much worse than this.

Then, it does.

Into the hallway steps – Geralt of Rivia. Covered in bruises and blood. Jaskier's breath catches. Jaskier watches as Geralt kicks in the door that flings open immediately.

“Right,” Jaskier says, “never had a hallucination as vivid as this before. But then, I don't know how long I've been here. Do you perhaps? You might if I've subconsciously kept track of it.”

“I'm not from your subconcious,” Geralt says, then looks down on himself and his blood-covered clothes thoughtfully. “Unless your subconscious is a truly terrifying place.”

He steps closer and Jaskier drinks in the sight, real or not.

“On the off chance you're real – you know this is a trap, right?”

“Killed the trap,” Geralt says and steps around Jaskier. Jaskier can't see what he's doing, but then there's fingers on his wrists, trying to loosen the bounds.

“Of course you did. Geez, Geralt. I thought it was just that one guy.”

When his wrists come free, Geralt walks in front of him again, and Jaskier can only stare wide-eyed, even though he has some freedom of movement now.

“He had back-up,” Geralt shrugs. Like this is nothing. Like he didn't just save Jaskier again.

“Nope, I'm still not buying it,” Jaskier says, even though he can slip free of his binds and stand up. He starts walking towards the exit and Geralt follows him. “How did you find me?” “I...” He can see Geralt struggle with himself next to him. They're walking, but Jaskier doesn't stop looking. “I had a tracking spell placed on you. Just in case something... happened.” “Wha- excuse me? I can take care of myself fine, thank you very much,” Jaskier says. “I fact, I had it all under control. You needn't have bothered.”

“I see,” Geralt says darkly, “you were planning to break free from these ropes with brute strength.”

It's strange how familiar this is. Geralt's dry sarcasm, the blood in his hair. His carefully watchful gaze. Jaskier wonders if he's been lonelier, if only just a bit.

“It was more of an elaborate escape plan,” Jaskier says quietly, even though his plan consisted of waiting and hoping for dumb luck. Maybe this is his dumb luck. They're silent on their way out – he was in the basement of a noble's castle. Jaskier wants nothing but to get away from this place. Roach is outside and Jaskier knows Geralt won't let him touch her, but he does smile at her and say, hello.

And Jaskier doesn't know where to go, because so far his plan was not dying and since that seems to be working out, he rearranges his priorities. Which is looking at Geralt. For as long as Geralt will let him, which won't be too long. Jaskier is Geralt's shadow. He will follow him anywhere. Through fire, onto a battlefield. He will walk across lava, into the heart of a tornado. He will walk all the way up a mountain into a dragon's den. He will walk into the harrowing depths of a witcher's mind and come out bruised and bleeding – but alive.

They start walking and Geralt doesn't seem to think anyone is following them, so Jaskier doesn't ask.

“You should be more careful,” Geralt says, shooting him a glance. Jaskier finds his words again.

“Oh, I'm sorry if I inconvenienced you. What did I interrupt? Your designated daily hour of brooding?” Geralt looks away again. “You shouldn't get hurt,” he says after a moment. His jaw is clenched and Jaskier knows, suddenly.

“I see,” he says. “I thought witchers weren't supposed to be afraid.”

__________ Geralt can't stop looking at Jaskier. To make sure he's still in one piece. Safe. Safe enough, anyway.

“And you're supposed to be a bard, not a philosopher.” Not a mind-reader, Geralt thinks. Jaskier rolls his eyes. It's good to have him here. In the space next to him. Where he belongs.

“What do you want, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, fed up with him. Which is fair. Unforgiving. Which is fair too. “Peace and quiet? Me off your hands?” And those damned feelings spill over in the worst way, again.

“I want you to stop haunting me,” Geralt spits. Because he can't get Jaskier's face off his mind. Because he's everywhere – and worse, he's nowhere. Jaskier is his shadow, following him everywhere – he is the guilt in his heart, the longing in his heart, every secret wish Geralt harboured for years, of a different life. He is with him in every tavern, on every road. After every monster he kills, Geralt turns around to see if Jaskier is safe, but Jaskier is not there -

Jaskier looks roughed-up, tired, weary – and it's all Geralt's fault.

“I didn't die!” Jaskier spits back and stops walking to turn to Geralt fully. “You have to be a ghost to haunt someone! And like it or not, I'm still kicking.”

Geralt likes it. A lot. But he can't say so – he's not sure if he'd make it worse. He left, and Jaskier still got hurt because of him. He doesn't know what to do now. Nothing seems to be right. Stay and protect him or leave to keep him out of harm's way? Nothing works. Nothing eases the pain in his chest.

“The only one haunting you but yourself, Geralt,” Jaskier says and they're both looking at each other now. Is it too late? Jaskier was lucky to walk away from him with his life. But he still walked away with a bright red target on his back and scars littering his unblemished skin.

When Geralt was outside that tavern, years ago, hearing a bard's singing voice, should he have turned around and walked away then? Before Jaskier could even see him? Nothing else could have deterred him. He'd tried.

Never met him and stayed lonely the rest of his life. Never knew how it was to see him happy, how it was to have him touch him so casually. Never knew the pain of seeing him walk away.

How can Geralt still fix this? When he finds a which powerful enough to send him back in time? Or, even more impossible, by – talking?

It's too late – Geralt is already hurting.

“You want to know the truth?” Geralt says. He pulls the words out one by one. “It's my fault, all of it. The djinn, the child surprise. Yennefer. But of worst of it is – you.” “I'm your fault? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Jaskier stares at him, oblivious to the power he holds over Geralt. How many people have it on their death certificate – death by Geralt of Rivia? “This. The djinn, my stupid wish. I... hurt you. No matter whether I mean to or not. It's better you stay away. Safer. Because... whether one or the other monster gets to you quicker than me, or whether you fall into an abyss, or I make a stupid wish... or whether someone who hates me stabs you in the chest... I'll have to bury your body.”

__________

Jaskier has never been immune to Geralt's words, scathing or otherwise. No matter how much he pretended to be. These ones cause a different kind of pain in his chest, but pain all the same.

“None of this is your fault,” Jaskier says. “I made my choice ages ago. Years ago. I chose to follow you. I chose to sing those songs about you. I knew the risks. There's always risks. Otherwise you'll never have anything. Or anyone.”

I am your shadow, but you can stand directly under the sun and you still won't be rid of me completely. That's my little bit of destiny, Geralt – you will never have your blessing.

“Maybe that's better,” Geralt says and works his jaw. Jaskier watches every movement in his face and waits. “I will catch an arrow mid-air. When I see a monster going for the kill, I kill it first. I... want to stop the disaster before it happens.” “What are you saying?” Jaskier says and tries to keep his voice from shaking. “You and me, we're a recipe for disaster and you're the toxic ingredient? Come on, Geralt. Listen to yourself.”

Jaskier wonders if they can mend this, then. If it's really just Geralt being stupid and self-sacrificing, and an absolute idiot.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Geralt amends. “I... You got hurt anyway. I... I'm sorry.” He says, “I'm sorry,” but he doesn't say “I love you” and Jaskier always, always asks for too much. Well. He doesn't ask. Lie to me just a little. That would be mortifying. But he yearns.

People have called him a sinner before, because he indulges, because he wants – but he does coveting like nobody else.

“That's okay,” Jaskier says, because he does understand. “It's me who should have known better.”

“Aren't you mad at me?” Geralt asks. He looks confused. Jaskier wants to cross the distance between them, but he doesn't dare to.

“Why should I be mad at you?” Jaskier says softly. “Because you broke a dozen promises you never made?”

“We both know I don't mean what I say,” Geralt says, “and mean what I don't say. Please. Forgive me.”

And Jaskier does. He has.

But he wants too much -

“It's alright,” he says. “Or it will be.”

“Please,” Geralt says again, “stay with me.” And Geralt has never asked him to stay before. So he nods. And he hurts a little less – but he hurts still -

He knows he's not her. He's powerless and useless. He's weak – and he's weak for Geralt's soft smile. He is not the storm on the horizon, he is a gentle summer breeze. He is not a scream or a roar, he is a barely audible whisper. He is not a warrior – he is just a – just a poet in a world that doesn't have much love left for beauty. I am the pause where you are the passion, Yennefer.

Geralt looks concerned and like he's trying to work something out. It makes Jaskier go a little weakin the knees. My song doesn't draw you in, but you can let it wash over you when you are feeling kind-hearted. When you are willing to acknowledge that you are just a little bit soft inside.

Jaskier is less, always less – enough to appease Geralt, but not enough to sate him.

__________

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, “I'll stay.”

And Geralt tries not to feel, he does, but hearing Jaskier say that pulls something loose in his chest. Here's the risk. Here Geralt is falling again. It's what he wants, but not all that he wants. And he is a little afraid to ask for more – before he loses it all – completely. But there's a risk to it, he knows that now – otherwise he'll never have anyone at all.

Jaskier smiles at him a little and with his casual affection, Jaskier is more, always more. But still not enough to sate Geralt.

“I'm not going to bury you,” Geralt says.

“I mean, you could burn my body and scatter the ashes -”

“Jaskier.” “Sorry.” “There won't be a body,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no body. That's fine,” Jaskier lies, and Geralt loves him a little more for it. Because that's what this is, love unravelling in his chest.

And Jaskier is here and Geralt is so breakable – the way no witcher is supposed to be. Jaskier can sense it, the way he feels vulnerable. He takes a small step towards him, where they're standing in the middle of the road.

I will shatter if you come any closer -

Geralt has never been made of steel – life has been chipping away at him, even when he pretended it wasn't. Jaskier comes closer still – and it's almost too much – but it's most certainly not enough -

Touch me, touch me until I can't remember whether I'm made form shards or ashes or dandelion seeds blown away by the wind. Scattered.

He tries to put it all in words - “I missed you,” he says. It's not everything, but it is honest. Jaskier gets what he means.

“I know you're scared,” Jaskier says, “that's okay. I'll always love you anyway. I'm stupid that way.”

And Geralt nearly breaks – but he doesn't – so he reaches out to touch Jaskier.

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly, “you...” “I figured out what I want,” Geralt says.

“I feel like I'm horribly misreading this,” Jaskier says, a little breathless. His gaze is fixated on Geralt's mouth.

“You're not,” Geralt says.

“I'm tired of hurting,” Jaskier says, almost weary.

“I promise – I'll try. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not even – me. Especially not me.”

“Oh. That's unfortunate. I'm dying in that dungeon, aren't I?”

“No,” Geralt says. He grabs Jaskier by the shoulder, a little too tightly. And Jaskier knows that he's real. “Come here,” Geralt says.

He kisses Jaskier gently – promising – I'll stay, I'll save you, I won't let go of you again, I'll let you, I'll always let you, because it's you -

It's like being carried away by the wind, to a place where arrows can't reach, a place from which every monster looks small. And they know it can't last, no dream ever does – but they will stay with their heads in the clouds. Just for tonight.

#geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #the witcher

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when-they-write-stuff · 4 years

Text

sing me to sleep, bastard

pairing: sterek

word count: 2.5k

rating: mature

warnings: swearing, slight angst

notes: published a little while ago (on ao3), but not on here and is edited! Because sometimes, Stiles just has to get his feelings out.

Stiles was tired.

Like pulling at his soul, trying to drag him into an early grave, tired. He’d say he wished for the sweet relief of death but after everything he’d faced, that would be a crappy way to go. So, Stiles continued to trudge through his shift at the open 24/7 coffee shop and tried not to think about how he could be sleeping right now.

His co-worker noticed.

“Stiles, the bags under your eyes literally have their own bags.”

Stiles screwed up his face and groaned, dropping his head onto the counter. The shop was empty other than one other person— another college student, by the looks of it— because no one else in their right mind would come out this late. On weekends, Stiles’s shifts didn’t end until four in the morning. So of course, he was exhausted.

“Thanks,” he said, turning his head toward Milo. “I didn’t notice.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

In truth? Stiles had not been sleeping. When he wasn’t working, he was attending classes at Beacon Hills Community College. When he wasn’t attending classes, he was chasing the monster of the week around town. Quite frankly, he never seemed to be sleeping.

But he couldn’t tell Milo that.

“Of course I’ve been sleeping,” Stiles said with a laugh. “Who doesn’t love sleep? I love sleep. I would marry sleep if that was acceptable.”

Milo raised a brow. Stiles could tell he wasn’t convinced.

“I’ve just been stressed with school,” he said, shrugging. “You know how it goes.”

That finally made Milo grin. The guy chuckled, turning back to the mug he was cleaning, and nodded. “Damn right I know how it goes. Life’s a bitch, man.”

Life was a bitch. And Stiles was just doing his best to survive it.

He lifted his head off the counter and focused again on the book he’d sneakily read between customers. The last thing Stiles’s brain wanted to do was read Hemingway at the moment, but his professor insisted the author was a classic and therefore a must-read for the class. Stiles thought it was a miracle he hadn’t thrown the book out a window yet.

He’d gotten close. Multiple times.

Suddenly, the bell over the door rang. Stiles slapped his book shut and stuffed it out of sight, raising his head with a smile that was all sorts of professional. Only, the expression melted when he saw who’d entered. One such figure who’d frozen the moment he’d seen Stiles too.

“Derek?”

Derek blinked, staring at him for a long moment. Then he turned and walked right back out of the cafe. Stiles stared in shock and Milo shot him a confused glance. “Dude?”

“Did you just see that too?”

“Um, yeah. Do you know that guy or something?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles ripped his apron off. It really had been Derek— Derek Hale— the bastard who’d left town four months ago without so much of an explanation, and hadn’t been in contact since. Milo was looking at Stiles like he was crazy.

“Stiles, is everything alright?”

“Can you finish the rest of this shift without me?” Stiles asked, still struggling to pull his apron up around his head. “I swear I’ll be in your debt forever, seriously.”

“Sure, man,” Milo said. “I got your back.”

Stiles finally ripped off his apron and shot Milo a grin, dropping it to the floor. He didn’t even bother with his book— Hemingway could suck it— and scrambled over the counter. “Thank you so much, dude! I owe you!”

He didn’t hear Milo’s response as he stumbled outside. Derek’s camaro was already peeling out of the parking lot, but Stiles had him in his sights. The bastard wasn’t going anywhere.

Roscoe, thankfully, started without a struggle. Backing out, Stiles hit the gas and started in the direction Derek’s car had vanished. He couldn’t believe Derek actually had the nerve to come back to town, to see Stiles in the coffee shop, and then leave. Like Stiles was going to grow fangs of his own and rip his throat out of something.

Though, shit, if Stiles did have fangs, he just might. He was pissed.

Of course, Derek headed to his loft. The same loft that had been empty for four months, no matter how many times Stiles had driven past. And he did drive past. Every day at first, then weekly. Eventually, he’d just given up, because it was obvious Derek wasn’t coming back.

Stiles had moped for weeks. Scott didn’t even understand why.

Stiles wasn’t willing to admit why.

Derek must have gotten there in record time because the Camaro was empty. Stiles stuffed his keys into his pocket and stalked toward the loft. He punched in the security code to the alarm, because the last thing he wanted was to let Derek known he’d followed him, and stalked upstairs.

Still, he imaged Derek would catch his scent. Good, he thought. Let him. Stiles was willing to make Derek squirm.

He pulled the door open and stalked inside. Derek was pacing in the middle of the room and spun around, freezing as Stiles approached. His eyes were wide like a deer caught in headlights and Stiles jabbed a finger right into his chest, fury billowing over.

“Derek, you asshole, what the hell? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were back in town! No, no, actually I totally can, but I can’t believe you just ran like that. Dude! What the hell? ”

“Stiles.”

“Stiles? Stiles? That’s all you have to say? That’s so messed up, Derek!”

Derek reached up, taking Stiles’s hand, and pulled his finger away from his chest. Stiles did his best to continue scowling, but it was hard when Derek was practically holding his hand and looking like Stiles’s words had somehow gutted him. Even though he was the bastard who’d gone missing for four months. “Hey, Stiles.”

Stiles gaped at him. He couldn’t believe Derek had come back to Beacon and the first actual sentence he said was ‘Hey, Stiles.’ It was so terrible. So wrong. It wasn’t fair.

“I hate you,” Stiles said. Derek flinched away and Stiles cursed himself, trying again. “Okay, fine, I don’t really hate you. But dude, where the hell did you go? Do you realize how long it’s been? Do you realize how worried I was?”

“You were worried?”

Shit, fuck. “The pack was worried.”

“But you said you.”

“No, stop twisting my words, Sourwolf. I meant the pack.”

Derek raised a brow and Stiles wanted to punch him for having the audacity to look like that. But instead, he deflated and glanced around the loft.

“How long have you been back?”

“Only tonight.”

Stiles looked back at him. “You couldn’t have called? At least once to let me— to let us— know you were okay? The last time you vanished we found you buried in Aztec temple with a werejaguar out for revenge, dude. Anything could have happened.”

“I needed some time to get my head straight,” Derek said, letting go of his hand. Stiles tried not to feel too disappointed at the loss of contact. “I had to think about some things.”

“Things? What things could possibly be more important than the pack?”

Derek wouldn’t look at him. Stiles felt something in his chest twist and snap and he pulled away, crossing his arms over his chest. A chill raced up his spine.

“Leaving was an asshole thing to do, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek said softly. Stiles glared at him.

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please when you vanish for four months straight and then turn up out of nowhere without an explanation.”

Derek’s eyelashes fluttered. Struck by sudden guilt, Stiles took a deep breath.

“Don’t you realize Scott still needs you around? Just because he’s an Alpha and we’ve all graduated from high school doesn’t mean all the big baddies of Beacon Hills have suddenly gone away. They haven’t decided to give us a break just because we’re growing up, Derek. Hell, Lydia almost died last week because of a vengeful fairy!”

“I’m sorry,” Derek muttered, flinching away. He actually looked pained and that broke Stiles’s heart. Because everything Stiles had said was true. But not the whole truth. More people than Scott needed Derek Hale to remain in Beacon Hills. Stiles swallowed hard.

“Are you going to leave again?”

“What?” Derek looked at him in shock, eyes going wide. Stiles resisted the urge to curl up in on himself at the expression.

“Are you going to leave again? Or are you back for good?”

“Stiles,” Derek said, voice cracking slightly. The older man stepped forward, then hesitated, hands clenching in and out of fists at his sides. He ducked his head. “I’m here now.”

“But for how long?”

“As long as you’ll have me.”

Stiles looked at him in sharp confusion. Derek’s eyes searched his own, looking more vulnerable than Stiles had ever seen them. He looked cautious and scared. It was wrong.

“... Is that okay, Stiles?”

“Why did you leave, Derek?” Stiles asked shakily. “What were things?”

“I—” Derek trailed off. Stiles clenched his jaw.

“Derek, why the hell did you leave?”

Derek suddenly squared his shoulders and turned away, stalking across the room. The sudden change of mood was startling. “You should go, Stiles. I’m back now and you said what you came to.”

Stiles stared after him. Derek grabbed his bag and started unpacking, acting like Stiles was already gone. The man wouldn’t look back at him. Stiles blinked, turning toward the loft door, but then he stopped, turning back around. Frustration and anger crashed over him.

“You know what? No, Derek, you don’t get to do that!” Derek looked up at him, startled, and Stiles stalked forward again. “You don’t get to push me away, not again! Now, I’m sick and tired of thinking about you and wondering if I’m being an idiot caring about you—”

“Caring about me?”

“— Don’t interrupt, Derek, I’m ranting here! It’s been three years since I got my head out of my ass and considered the possibility of having feelings for you, but that’s kind of hard when your always angsting and disappearing off the face of the earth—”

Stiles was cut off again, but this time because Derek’s lips were pressed against his.

He gasped in shock and went still, and Derek started to pull back with the word ‘sorry’ already falling off his lips. But then Stiles was wrapping his hands around Derek’s neck and pulling him back in. He kissed the man back, hard and hungry.

Derek pressed back with equal ferocity. It was a battle of teeth and tongues, and Stiles had no idea why they hadn’t started doing this sooner. He stumbled back until he hit the wall and then Derek picked him up so Stiles could wrap his legs around his waist. He did so, nipping down the man’s neck before shoving his lips against his again. Derek growled deep in his throat. Stiles felt the sound go straight to his groin.

“Der—” Stiles gasped between breaths. “Derek, we should—”

“Stiles,” Derek groaned, pressing a hard kiss against his lips again. Stiles closed his eyes with a moan and a shudder ran through the older man’s body. Stiles couldn’t help but smirk as he moaned again, thrusting his hips forward this time. Derek’s grip tightened. “Stiles.”

“Derek,” Stiles responded raspily. He closed his eyes as stubble traced down his neck and Derek’s lips breezed over skin, trailing down to his collarbone. The man latched on and sucked a mark there, making Stiles moan again. He could feel the way Derek reacted to that, hands clenching tighter around his hips. Derek pulled back again and before Stiles could whine about the lack of contact, Derek’s lips were ghosting across his again.

“Derek,” Stiles murmured.

Derek finally pulled back then, breaking them apart. His eyes were hazy. Stiles smiled back at him, feeling like he’d just been dunked underwater. His lips felt warm and puffy.

“So… you’re back.”

Derek blinked a few times. “Didn’t we just establish that?”

“I’d have you stay,” Stiles whispered. “If you want.”

“Of course,” Derek said. “I’ll stay.”

“Good,” Stiles smiled again. “Because now that I’m broken, I’m bought, and you’re stuck with me.”

“I broke you?” Derek said incredulously. Stiles grinned.

“Well, not yet. But that can always be arranged.”

Derek’s eyes darkened and he growled, hitching Stiles up higher on his hips. Turning, he carried him to the bed and dumped him down unceremoniously, making Stiles squawk in protest. But instead of kissing him again or doing anything else, Derek righted him up and pulled the covers aside, before stuffing Stiles in. Then he pulled the covers back up. Stiles stared.

“Derek, what the hell are you doing?”

“It’s two in the morning, Stiles. You reek of exhaustion.”

“But Derek,” Stiles whined, trying to thrust his hips back up. “I was promised a good and proper breaking!”

Derek smirked down at him. “You look pretty broken to me.”

“Okay, now that’s just rude. You can’t leave me like this!”

Derek sat down on edge of the bed and carded his fingers through Stiles’s hair, face softening. Stiles relaxed unconsciously into the touch and nuzzled Derek’s giant hand, making the man chuckle. Stiles stiffened and narrowed his eyes at him.

“Stop that.”

“What?” Derek asked innocently, drawing his hand away. “That?”

“No, you asshole,” Stiles whined. “Laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing,” Derek said, leaning over to press his lips against Stiles’s once more. Then he pulled back an inch, so his breaths were hot on Stiles’s face when he whispered, “I was chuckling.”

“Asshole,” Stiles shoved him away. Derek laughed openly this time.

Stiles didn’t want to admit it, but he was tired. He’d been tired even before all of whatever this was. Oh god, whatever this was. Stiles would have a panic attack about that in the morning. He was too tired to think straight right now.

Ha, he thought. Think straight.

Stiles thought about mentioning his genius to Derek, but the man’s fingers were in his hair again. Stiles closed his eyes automatically against the touch and he sighed, relaxing back into the pillows. He could still taste Derek on his lips; like cinnamon. It was nice, he decided sleepily.

“Derek,” he said softly. The man’s ministrations paused. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Stiles.”

“No really,” Stiles repeated, already half asleep. “Don’t leave me again.”

He felt Derek lean forward, lips touching his forehead. Gentle fingers pulled the blankets all the way up to Stiles’s neck. “I promise.”

“Good,” Stiles murmured. “Now sing me to sleep, bastard.”

Derek chuckled against his skin. The vibration sent a shiver down his spine, somehow making his body relax even more. Carefully, Derek pulled back, though his fingers traced down Stiles’s arm and sketched circles over the back of his hand. Stiles could feel himself dropping.

The last thing he heard sounded suspiciously like humming.

#sterek #idiots in love #ao3 #when-she-writes-stuff talks #stiles stilinski #derek hale

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