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wyn-n-tonic · 3 years

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Golden, Like Daylight -- Part IX

Word Count: 3,087 Warnings: PTSD. Children. Fluff. Angst. Emotions. Dialogue heavy bullshit. Author's Note: Welp... this is it, y'all. I posted the first chapter of this on March 4, 2021, and it's coming to a close today on April 5, 2021, and I'm... a goddamn mess. I'm not ready to let these characters go, both the TF boys and my own character in Leah. I really appreciate all your kindness and encouragement throughout writing this, my whole heart belongs to you. Thank you, I hope you love this as much as I love you.

MASTERLIST | PART: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX

Her room is painted like a sunrise. He remembers the first time he went up there, like it was the first breath he ever took. All rising pinks and melting blues.

He wanted her to feel that freedom from the beginning.

Leah’s hands climb his back, a kiss pressed to the hot skin between his shoulder blades as he dips to pluck his peaceful little girl out of slumber.

“Baby, let her sleep.”

But he’s shaking his head, careful with hers in his hand, “she can sleep later, I need her with me now.”

“Hmm,” she hums, turning him to guide him back to their bedroom, “keep that enthusiasm.”

Their shuffle is quiet, Luna’s big eyes slipping back to sleep nestled into her fathers shoulder.

He’s been home for over half a year and as he crawls back into bed, baby and wife clinging to him, part of him still can’t believe it. That after everything he told her, she let him stay. That, like tonight, she’s soothed the new nightmares like the old. That he celebrated Christmas with them, Luna’s first.

That he watched her lift herself up and take her first steps. That after all he had done, those first steps were towards him.

That he helped blow out the candles that he helped light, on the cake he helped make for the little girl who has her daddy’s eyes. His dimple. His smile.

One hand splayed across each of their backs, he’s talking to Leah but directing it at Luna when her bright brown eyes open again to find his.

“Hi, baby,” he whispers, Leah’s soft hand falling on his under her small back, “I’m sorry that mama and papa woke you up.”

She reaches a tiny hand up to his face and he melts into the small touch of her, his heart swelling at the unbelievable luck he has in chances granted again and again when a little, “papa,” tumbles forward in the softly lit room.

He feels Leah jump and his eyes snap to hers before they both fall back to Luna, just over one year.

“She just sa—“

“Say it again, baby,” Leah coos, tears spilling over Frankie’s eyes.

She doesn’t understand but as she grabs for him, the small voice repeats, “papa,” and he didn’t know his heart could feel so full despite all the compounding moments of fullness she’s brought to him. That they both have.

He bites his lip while looking into Leah’s glassy eyes and knows that her heart is just as swollen in this moment and all the others.

“The next one’s first word will be mama,” his hand finds the small swell of her lower belly, “I promise.” —————

She presses a coffee cup into his hand before taking a seat across from him on the living room floor, baby toys and blankets strewn across the space between them.

“What happened?”

He takes a deep breath, finding the words he spoke out loud to his team in Lorea’s mansion, “A serious fuck up.”

“I figured that much, Francisco, but what happened?”

So he tells her and she lets him.

He tells her about the seventeen grand of Santi’s own money. How he promised himself no live fire and let himself and his desperation to give her and Luna and himself the best lead him into shattering his soul again. Ripping it up as life drained from the eyes of his fellow human beings and how he didn’t even have the protection of a flag on his shoulder to ease a semblance of that pain. How even if they were bad guys, they weren’t his bad guys to worry about.

He tells her about the helicopter crash, the result of his own greed for the money and for a lack of conflict led to more loss and conflict. How he doesn’t know if he’s the one who fired first on that village but he knows he fired, an automatic weapon slung across his shoulders as easily as the diaper bag he carries through the grocery store for her.

He tells her about the crumbling mountainside, how all he saw at the bottom looking down was himself never coming home to his girls. How that’s when something within him finally snapped, when he and Will silently decided to take the reigns from Tom and Santi’s hands.

He tells her about the fire, burning hundreds of thousands of dollars to keep warm in the freezing air that wrapped around the Andes. About the gunfire that followed them through the rocks in the morning sun.

About standing over Tom’s dead body, the relief and guilt crashing inside him like a warm front meeting a cold one. How he thinks he’ll feel those both every day that he wakes because, unlike the survivor’s guilt easing through you on active duty at the knowledge that this just happens sometimes, this time was different.

He tells her that, after all of that, he threw millions of dollars down a snowy ravine in the middle of Peru where no one would ever see it again, not even his girls who needed it so much because he realized it wouldn’t be fucking worth it for them to have it if it meant not coming home.

He tells her how he almost shot that kid in the jungle. How he would’ve shot every kid standing between him and the boat to get home to his own.

He tells her that he thinks, at the end of it all, Santiago and his plan ended up doing more damage to that country than not.

She listens intently, focused wholly on him. Her face never breaks but he can see the cogs turning behind her eyes, trying to take it all in. Trying to understand.

“I understand if you want me to leave, if you never want to see me again,” he reaches out for her hand, a shiver of shock running through his spine when she doesn’t pull away from him.

Blinking as the words catch up with her, her head shakes, “I just got you back, Francisco, you promised me you wouldn’t leave again so why the fuck do you think I want you to go now?”

“Because what I did is unforgiv—“

“It’s not, there are terrible men in this world who do worse everyday,” he sees the slight sheen of tears coat her lashes, “and you helped stop one of them.”

“There will be others to take his place,” he says around a sip of his drink, his coffee gone cold in the spaces between all his words.

Her hand gives a squeeze to the one it holds, “there will always be others to take his place.”

His breathing evens out, anchored in his chest by a warmth he doesn’t deserve, “there's something else you need to know.”

He tells her about the five million dollars they were able to make it to the boat with, “we signed it all over to Molly and the girls. Will and Benny and I, we decided to do so while Santi was sleeping. We figured, ya know, at least we were coming home. It wasn’t really money we were losing since it was never ours to begin with, Tom’s family lost everything and they didn’t even know it.”

The tears do come now, streams running down his face, “I couldn’t stop thinking about how close you came to losing everything and not even knowing it too.”

His stunted words around the hiccups in his throat draw Luna’s attention, her babbles reaching out to him the way she tried to soothe Leah’s over the weeks prior. Their attention is on her now, eyes wide as she lifts herself with the couch for leverage.

She toddles one step towards his still shaking body before tumbling forward, his hands dropping the now empty coffee cup and Leah’s hand to catch her.

He pulls her small body close, hiding his face in the crook of her neck to inhale the scent of baby lotion. As she giggles in his ear, he looks up to Leah’s soft face, “the boys and I still took three hundred thousand.” —————

“You're fucking insane,” Deana doesn’t quite whisper into Leah’s ear, “a whole ass baby with another one barely even a year old, have you heard of a condom?”

“How many mimosas did you have already, D?”

Kristyn struggles with her key in the door, a large bag in hand, “judging by the slight slur, I’m going with about three so far.”

“Fuck off, K,” she points, turning back to Leah, “I'm just saying that if that big goofy idiot husband of yours goes on another of his boy’s trips, I will kill him this time.”

Her fingers are still quoting around the air as the threat falls around them, Frankie’s attention at the other end of the room grabbed away from the pureed carrots of Luna’s lunch.

“Well,” Kristyn interjects, holding the bag forward, “that’s why I come bearing the gift of one Benjamin Miller, he couldn’t be here because of a boy’s trip.”

“What do you mean?”

Leah looks back at Frankie, his eyes now turned to the conversation. She sees the pain and confusion there, he didn’t know.

Kristyn follows Leah’s gaze before looking back at the older sister in front of her, “he promised me this was his last one and he’s sorry it had to take place during your baby shower but,“ she holds the bag out again, “he says you’ll like this one.”

“It's not a shower,” Leah rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kristyn interjects, “a sprinkle. Whatever.”

“It’s not even that since, ya know,” she looks down at the tiny bundle in her arms, “he's already here.”

“A birthday present then,” she beams, “Benny says he’ll set it up when he gets home.”

Frankie’s laughter finds them now, choking around the baby food he’s trying to convince his stubborn daughter of—she’s not and she’s learned how to voice that disgust with all thanks given to her Uncle Benny.

“Baby, it’s another military surveillance camera.”

Kristyn laughs, “yeah, our whole house is strung up with them at this point but they come in handy to watch the neighbors since I’m nosy.”

“When did they leave?” His voice is small, a slight worry behind it.

Kristyn lets out a breath, “about four hours ago, he made me promise not to tell you until he was gone.”

He just nods his head, a silent clock beginning to tick in his brain. —————

It’s been two weeks since he heard from Ben or Will.

The boys have been here day in and day out since they came home last year, always were before that and even more so now that all they truly had was each other and the families they were making with and around each other.

Benny ran through Kristyn’s apartment complex screaming her name so loud as he started to bang on her door that he was met with a baseball bat. Now that idiot was going to be his brother because the sight she was met with was one of Benjamin Miller on his knees with a ring in his hands.

They gave them space with the baby’s arrival, small and short visits until Leah felt ready to have them all over again. He spoke to them that morning as he shaved the night’s stubble away, they talked like they were coming by and how they couldn’t get enough of their new nephew. How they were getting him the best present.

Frankie runs his forefinger and thumb along his mustache now, the compromise of facial hair he settled on. He didn’t want his full and sparse beard but he also felt lighter at the way Leah laughed into him with every brush of his lips.

He’s pacing the living room, bouncing the baby as Leah and Luna nap upstairs. There's only silence and the soft gurgling of a newborn when the quiet knock comes.

Already close to the entryway, he closes the distance and whispers a silent prayer to himself. A prayer that this isn’t bad news. That this is Will or Benny, not using their keys out of courtesy to the newness of little life inside his home.

He opens the door and is met with the tired eyes of Santiago Garcia.

“Hey, Frank,” he says. All bravado of his being seeped from him and replaced with, what sounds like, apology.

He adjusts his son in his hold, ushering the shorter man in so the warmth of the house doesn’t keep seeping out, “I thought you were in Australia.”

“Yeah, well,” he turns to face Frankie again as the door closes, “I make some really shit decisions sometimes.”

Frankie scoffs, half a laugh hidden in the sound. He’s not wrong but he’s not exactly right either.

“Can I get you something to drink?” He’s walked through to the kitchen, the shorter man falling in pace beside him, “we’re a dry household right now with the baby and my therapy bu—“

“Nah, Fis-Frank,” he stutters, “just came to talk to you. And Leah. She around?”

“She’s resting but I can pass along a message if I like it.”

Santi reaches into the leather folder he always carries around and produces a booklet, the one from the lawyer in St. John’s.

But different, a different cover and date, a different name stamped across the front.

“The boys sent me to give you this alone, said we needed to talk about a few more things than just this. Said I needed to apologize to you and to your wife, that I owed you that for so much but especially roping you into that shit last year.”

“Water under the bridge,” Frankie replies softly, changing direction to move through to the living room, “I gave up on an apology a long time ago and Leah never expected one, but nobody’s mad at you.”

Frankie carries the bassinet into sight from the kitchen before walking back, “what is this, Pope?”

“It’s your cut, we went back.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re stupid and greedy and we fucked ourselves up getting it in the first place so we figured we’d go back and we figured we fucking owed you.”

Frankie squints at the shorter man, searching his eyes for the hint of a joke he’s not laughing at. There is none. His cold brown stare is dead serious.

“This is my apology to you, Fran—“

“Frankie,” Leah’s voice filters into the room, he can hear her sleepy shuffle as she pads across the carpet now, “did you feed Santiago while I was asleep or should I?”

“I fed him, baby,” he calls over his shoulder.

He looks back at the man who helped shape his life, tears welling in his eyes, and hears Leah talking about ordering Chinese for dinner as she crosses the threshold but he doesn’t hear her. He can’t hear anything over the squeeze around his midsection, Santi’s quiet strength taking all of his air and senses.

He lets go as quickly as he grabbed him, Leah’s presence heavy in the room now and he crosses the room to gather her in his arms, a kiss pressed to each cheek and then her hair. He’s careful not to hug as hard as he had Frankie, conscious of her still healing body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers between them, “for everything I’ve done and everything I wasn’t around for.”

She’s trying to catch her breath, trying not to cry herself, “it's oka—“

“I should’ve been here for you guys.”

Her small hand comes up to pat the curls, a little more gray than a year ago, “you are now.”

He pulls away from her, a hitch in his voice as he says, “can I hold him?”

“Yeah,” she nods, “but you gotta wash your face and hands, no tears or snot on my baby.”

He mumbles to himself about how that makes sense as he moves to the sink, fumbling over the soap in the holder as he shakes with nerves.

She makes her way across the kitchen, wrapping her still sleepy being around that of her wide awake husband. The low lying winter sun is filtering through the windows, bathing everything in soft, warm light.

She sees the golden cover of the booklet on the counter and taps it, “what's this?”

Daylight Family Trust is stamped across in big bold words.

“That was the boy’s trip,” he whispers, “that’s our cut.”

He watches her as she slowly reaches for the document, the one that explains how this all works and looks between the men.

“How much?”

Santi rips a paper towel from the roll, “about thirty-five million.”

Frankie holds her as her knees start to give out but she’s still looking at Santi, she’s still looking for the joke he never made.

“Daylight's your call sign, you know,” he says cooly, “all the wives get one too, did he ever tell you?”

She shakes her head, looking at her husband now and thinking of all the times that very word fell from his lips.

“On our last real deployment,” Pope continues, “he was flying as the sun was setting and the sky was pure gold over the desert—“

Frankie’s eyes never leave hers, arms tight around her now.

“—he said it reminded him of the way the gold flakes in your eyes reflect the sunlight back at him, he called you Daylight until he got home and shed the callsigns altogether.”

“Frankie?”

He presses his lips into her forehead, his hand a heavy weight on her lower back that says, I’m right here.

“Your daughter has the same golden flakes in her eyes, like you, Daylight.”

Frankie runs his thumb along the swell of her cheek, "all I wanted to do last year was get home to you both, all I wanted was to make it right and see that reflection of light back at me through you both again.”

He leans down to softly press his lips to hers before nuzzling his nose into her hair, “our son has them too, the same gold in his eyes, it was the first thing I said to Ben when I walked out of the delivery room.”

"It was the first thing they said to me," Santiago says, "when they got off the plane."

“Like me?” Her voice is soft, the heaviness of sleep still clinging to her limbs.

“Mmhmm,” Frankie hums, “like Daylight.”

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

The Blood That Haunts Me

post-scratch fic

no pairings

Hotch has a bad heart

word count 6k

In Savannah Hayes’ experience, Saturday’s are typically for parents with screaming toddlers looking for emergency medicine to soothe their fears about whatever toy their child has shoved up their nose or to ask an aged nurse what to do with this croup that just won’t go away. It’s scrapes and bruises from a fender bender with kids just learning to drive and roughly two to three broken arms from seven-year-olds learning to ride a bike without training wheels. With any luck, there will be only one underage kid in a banana bag and the college kids will be in and out for stitches and gone as quickly as they come. There’s always the regulars - older men and women that buzz with the opportunity to be out of their houses even if it’s to withstand the pain of stitches and staples on their thin skin.

Rarely has Savannah faced a Saturday where she knew someone being pulled into her emergency room. Virginia isn’t the biggest place but her friends are young and healthy and Saturdays are for squirmy children and stupid teenagers. When she sees him with his ankles stretched out over the end of the stretcher and a large hand weakly fighting with the paramedic to hold the oxygen mask over her face she’s certain of his identity. She’s good with faces and his is unmistakable.

“You shouldn’t be on break yet, baby.” Derek picks up on the first ring, the sound of Hank babbling loudly in the background making him chuckle deeply as he moves. The phone pinched between his shoulder and cheek, she can hear him pick up their son. Talking back to the baby.

Savannah is sitting in the emergency room, camped out behind the desk as she catalogs patient information. Despite it being a Saturday, the hospital is startlingly pretty timid (knock on wood). When there is a new patient the clatter is noticed. So when Hotch came in, supine but weakly fighting against the oxygen mask pulled down over his mouth, Savannah noticed. Even drugged and combative, he’s distinctly himself.

And as Savannah tells Derek, describes the man she’s quite fond of, he doesn’t believe her. Hotch doesn’t go to the hospital and no one’s heard from him in forever, he’s probably not even in Virginia. Garcia said Jack started high school last fall and if they were home and situated again with no contact then… Well, what are they supposed to do? “Derek--” Savannah can hear the pitch change in his voice. Derek goes from dismissive to genuinely worried and now pulling at strings because no one has talked to Hotch in months (nearly two years) and the idea of seeing him now is terrifying. “I am positive that it’s Hotch.” She leans around the monitor, frowning as she watches some nurses she knows buzz around him. Throwing out words she can’t make out entirely but she can see what they’re doing and it makes her heart jump a little to hear medications that they put orders out for.

Hotch makes a noise - it has to be loud for her to hear it from the distance she’s at. “Baby,” she stands and it makes her heart do a weird clenching thing when she catches a glimpse at his face. Sees that he’s crying and clearly upset. “Derek, he’s getting all kinds of agitated. I’m gonna call you back in a second, okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and tosses her phone down on her chair before calling out for one of the nurses she recognizes with a wave.

The nurse smiles when she sees Savannah - she’s got a particular gift with patients like Hotch.

“I know this one,” Savannah says, approaching the bed. “What have you got?”

Savannah doesn’t have all the details on the accident that occurred in 2009 with George Foyet. It’s not Derek’s story to tell and it’s not exactly the easiest one to bring into conversation. She’s aware of vague things like his collapse a few years later from scar tissue that caused him to bleed internally and that Hotch's ex-wife was killed by a serial killer. Mostly, she knows that Hotch is dependable and secure and that when he went into witness protection nearly two years ago his absence had crushed them all. Even if the likes of Emily Prentiss and her just as stubborn as hell husband would never admit it.

“Mild tachycardia and respiratory depression -” The nurse tells her about Hotch’s underactive thyroid, something he’s supposed to take medication for ever since the stabbing damaged the organs function. How it’s throwing his heart into tachycardia and it’s getting worse, not responding to medicine yet.

Savannah may not know what happened with George Foyet but she knows Derek regards Hotch as this infallible wall of a man. One she’s come to understand he thinks can’t ever fall down and one that, despite how fondly he’ll speak about him, annoys the hell out of him. Personally, Savannah thinks Aaron Hotchner is just a sweet man. She likes him and his little quirks. He’s quite the odd pairing when he gets together with Emily and Dave but they’re a funny crowd.

What she isn’t expecting is the mess of scars littering his chest. Experience allows her to date some of them by sight - their distinct shape and coloration clustering them into the same time frame and she can’t imagine how someone gets over half a dozen wounds like that at once. They don’t end there. On his right side, there’s a nearly faded out of existence scar from a chest tube. A puncture wound- something blunt she’d assumed by way of its roundness. Even a few rougher-looking, jagged scars that she assumes are shrapnel because Derek has nearly identical ones.

Savannah is a few moments too late to prevent Hotch from being pulled down by a sedative but he’s fighting it, blinking slowly to try and remain awake. “Hey,” she greets softly, turning his wrist over so she can see IV sight in his elbow. It’s secure and there’s nothing special to note but it’s going to bruise. “Long time no see Agent Hotchner.” She squeezes his fingers, smiling at the recognition behind his eyes even if his lips only form a silent mouthed version of her name.

With a smile - remembering the first time they met and how gently he’d taken her hand before shaking his head and admonishing “everyone calls me Hotch” - she reaches down and fixes his hair. He’s let it grow out since he left the BAU. Derek had been livid when he got word that Hotch wasn’t coming back despite the fact that he too left the unit. “How are you feeling, Hotch? Can I call someone?”

His eyes slide shut and for a moment she thinks he’s given in, sunk down low where his pain and his ailments can’t get him. He taps a finger against her palm and she understands he’s still here. “Morgan?” he rasps.

She nods, “Derek already knows you’re here. I imagine he’ll have the whole crew here in no time.” He grimaces, cracking an eye open to give her a look she understands entirely. She’s only ever faced their smothering worry once when Hank was born but she knows it’s a lot. It’s hard to imagine they’re going to somehow be less present and attuned with him than they with her. He’s not looking forward to that and it’s understandable. “Don’t worry,” she promises, “I’ll have your back when they get here.”

He nods, dull eyes sinking back under his eyelids. She holds his hand until she’s certain he’s fallen asleep.

“So,” the nurse asks softly. She moves and tubes and wires around so that they’re not laying against his bare skin. Folding the blankets over Hotch’s hips and leaving his chest bare. He’s still tachycardic, breathing laboriously through inflamed lungs. “How do you know this guy?”

Savannah sits down on the edge of the bed, taking Hotch’s hand into her own. Working her thumb in gentle, hypnotic motions between his knuckles and smiling sadly at the relieved rasping sigh that leaves his parted pale lips. “Family,” she answers because she’s not sure what the answer really is but in some way… yeah, family.

The nurse nods, going about what needs to be done while Savannah stays on the edge of the bed. She does what she can until she clears her throat. “Hey,” the nurse smiles, sympathetic to the soft faraway look in Savannah’s eyes. “Doctor Hamilton admitted him so I need to take him up to the--”

Savannah stands immediately, nodding. “Yeah,” she lays his hand back down on his chest. Stepping away from the bed, “sorry.” She shakes her head, stepping back as the brakes come up and he’s set into motion. “Second floor?” Savannah assumes.

The nurse nods, “he’ll be in room one seventeen. I’ll let the desk know he’s one of yours.”

Savannah watches him disappear down the hall, met at the mouth of the hall by other nurses and staff nodding as they take him to the right floor. She’d been there long enough to see his heart monitor and to identify the ventricular tachycardia plaguing him. He’ll likely need a pacemaker and she’s already racing to a solution. He’ll need to be monitored after surgery but can go home. Hank’s a little too small still but they have the guest room. If Derek cleans up the mess he lets Hank make in there--

Savannah’s heart sinks to the floor and she turns around. Hit with the sudden memory of the last event she saw Hotch at and remembers slowly that Hotch has a son and someone needs to find him.

All morning something had been off, Hotch didn’t have to say it for Jack to know. The oatmeal was made oddly, Hotch’s hands trembling so much he’d gotten the measurements wrong. Too much brown sugar but Jack hadn’t seemed to mind it being too sweet. He’d been distracted by his oatmeal and unalarmed by signs he hasn’t learned to be aware of. If Hotch had gotten up late or made breakfast and then laid down on the couch then Jack would have noticed. Bad days come frequently and like most storms look and sound distinct.

High anxiety days are an early rise, the sound of lights being turned on and off as Hotch fails to get comfortable in any room. Coming out of his room and finding his father curled up on the couch. His knees drawn up and a pillow pressed into his chest, a heated blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. It’s lightly tiptoeing around the house so Hotch stays asleep and avoids him once he does move and allows his aching back to stretch out. Jack knows to keep his music down and to call Jessica if Hotch locks himself away.

Though time has dampened it’s severity it’s not impossible to find his father trying to work through untreated PTSD or ride out an intense wave of depression. Leaving him immobile or desperate for a distraction. Jack knows those things. He understands them and, like the blasting siren that screams out before a tornado, Jack knows when to duck for cover and ride out the storm.

But Jack had no idea what a heart attack would look like. What to expect or even if a heart attack had been what he’d seen.

Hands over his ears, Jack Hotchner sinks into the emotionless walls surrounding him. Trying to find the place past his body where everything ceases to exist. Insistently, against his will, he’s pulled back to a decade ago. To the sound of gunshots tearing through the only home he’d ever known. To Emily wiping his tears away with the palm of her hand, their backs to the carnage his father created in the fall. To a hospital not unlike this one where his father was patched up - open wounds covered and drugs numbing his rough edges - until Jack had finally been able to see him. The feeling of his father’s chest, broad and forever, solid as he’d curled his legs into his lap. His father cried softly as he explained what happened, what he’d done.

“Mommy isn’t coming home, buddy.”

Pinching his eyes shut, Jack rocks himself back and forth. He can’t go there. Not alone. He can’t go back to Foyet. He’s too old for those silly games. Too old for nightmares and monsters hiding under his bed. Unaware of the ones still crawling out of his father’s closet, wrapping their cold fingers around his ankle and threatening to pull him into the darkness with them.

You’re never too old for monsters.

Spencer had found the time to confide in Jack about being raised by a mentally ill single mother. His intent was to demonstrate to Jack that not only did he understand the pre-teens intense fury with his father but that the emotions would abate and Jack would have only a few moments to decide what to do next. How Spencer had turned eighteen and had to have his mother committed to an institution. A decision that haunted him but that he ultimately understood it was simply the only option. One day, Spencer clarified, Jack would understand the way his father worked.

Until that moment, Jack had been more or less paying attention. When it came to all things Uncle Spence, Jack typically has a longer attention span and all the patience in the world but the moment Jack realizes this was a one-on-one sort of deal he was done. He wanted out. But Reid stuttered. That one day, and the words had come out so quickly if he’d had a chance Reid would have stopped them, Jack would realize just what that meant. He’d look at his father and all the magic of his childish love would fall away and Jack would be left with his father’s bare bones. And it would be terrifying but, often, that’s all love is: all the bits bleached down to their true forms.

He gets it now, okay? The nutty academic parent with bouts of deep depression, an obsession with their jobs, and no idea how to say I love you like everyone else. He gets the comparison now. Can he be done? He wants to go home. He’s done learning this stupid lesson about love or whatever bullshit this is supposed to represent. When does it end? It’s going to end, right?

Derek Morgan falters in the doorway, stalled like an engine as he stands at the edge of the messy room. Hank hums in Derek’s left ear, bouncing his foot against Derek’s hip as he stands stationary and trying to wrap his head around everything happening. It’s overwhelming. Derek hasn’t seen Hotch in two years and if the sight of him alone - laid out right here - doesn’t bring its own intense wave of anger and longing then the sight of his uncovered chest is it’s own thing as well.

Hotch is on the bed, curled slightly to his right with the blankets leaving his pale chilled skin open. Even with his face turned into the pillow behind his head, he looks deathly pale in comparison to the white bedspread. Entirely too limp, too still as he lays there pulling in breaths audible over the hiss of the canal running under his nose. Nearly drowned out, consumed by the natural hums of the hospital and constant motion of the monitors to his left and the dissatisfied beep of the blood-pressure cuff around his right arm.

Savannah warned him of what he’d find once he got inside in case she got called away to a patient when he got there. She told him the buzz around the staff, what Hotch’s cardiologist thought and it stung to hear her warn him ahead of time what Hotch looked like, worse, she imagined, than what Derek was imaging. Weaker, she’d said as if the word was some sort of betrayal. He’s weak and Derek can’t push him and he’d wanted to advocate for himself but he couldn’t.

With tears in his eyes, he’d promised to be on his best behavior and Derek realized just how awful he and Hotch could be towards one another. How everyone sees it. He’d wondered if… Well, if Hotch hated him for it. They’d been close once. Partners. Haley used to joke she half expected he’d steal Aaron away from her. That old joke used to make Jason laugh so hard, the two of them together were the cause of all his worry and stress. Now…

Well, now Derek is standing in a room that can’t be more than a 120-foot space with far too much equipment in it feeling like he’s never been so far away from Hotch. So disconnected.

Hotch makes a soft sound from the bed, twitching his nose and flexing his fingers. There are more drugs than blood in him, keeping him weak and tired and unable to pick apart his surroundings. Hazy eyes blink open, peeled apart like they each weigh twenty pounds, and the simple act of keeping them open burns. He can’t make out the world around him very well but he sees the empty chairs on his left and the expanse of white all around. The hospital, he knows, and no one showed up.

Maybe they finally got wise and are leaving him to his own devices. Leaving him to rot where he won’t be missed. Sinking into the fibers of the bed and disappearing. They’ll stop pumping him so full of drugs and just let him wilt away. He wants it, craves the nothing he knows he’ll find. No masks or deception or this anger he feels burning and rearing its ugly head. Just nothing.

Derek steps into the room, sniffling to draw in some noise before he steps into Hotch’s line of sight. Hoping not to startle him, as he clears his throat, meeting Hotch’s gaze for only a moment looking down at his shoes. “Just me and Hank,” he offers. He tucks his hands into his pockets. He can feel Hotch still looking at him, hearing those painstakingly slow, labored breaths. He wishes he hadn’t come. To escape all this restless vulnerability.

Hotch’s eyes sink back shut, pale lips parting to mumbling, “Derek,” under his breath. Savannah told him Hotch wouldn’t even likely know he was there. The drugs are affecting his mental facilities, sedating him to keep him calm while they run tests. When he can remember what’s happening he’s scared and when he can’t… he has a baseline memory that hardly differentiates friend from foe. It’s the latter of which Savannah needs him to be aware of because Hotch’s heart can’t handle the stress. His mind is too clouded and his body too weak, he just needs someone to hold his hand. Someone to distract him.

Derek’s expecting a conversation. For Hotch to say something. To apologize for running off or to pay Hank some sort of mind. There’s not even a stiff silence, Hotch looks so weak, so pliant Derek isn’t sure he can even speak. He realizes that despite all the hefty warnings, despite everything that he was told he still walked into this room expecting Aaron Hotchner. He wanted, he needed the man in the suit, with that stern scowl, and gravelly voice. He’d needed the mask and instead he got the man. The man without the armor, just blood.

And it scares him.

It scares Derek that Hotch can’t put up his shields, that he can’t hide and play their cat and mouse game of anger and misunderstanding. They only have blind defeat.

Derek sits down in the visitor’s chair, shushing Hank when he squirms with agitation. Hank immediately starts touching everything in sight. Reaching and leaning dangerously out of Morgan’s lap, to touch the bed and smack his hand against the rail. A sound that makes Hotch’s eyes peel open to slivers before they shut again, unbothered. “Don’t touch that,” Derek pulls Hank into his lap, redirecting his attention.

He knows, from the low whine Hank lets out, that this isn’t going to work for very long. Mercifully, there’s a knock at the door and Savannah peeks her head in. Waving at Hank who fights his limbs out of Derek’s hold to be placed on the floor so he can propel his body in the direction of his mother.

“Hello baby,” Savannah scoops him right up. Grinning at that way he toddles, that quick toddler pace because he doesn’t know how to pump the brakes. How to set himself into motion that isn’t just guided by leaning forward and running.

Derek stands from his chair, clearing his throat and glancing down at Hotch before looking back to his wife and son.

Savannah can see his hesitation, his worry. “Why don’t we go to the cafeteria and get a snack? Hmm?” She jogs Hank up in her arms and he brightens at the offering - knowing pudding or a cookie is coming his way. “Derek?” She offers out her hand to him, “come on. I’ll explain everything to you downstairs.”

“Ugh--” all he can see is Hotch shivering. His skin slick with sweat from the strain on his body but the way he’s curled into the side. Trying to produce warmth where it isn’t. “Just give me a second.” Derek knows he can’t just throw the blanket over Hotch and he works himself up, gets upset just thinking about the mass of awful scars keeping his friend held together. All the old scars are bare for anyone and everyone to see. If Hotch had the presence of mind for it, he’d be upset.

With a gentleness born with great amounts of stress, Derek gently works the lower half of the blanket over Hotch’s leg. He folds the lower half over and hesitates, stares at Hotch, and wonders just how much he’s allowed. Hotch is cold and Derek knows that means his arms too but that crosses their line. They’re never spoken out loud, only shot through glances about trust and touch but Hotch is asleep or maybe lost to his haze of drugs (and Derek’s not really sure if there’s a difference between those two things). So, he picks up Hotch’s hand, swallowing against the uncomfortable swell of his throat when he feels just how cold the other man’s skin is. He tucks Hotch’s hand carefully against his chest.

Hotch’s face twitches, a grimace that makes him jerk his head but he doesn’t move his hand so Derek leaves it. Carefully, still watching and waiting for some explosive reaction but none come. Derek turns the heated blanket up to the highest setting, making sure even Hotch’s shoulders are covered. Tucking the blanket just under his chin.

Hotch groans from the back of his throat, a startling noise that comes with blinding panic. His eyes fly open, darting around the room and to Derek but not seeing. Derek can’t tell if it’s pain or fear but the machine over his shoulder picks up pace, reflecting Hotch’s distress. Hotch swallows thickly, mouth opening and eyes flicking around the room. Twisting, fighting his body in a futile battle where he loses no matter the outcome. Kicking out and dislodging blankets as he’s blinded by his pain.

“Step back Derek.” Derek just stands there, frozen. Savannah grabs him by the arm and pulls him back, allowing other people to come into the room. “He’s okay,” she mumbles, eyes glued to Hotch. He’s fighting blindly, anything and everything. His heart can’t take it, her eyes flick from his bare skin to the monitors. To the staff also taking note. “Derek, we can’t be in here.”

They pull the crash cart close, preparing vials of medicine before their eyes.

“What’re they--” Derek can’t move. He stands there watching them move blankets out of the way. Listening as they pull open a drawer and settle a machine on top and he knows what it is. Doesn’t need to be told what’s happening next. “Savannah.” He stumbles back, shaking his head. The machine wines, a high-pitched squeal that makes Derek’s heart pick up.

He doesn’t see, doesn’t watch.

He’s standing in the hall when the machine fires off. Can close his eyes but can’t unhear the sound of Hotch’s low groan, a punched-out sound but he’s alive. Still pulling in breaths.

“Morgan?”

He was still a baby the last time Morgan saw him. Quickly trying to climb to his father’s height but every bit as graceful as a colt, and angry. Angry with his father for falling into this same repeated history and questioning what he knew. How much of his father’s strength is something else? What does he really know about the man who raised him? Because he got himself a chunk of history, started to understand the man he’d always blindly turned to. His hero. Instead, he got glimpses, stories about the boy his mother knew and he could no longer recognize him.

But standing here now is a whole teenager. Blonde hair grown out and even taller, built unmistakably like his father with all height in his legs and pale.

“Jack.” Morgan stumbles back when Jack collides into him, long arms wrapping around him. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “When the hell did you get so big?” He’s standing there, a whole armful of the kid he used to give piggyback rides to.

Jack pulls away and wipes his eyes, furiously wipes his eyes so that Morgan can unsee the tears streaming down his face. “My-- My dad,” he asks. “Did you see him?” Jack looks at the room, alerted by the sounds coming from within, but Morgan steps in the way. “Morgan is he-- is he in there?” Jack worms his way out of Morgan’s arms, a whole tangle of long limbs.

Hotch would be proud to know Jack is exactly like him, real scrappy. A lot of fight for such a lanky person.

“Jack,” Morgan pulls him away from the door. Despite how much he wants to go to Hotch too, that’s not where Jack should be. That’s not what Jack should see. “Come on, kid. We can’t go in there. Come on.” The fight leaves him easily enough, he’s really just a kid standing there looking for someone to tell him what to do. Anyone to point him where he’s supposed to be.

Jack still wants to turn, as if pulled by strings.

“I called Rossi,” Morgan offers. Something to distract him, something good. “Everyone else? Reid and Garcia and Emily? They’re on their way, okay?” And even with loaded promises Jack can’t find the nerve to respond. Their names used to be a solace. Someone to call when he needs help with his math homework. To show up with books on whatever cool thing he’s into this week. His family.

People he hasn’t seen in forever.

They do come.

Hank’s ambling about, babbling to Morgan as he pulls his father around the waiting room. It’s his excited squeal that alerts them to the other’s arrival. To Reid holding the door open so the others can pass. The pile-up that happens, shocked inhales and silence as they stand there and look at the carnage. At Jack’s tear-stained face and Morgan going where Hank pulls but empty, fearful.

“Uncle Dave?” Jack stands up, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

Dave smiles, “hey kiddo.” He doesn’t argue against the armful of Jack he gets, just closes him up. “Christ,” Dave whispers. “You’re a giant.”

“What is he feeding you?” Jack turns around and finds Emily and all she can do is laugh as he hugs her too. Finds herself all wrapped up in his long arms. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” she whispers, “letting you get so big.” She squeezes him tight, cups the back of his head.

There’s not much more time for reunions, never much time for anything.

“Aaron Hotchner?”

Never get used to this part either. The sitting. The waiting. The calling.

Savannah was right about the tachycardia.

“With your permission - ” and it’s important that detail be added. That Hotch can’t make this decision for himself anymore and it’s resting entirely on the shoulders of Jessica or Dave and Emily alternatively. That doesn’t mean it’s not like a kick to the gut. A cruel taunt. “We would like to prepare him for the surgery now while he’s stable.” Stable? Is that what he is? Laying back there with defibrillator pads on his chest and sedated to the point that Morgan wasn’t sure Hotch could even recognize him.

Jack sniffles, ducking his head and whispering to Emily. Attached to her hip, clinging to her. She shakes her head and brushes his hair back, “it doesn’t work like that, Jack.” Jack’s lower lip trembles and it breaks Emily’s heart so she interrupts the doctors. Despite the voice at the back of her head telling her this isn’t a good idea. Despite the sour twist in her stomach. The way she knows Hotch wouldn’t want this. “I know there are strict rules,” and that alone should be enough to know they’re likely to be shot down. “Is there any chance he can go back before the surgery? This is his son, he’s fifteen. He’ll be sixteen soon. You’re hardly breaking the rules at all.”

Soon is a bit of a stretch. Jack’s an October baby.

The doctor looks at Jack and sighs like this is really putting him off but nods. “Yeah, quickly. Five minutes, do you understand? You can’t be back there long,”

And Jack thinks he’s won something grand. That he’ll be faced with the same mirage Morgan was expecting. His dad will be sitting back there tall and strong, probably just tired like he’s sick. But he takes one step into the room and wishes he hadn’t come. Hadn’t asked.

They haven’t removed the defibrillator pads on his chest just pulled a blanket over his stomach but that only minimally covers the damage. There are still visibly warped bullet wounds and jagged surgical scars to be seen. But Dave has seen all that. He’d been there to watch the blood spray out when the scar on Hotch’s shoulder took place. Shouted as the gunshot sprayed out and Hotch grunted, being sent back into the wall behind him. But that was… God, that was a lifetime ago when Hotch was just a kid.

Dave turns behind him and sees Jack frozen in the doorway, eyes wide. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jack nods but he can hardly move, can’t force himself to move further into the room. He’s seen his father shirtless, not enough times to really gather anything but he’s seen the damage of years of this job has caused. But this is different. Jack isn’t six, isn’t watching him shave. He’s standing there watching him pull in laborious breaths, struggling to keep living.

“You know,” Rossi sits down in the visitor’s chair. “When you were born he cried so hard that Gideon had to call me.” He looks back at Jack, watching his face for some inclination that he’s going to either come into the room or run away. “Haley was exhausted but… She was beautiful, always was. No matter if she was showing up at the office to haul your father home by the ear in her pajamas or crying her make-up off in the waiting room waiting for your knucklehead father to get out of surgery.”

But he’s missed the point.

He chances a glance to Hotch, watching his pale face twist in discomfort. “You were born at eleven at night and by that point I was already in bed and done for the night by ten kind of guy.” He can still remember sighing and almost ignoring his phone when it had gone off. “I got to the hospital and your dad was sitting on the floor just outside the room, sobbing so hard I thought he’d pass out.” It’s still pretty surprising he didn’t pass out. “Didn’t think he could do it. You were so small, small, and pink and screaming your little head off.”

Jack huffs, smiling as he kicks at the ground. Looking everywhere but his father or Dave.

“But I picked him up,” grabbed him by his shirt and forced him to his feet. Managing the tough love Gideon couldn’t bring himself to enforce. “I don’t think he stopped crying until he fell asleep. Just sitting there with you in his arms crying.” Rossi sighs shakes his head. “Honestly, you were tiny. Had a-- Had a thing with your heart and…” Rossi had held Jack after Hotch and Haley finally managed to catch some sleep. A nurse had figured he or Gideon one had to be a grandfather, why else would they be there? They’d sat there with Jack for about an hour just gushing over how small and cute he was. Trying to keep the baby content so Haley could get some sleep.

Drowsily his voice cuts through the silence, nothing but a ghost of a whisper. “An atrial septal defect.” It’s all he can manage but it’s enough to get their attention. Jack had been born with an atrial septal defect and they knew about it in advance just after Haley’s pregnancy got tricky. It was just a tiny little hole in his atrium, closed before he was a whole year old. That doesn’t mean it didn’t scare the hell out of them first. Leave them to check his bassinet every few hours. To make sure he was okay, still breathing.

“The doctor said I shouldn’t play soccer because of it.” Jack manages a few steps and comes to the very end of the bed. His fingers just barely touching the bed frame. “But you let me play anyways.”

Hotch clears his throat, shakes his head. “I didn’t. Jessica did.” He grimaces, shifting uselessly to find a position that doesn’t hurt. “Said-- She said if you were anything like me you’d find a way.” He’s talked himself breathless, gasping and fighting to breathe. “Might as well-- Might as well make it easy on myself. Just let you do it.” So he had. He signed Jack up for soccer despite his own fears and went to every match he could. Every practice. Until he was the only parent paying attention.

He coughs softly, setting off a weight and ache in his lungs. “Jessica--” he cuts himself off, coughing until he holds his breath and fists the sheets in his hand to keep from still.

Jack looks away, fixes his eyes on the floor.

Dave calls it. Hotch won’t admit he’s not okay and Dave would venture Jack has that same stubborn-streak, doesn’t want to think that Hotch isn’t okay.

“Come on,” Dave motions for Jack to follow him. “Times up, better get out of here before they kick us out.” Five or so minutes, that’s all they had and that’s passed. “You’ll be fine,” Dave promises.

He struggles to get his breath, to say something coherent. “Wait,” he grabs Dave’s shirt. Hospitals are so cold, they’re scary and miserable and he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’m sorry.”

Dave pulls Jack on, can’t leave him behind, and can’t stay any longer.

“What did he mean?” Jack asks. He keeps looking back, looking over his shoulder to the room. “Why’d he say that?” He has to run to keep up with Dave’s pace. “Dave, please. Why’d he say he was sorry?”

Dave stops and just stands for a moment, looking at the hall before them. “He’s scared,” Dave answers, finally. “He’s just scared, that’s all.”

He doesn't think he’s going to make it. That’s the horrible ugly truth. That’s why he apologized. Just in case.

“Come on,” Dave holds out his arm. Smiles a smile that doesn't even try to make it to his eyes and wraps an arm around Jack. “It’s going to be okay. You know that?”

Jack looks back over his shoulder once more, to the room. He doesn’t buy it for a second but he nods anyway. “Course,” he answers.

“Good. That’s good.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #savannah hayes #derek morgan #hank morgan #jack hotchner #david rossi #emily prentiss #spencer reid #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau

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viking-raider · 4 years

Text

A Soldier’s Daughter - Chapter V

Summary: Skye goes after Geralt, while the Witcher makes a series of choices, that leads to a cataclysm of repercussions, for multiple people involved.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/OFC

Word Count: 10,877

Previous Chapters: I II III IV

Rating: PG-13 - Witcher!AU, Slow Burn, Language, Angst, Mention of Violence, Minor Character deaths, Fluff

Inspiration: The Witcher on Netflix, with instances of the Games and Books.

Author’s Note: Tell me what you think! Thank you to the marvelous @wondersofdreaming for the encouragement and beta!

Tag List: @jennylovelyheart, @peakygroupie, @jessevans, @rosie-loves-things, @ohjules, @mary-ann84, @omgkatinka, @the-freak-cassie-131, @wardl0w, @agniavateira, @cap-barnes, @romyr4, @michelehansel, @kaatelyyynn, @badassbaker, @mrsaugustwalker, @authentic-bish-face, @rizeandvibe, @severuined, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @bellastellaluna, @wondersofdreaming, @thisisntmyrightera, @michelle-1185, @winchwm, @royallylazy, @sofiebstar, @worldicreate, @bellastellaluna, @fantasygirlsuniverse, @witches-of-discovery-a, @xuxszx, @ayamenimthiriel, @keiva1000, @itsreigns, @constip8merm8, @scorpionchild81, @mylifefallingupthestairs, @onlyhenrys, @luclittlepond, @ellixthea, @lebguardians, @geralt-yennefer-jeskier, @cherrybloomn, @p3nny4urth0ught5, @iloveyouyen, @hollydaisy23, @mcuimagination, @psychosupernatural, @sweetlybigdragonn, @whitewolfandthefox, @moviemonzy, @the-soot-sprite, @hell1129-blog, @trippedmetaldetector, @captaingothgirl1996, @dont8mind8me8eue, @peaky-marvel, @desperate-and-broken21, @monstersnmoney, @dancingwendigo, @redhot-mystacism, @thereisa8ella, @black-ninja-blade, @oddduckthatgirl, @rosewinx, @henrythickcavill, @tinabean37, @hnryycvll, @msblkfire84, @romangenesius, @emelinelovesjc, @strangerliaa, @lovieebby, @pinksdaydream, @fanfictionaddiction99, @seb-owns-these-tatas, @oh-for-fic-sake, @sauvage-et-libre, @mis-lil-red, @angreav, @crazyandanonymous4u, @the-mighty-jellybean @henrycavell, @jimmypagesandbrianmayshair, @iam-laiya, @worshipping-skarsgard, @thetruthandotherstories, @ruthoakenshield, @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss, @theonetheycallhannah, @nina-skyee, @thatgirly81, @inanna999, @suueeeeeee, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @x-wingwarriorbbpoe8, @beckster07890, @daddys-littlewhitegirl, @magic-and-the-macabre, @stxphmxlls, @radaofrivia, @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss, @starstruckkittyangel, @heartfelt-pen, @stuckupstucky, @dummiesshort, @la-cey, @singeramg, @queenoftheworldisdead, @brooklymw

Geralt groaned as he sat down on the bench at the far corner of a pub in Upper Posada, a mug of mostly untouched ale on the table in front of him.

The sparse patrons dotting various tables, lost in their own conversation and drinks, when the sound of a lute strung up above the murmur of voices, some of the voices dying out as the Bard in the corner diagonal of Geralt started warming up his vocal cords and dove into his first song.

“You think you’re safe, Without a care! But here in Posada, You’d be wise to beware..”

He strummed his lute and slowly moved about the pub, catching a few of the pub goer's eyes.

“The pike with the spike, That lurks in your drawers Or the flying drake, That will fill you with horror!”

People started shifting and giving the Bard dark looks as his song progressed, shaking their heads at him and even a few plugging their ears with their fingers. The Bard stopped by a post, resting his shoulder against it and planting his foot on top of a nearby chair, his eyes focused on Geralt, who continued to ignore him.

“Need Old Nan the Hag, To stir up a potion! So that your lady, Might get an abort--”

The pub patrons turned on him instantly, tossing everything they could at him, bread, mugs and anything else they could get their hands on.

“Abort yourself!” One of the patrons roared, throwing a handful of something at the Bard.

“Hey, hey!” the Bard whined, holding his lute up to protect his young and handsome face from the onslaught. “I'm just so glad I could bring you all together like this.” He huffed, battered back to the corner he started in by the projectiles. “Unbelievable.” He sighed, putting his lute down and stooping to stuff a couple of the bread rolls into his pockets for later.

Straightening back up, Geralt, still staring down at his untouched ale, caught the Bard's attention again. Biting his lip and taking a mug off a tray of a passing barmaid, he dared to get closer to Geralt, oblivious of the vibe coming off the Witcher. “I love the way you just...sit there in the corner and brood.”

Geralt growled and looked away from him. “I'm here to drink alone.” He rasped, his mood had been sour ever since he decided to leave Skye behind at her parents' farm in Temeria, two weeks prior.

“Yeah, okay. Good.” the Bard nodded, not getting the glaring hint to piss off. “No one else hesitated to give me their opinion on my performance, other than...” He pushed off the post he was leaning on beside Geralt's table and helped himself to the seat across from the sullen Witcher. “You.” He finished, rapping his knuckles on the wooden table.

“Come on, you must have some review for me.” He pressed Geralt. “You don't want to keep a man with—bread—in his pants waiting. Three words or less.”

“They don't exist.” Geralt replied, gruffly.

The Bard blinked at him, confused. “What doesn't exist?” He frowned, shaking his head.

Geralt simply blinked at the younger male. “The creatures in your song.” He answered, after an awkward pause and realizing the Bard wasn't going to leave until he answered him.

“Oh, fun!” The Bard grinned, finding it was a game and lighting drummed his hands on the table. “White hair, big old loner, two very scary swords--”

Grunting, Geralt looked at his coin bag as the Bard rattled off descriptives about him, noting the single coin he had left from the job he did in Lyria for killing a Bruxa a few days before. Pressing his lips together, he grabbed the strings of his coin bag, letting the coin drop, quietly leaving it for the Bard and hoping he would get the point to leave him alone, as he grabbed his swords leaning against the wall behind him, stepped around the table and headed for the door.

Smirking, the Bard picked up the coin and quickly stood up. “You're Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher.” He called after Geralt, who only hesitated for a split moment, but it was enough. “Called it!” He yelled at him, grinning, and proud of himself.

The pub patrons twisted in their seats and stared after Geralt, one of them shooting up out of his seat and going after Geralt. “Wait!” He called, picking up his step before Geralt could get out the door. “I have a monster for ye, Witcher!” He said, relieved when Geralt stopped, but didn't turn back to him. “A Devil, it's stealing all of our grain.” He explained, heart pounding as he stood before the Witcher.

“I'll pay you, a hundred gold.”

Geralt turned towards the window that was by the door, weighing his interest, then frowned at the kid. “One-fifty.” He sighed, rolling his eyes.

“You leave no prisoners, so I've been told.” The kid said, holding out the stuffed coin bag to Geralt.

Taking the bag of coin, Geralt turned back to the door and strode out, crossing the swaying bridge that linked Posada to the rest of the Continent and where he had left Roach to graze on the tall grass. “Come on, Roach.” He bid the mare, untying her from the hitching post and led her up the path toward where he was told the supposed Devil resided in the hills.

“Need a hand!” A voice called behind Geralt as he ascended the upward climbing dirt road. “I've got two.” The Bard said, catching up alongside him. “One for each of the Devil's horns.”

“Go away.” Geralt barked at him.

“Yeah, I'll only be silent back up.” He said, not giving in. “I got what you were saying back in Posada. Maybe real adventures and monsters would make for better stories and songs, and you, sir, smell chock-full of them.” He rambled on. “Amongst other things, is that onions? You smell like death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak.”

Geralt paused at his use of the word, heartbreak, which poured salt into the broken pieces of Geralt's heart, adding to his pain and fueling his anger. He looked at Roach, as if to ask, 'should I kill the Bard?' Then, turned to face him.

“Come here.”

“Yeah?” The Bard grinned, naively stepping closer to Geralt, only to be given a stiff punch to the stomach, knocking all the air out of his lithe body and stumble to the ground, onto his hands and knees.

“Come on, Roach.” Geralt said, turning back up the road and continued on, sure that the annoying Bard would get the point to get lost and leave him be, before he did something worse.

But, aggravatingly enough, the Bard didn't get the hint. After a few minutes to recover his breath and get back onto his feet, the Bard was running up beside him again. Geralt twisted Roach's reins around his gloved fist, trying to hold himself back from tossing the Bard over the side of the road that let out into a steep cliff and the valley of Posada below. The Bard babbled the whole way up the mountain towards the supposed location to the 'Devil of Posada', as the Bard was calling it.

“Were I to join you on this feat, to kill the Devil of Posada. I could relieve you of the title of Butcher of Blaviken. I could be your barker, telling the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.”

“Butcher is right.” Geralt huffed, rolling his eyes.

“You mind, if I hop up there with you?” the Bard asked, his feet killing him from walking so far. “I'm not wearing the right shoes for all of this.”

“Don't touch Roach!” Geralt barked at him, sharply, but pulling Roach to a stop.

“No, right. Fine.” the Bard sighed, frowning.

Geralt got down off Roach, noticing the Bard flinch as he did, fearing that Geralt was going to hit him again, which did nothing, but inwardly made the Witcher feel even worse. Skye would have told him off, for being so mean and hitting the Bard for no reason other than being annoyed by him for not getting the hint and buggering off. Sighing, Geralt led Roach the rest of the way up the path and found a sturdy tree to tie Roach's reins to it.

“You know, the Elves used to all this place Dol Blathanna, before bestowing it to the Humans.” the Bard said, gazing around the mountain side. “Then, vanished into their Golden Palaces, in the mountains.”

Shaking his head, Geralt disappeared through the tall grass and brush, leaving the Bard to continue on with his ramble.

“There I go again, just delivering expositions.” Then, noticed Geralt walking off. “Geralt. Geralt! Where are you going?” He called after him, jogging to keep up. “What are we looking for again?”

“Blessed silence.” He rasped, moving between two rock formations and missing the comfortable silence that would fall between him and Skye.

“Yeah, I don't really go in for that.” the Bard shook his head. “Have you ever hunted a Devil before, Geralt?” He asked, wanting to get as much information out of the Witcher as he could, for future songs and poems.

“Devils aren't real.” Geralt huffed, like it should be obvious. “Sometimes there's monsters and sometimes there's money. Rarely both.” He explained, moving slowly as he scanned the area. “That's the life.”

“Then, what are we hun--”

“Shit!” Geralt barked, something wheezed through the air and struck him on the forehead, leaving a deep gash behind, as he retreated backward to the cover of one of the rock formations.

“Act Two begins!” The Bard announced happily, throwing out his arms and stepping forward.

“What was that that hit you? It was like a teeny cannonball from a—oh my gosh” He paused, catching sight of a pair of horns in the tall grass in front of him. “Geralt, it is a devil. I have to see this amazing, this marv--” Another projectile flew through the air and struck the Bard in almost the exact same spot on the forehead Geralt had been, then dropped, like a lead weight, sending up a plume of dust as he hit the ground.

Geralt lifted a brow at the downed Bard, half thinking how nice it was he had shut up, before pulling aside some of the tall grass beside him, and started slowly stalking forward. The bleat of a Goat broke the humid air and Geralt was rammed in the gut, sending him flying backwards to the ground beside the Bard.

“Leave me be!” the Goat-like creature screamed.

“You talk!” Geralt barked, jumping back up onto his feet, stopping the creature from ramming him again, and tossed it to the ground.

“Of course I talk.”

“What happened to you?” Geralt asked, holding the creature down with a forearm to its chest. “Your mother fuck a goat.”

“I'm Torque, a Sylvan.” The Creature barked, struggling. “A rare and intelligent creature.”

“You're a dick.” Geralt laughed, amused by the situation. “With balls.” He added, laughing at him.

“Balls I got from humans, who left them out to poison me.” the Sylvan growled, yanking out a handful of Geralt's hair. “Did your mother fuck a snowman?” He asked, turning Geralt's joke around on him.

Amusement lost, Geralt punched the Sylvan square in the face, bloodying its nose. “You are intelligent, I'll give you that. So, I won't kill you.” He told him, sympathetically. “But, you can't stay here.”

“Neither can you.” Torque replied, and a moment later, everything went black for Geralt.

Skye had zero luck catching up with Geralt, but hadn't let that stop her, she knew she'd cross paths with the Witcher again, it was just a matter of time, patience and listening for the right tales about him. She had heard from a farmer outside of Hagge, who had seen Geralt passing through, on the road towards Lyria. So, she turned herself and Arthas that direction, arriving four days later and stayed for almost two days, asking anyone and everyone, if they had seen the Witcher and found someone, finally, that said they had, that the Alderman had employed the Witcher's help killing a Bruxa nearly two weeks before, but they didn't see what direction he had left in.

She had started to worry, though. Her gold was dwindling, as hard as she was trying to spare as little of it as possible, as was her food source. She had come across a farm just outside of Lyria, a crop of corn growing high in the field, and waited until nightfall to secret herself into the field and picked several ears of it. Skye had also bought a small role of fishing line and a hook, teaching herself how to patiently fish in the streams she came across. Other than that, she'd go a day or so without eating, trying to keep her supply going a little while longer.

Picking a new direction, Skye rode from Lyria to Vergen, opening to get lucky there.

“Have you seen the white-haired Witcher, Geralt of Rivia?” She asked the first person she saw coming into the city, but they just shook their head and went on their way.

Sighing, Skye led Arthas through the city, stopping every so often to ask someone if they had seen Geralt, but none of them had. Discouraged, Skye found a shady spot to rest, the hot day wearing her down. Removing her water skin from Arthas's bag, she took it to the small fountain in a square in the middle of the town, refilling it, then cupping her hands and taking deep mouthfuls of the cold mountain water, sighing as it refreshed her dry mouth, even splashing some in her hot and dirty face, and the back of her neck. Going back to Arthas, Skye removed her coin pouch from one of his saddlebags, pouring the pitiful amount of coins out into her hand and counting them.

“Thirty.” She sighed, a deep anxiety settling into her tired bones. “We have thirty gold left, Arthas. We should have just turned back and gone home. But, that won't help us find Geralt, the pig-headed lout.” She grumbled, putting the coins back in their bag. “A month and a half of trailing him and nothing, but week old accounts.”

“When I do find that dumb Witcher, I'm shoving my boot down his throat.”

She had said all these threats to Arthas before, usually after scouring the last known place Geralt was seen at or rumored to be, tired and tossing on her bedroll as she camped at the edge of town or between cities. But, deep down, she didn't mean any of it, she missed him, her heart only aching more and more, the longer they were apart. It was later that night, while she was sitting in a tavern, slowly nursing an ale and sheltering herself from the Spring rain that had started falling just after noon, when a few drunks started piping up with a song that had Skye's blood freezing in her veins.

“When the White Wolf fought A silver-tongued devil His army of elves At his hooves did they revel..”

Her head jerked towards them as they continued to sing and even got a few of the other patrons to chime in with them.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher O Valley of Plenty! O Valley of Plenty! Toss a coin to your Witcher O Valley of Plenty!”

“Hey.” She barked at one of the revelers at the table beside hers. “Where did you hear that song?” She asked, her hands shaking as she grasped her mug.

“It's being sung in damn near every tavern across the Continent.” the man at the table laughed, and chugged down the rest of his ale.

“Who's song is it?” Skye demanded, pulling out a gold coin and waving it in his face, knowing it would give the drunk incentive to answer her properly, if it meant his next drink was on her.

“A Bard, Jack or something.” He said, bloodshot eyes following the sparkling coin.

“Jaskier, you idiot.” A female sitting beside him snapped, shaking her head. “By far a better lay than you ever have been.” She added with a huff.

“I'll give you another one, if you can tell me where to find him.” Skye said, after dropping the first coin into the man's beefy palm.

“Somewhere near Rinde.” The woman said, arm shooting across the man and snatching the coin from Skye before the man could.

Downing the rest of her own drink and rushing out of the tavern, Skye found where she left Arthas and tore through Vergen and out the gate, riding in the direction of Rinde, like the hounds of hell were after her.

“Ah, Geralt! I heard you were here, are you following me, you scamp?” The Bard asked, finding Geralt standing beside the lake in his hometown of Rinde.

“No.” Geralt rasped, fussing over a fishing net for a few minutes, before tossing into the lake, for the hundredth time that morning.

“Well, I am starving, fancy sharing some of your catch with me for breakfast?” He asked, tilting his head at the Witcher.

“I'm not fishing, Jaskier.” He sighed, pulling the net back in and found it empty.

“Then, what are you looking for?” the Bard frowned, growing concerned by the exhausted look and dark circles on Geralt's face.

Taking up the net, Geralt moved farther down the shore of the lake, looking for a fresh spot. The Bard followed after him, watching him for several moments as he repeatedly tossed and pulled the net in and out of the water, each time coming up empty.

“Talk to me, Geralt, what's the matter?”

Geralt opened his mouth, brain working to form the words that would explain his thinking, on how he was feeling; but failed and said the first thing that came to his mind. “A djinn.” He uttered, laying the net out on the bank and untangling it again.

“A djinn, like a genie?” Jaskier frowned at him, blinking at his friend. “The float-y fellows with the banned magics and wishes, that djinn?”

“Yes.” Geralt replied, standing up and swinging the net back into the dark waters.

“Geralt.” He laughed, amused, and shook his head at the Witcher. “Why would you--”

“It'll give me wishes!” Geralt hissed, startling the Bard. “It's in this lake somewhere-” He swept his arm out over the water. “And I can't fucking sleep!” He yelled, eyes glowing with his anger.

Jaskier gulped at Geralt, eyes wide with surprise at his friend's agitation. “Is this a problem, where you're trying to rub salve on a tumor?” He asked, even more concerned for the White Wolf.

“No.” Geralt barked, but faltered as he started to throw the net back in again. “That's not it.” He added, softly.

But, that was exactly what he was doing.

He had heard about a Wizard trapping a djinn in a bottle several years back and thought nothing of it, sure it was stuff and nonsense. But, since Skye, since leaving Skye, Geralt had thought about the djinn more and more, slowly convincing himself that finding the djinn would be the best solution to the growing hurt he had inside of himself, that was keeping him wide awake at night, or any other time he tried to find sleep and peace. He had convinced himself that wishing he and Skye had never heard of each other before, would be the best for both of them. He could go back to being an emotionless and unbothered Witcher and Skye could find someone worthy of her love and devotion. But, even then, Geralt knew it was nothing but smoke, that even if he could find the fabled djinn in the Rinde lake, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to wish her away from his mind.

Let alone his heart and soul.

“Why do you want this djinn, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, sitting down on a fallen log beside him on the lakeshore.

“Because.” Geralt huffed, he really didn't want to tell the Bard, knowing Jaskier would poke massive holes into his reasoning, without even trying or meaning too.

“You know, my muse and reason for living in this world, the Countess de Stael, once told me, 'that Destiny is just the embodiment of the Soul's desire to grow.' Though, that was before she left me, rather coldly, I might add.”

“Did you sing to her before she left?” Geralt asked, squatting by the lake's edge.

“I di—what's that supposed to mean?” Jaskier frowned, catching Geralt's dry insult.

Geralt paused what he was doing and looked over at Jaskier with a look that said it plainly.

“Oh, we are having this conversation!” He hissed, narrowing his eyes at the Witcher. “Go ahead, Geralt. Tell me what you think of my singing.”

Standing up and casting the net into the lake, Geralt frowned. “It's like ordering a pie, and finding it has no filling.” He told him, bluntly.

“You, sir!” Jaskier barked, wounded. “Need a nap! Are you trying to hurt my feelings, Geralt!”

Geralt reeled the net back towards the shore and perked up, feeling a weight to it, and pulled it in faster, finding something caught up in the net that wasn't a fish. Squatting down, he quickly untangled the net from around the object and felt a bittersweet elation, seeing the clay amphora with a wizard's seal on the cork.

“It's down—downright uncouth of you, if I'm--”

Jaskier paused in his tirade seeing Geralt standing up with the amphora in his hand, wiping the dulse and grime off of it.

“Wha-wha-what is that?” He stammered, moving closer to Geralt for a better look at it.

“It's a Wizard's seal.” Geralt answered, gripping the seal. “The djinn!”

“Do you mind--” Jaskier asked, grabbing the handle of the amphora and tried yanking it out of Geralt's hand, which was futile.

“Jaskier.” Geralt hissed, tugging back on the vessel. “Give it back.”

“Not until you apologize for that bit about my fillingless pie.” the Bard replied, grabbing the amphora by both handles and struggling with Geralt, who held onto the seal with a single hand. “Take it back, then you can have your djinny-djinn-djinn.”

“Let go.” Geralt ordered him, gruffly, jaw tight, and barely using his strength to hold onto the bottle with one hand.

“No! No, you let go, you horse's arse!” He barked back, giving the amphora one good jerk with his body.

The seal on the amphora came free with a wet pop, leaving Jaskier holding the bottle and Geralt, the seal. Both of them looked between the two objects, waiting for the djinn, or anything, to happen now that the seal had been broken and the urn was open.

But, there was nothing.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted, disappointed.

“Well, that was a bit anticlimactic.” Jaskier sighed, tipping the vase upside down to see if anything fell out. “Or was it?” He asked, perking up, as a stiff breeze rustled through the fallen leaves and trees by the lakeside, stirring through Geralt and Jaskier's clothing and hair.

Excited at the prospect of having a djinn at his disposal, Jaskier rushed to the edge of the water and started barking out orders at the invisible entity. “Djinn! I have freed thee and from this day forth, I am thy lord and master!” He howled above the still stirring winds.

Geralt stood in place, glancing around as a cold chill raced down his spine, his gut telling him something very malevolent was surrounding them, no doubt the djinn, for being locked away for countless years and Jaskier starting to bark out his first wish.

“Firstly, may my rival, Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck with apoplexy and die.” He said, with surprising coldness. “Secondly, the Countess de Stael must welcome me back with happiness, open arms, and very little clothing.”

“Thirdly--”

“Jaskier!” Geralt barked, grabbing the back of the Bard's expensive and flamboyant shirt, and yanked him backwards, halting him from making his third wish. “There's only three wishes.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt! You've always said you wanted nothing from life.” Jaskier argued, angry. “How was I supposed to know you wanted three wishes, all to yourself!”

“All I want is some damn peace!” Geralt roared back at him, teeth bared.

“Well, here's your damn peace!” He hissed back, smashing the amphora on the ground.

Geralt growled at the Bard and bent down to start picking up the pieces of the vessel, accidentally cutting himself in the process. The wind around them kicked up and a sharp pain seared through Jaskier's throat, leaving him wheezing and struggling to breath.

“Ger-Geralt.” He rasped, tearing at the collar of his shirt. “Geralt, the djinn.”

Shooting back to his feet, Geralt turned towards the lake and thrust out his arm for his Aard, striking the djinn and sending it screeching away. Glancing down at the deep cut on his forearm, Geralt turned towards Jaskier and frowned, seeing his neck swelling, and grew instantly concerned for his friend.

“Jaskier?” He whispered, as Jaskier reached out for him, rested his hand on his back and took his arm, steadying him. “Fuck.” He snapped, watching Jaskier cough up a mouthful of blood.

Not wasting a moment, Geralt supported Jaskier to Roach, got into her saddle and pulled Jaskier up behind him. Making sure the Bard was holding on tightly, Geralt spurred Roach hard in the sides and set out for Rinde at a steady gallop, the sound of Jaskier's struggled and painful wheezes in his ear as they rode.

“Is there a doctor here!” He called out seeing an Elven guard standing watch by the road.

“Yes, yes!” The Elf nodded, taking a puff off of his pipe and pointed to a white tent just behind him with the stem. “Chireadan, the Elf healer.”

Pulling Roach to a stop and swinging his leg over the saddle, Geralt slid to the ground, grabbed Jaskier and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, half supporting and half dragging the Bard into the tent. The Elven healer, Chireadan, was bent over another patient that was laying in one of the four beds in the modestly sized tent, as they burst in. Hearing Jaskier's throaty wheezing and seeing the blood dripping from his pale lips, the Elf politely abandoned the patient he was tending to and motioned Geralt to a bed he could sit Jaskier on.

“What's happened here?” He asked, pushing away the open collar of Jaskier's shirt, eyes wide at the fat swelling of his throat, that looked like the vocal sac of a frog, it was so large and inflamed.

“A djinn.” Geralt replied, looming over the Elf and Jaskier, protectively.

“Like, a djinn in a bottle?” Chireadan frowned, shocked. “It's like a fairy tale.”

“Minus the happy ending.” Geralt retorted, pressing his lips together. “Can you cure him?”

“Oh dear.” the Healer gasped, Jaskier pitifully grasping and pawing at him as he continued to examine his throat.

“What?” Geralt hissed, not liking the Elf's tone or facial expression.

“I promise you, that I have the best medical education and training here in Rinde. But,...” The Elf started to explain to them both, deeply concerned. “these are magical injuries. I can help the pain.”

Jaskier nodded his head at that idea.

“But it's like..”

“Putting salve on a tumor?” Geralt asked, lifting brow at Jaskier.

“No.” Jaskier rasped and wheezed, shaking his head at the Witcher.

“His throat has been attacked by the djinn.” Chireadan elaborated to Geralt. “If the magic isn't halted, soon enough, it will spread.” He picked through various bottles of dried herbs and liquids, pouring a few into a small glass cup. “He can die.” He said bluntly, not wishing to sugar coat it.

“Fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier whined, frightened.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier's arm and laid his hand on his back, trying to comfort him the best way he could. “We won't let that happen.” He said with an awkward assurity.

“Here, drink this.” Chireadan held the elixir to Jaskier's lips, helping him carefully swallow it down.

Jaskier groaned and whimpered as he sipped down the foul tasting solution, making his throat feel like he was drinking liquid fire. Geralt stared down at him, frowning, as he worried, and mentally beat himself for being so reckless. Everything he feared would happen, was happening. First, he'd hurt Skye by breaking her heart and abandoning her, then in his selfish quest to rid himself of the agony caused by his own ridiculous mistakes and choices, it ended up backfiring, and catching poor Jaskier in the crossfire. He had wounded the love of his life and just might have killed his best friend.

The weight of his choices since leaving Kaer Morhen were crushing him down more and more.

“You'll need to go to another town, to find a mage, who can cure him.” Chireadan said, breaking through Geralt's mental cloud of guilt.

“There's no mage here?” Geralt frowned, brow deeply creased.

“The town official said, they are dangerous.” The Elf shyly replied, biting his lip and unable to look Geralt in the eye.

“What aren't you saying?” Geralt pressed, narrowing his eyes at the healer. “Tell me.” He added in a low rumble.

“There is only one mage, I was tasked with bringing this mage in. But,” He paused again, and only continued with Geralt's threatening step forward. “I was unable to capture them, I was incapable of infiltrating certain defenses of theirs. So, the mayor had another do it, and has the mage locked in his home.”

“That was so fucking hard, was it?” Geralt snapped, hauling Jaskier to his feet, and starting for the flap of the tent.

“Wait.” Chireadan snapped, stopping Geralt from leaving the tent. “You have to be careful, the mage is rather cunning and malicious.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, he wasn't afraid of mages, he'd dealt with hundreds of them in his life, one more won't do him any harm. “Right, I'll go find him.”

With a sigh of relief, Skye finally made it to Rinde, only stopping long enough to allow Arthas to rest and be watered. The ordinary five day trip from Vergen, only took Skye three, bound and determined to catch up with Geralt before he could vanish into thin air again.

“Ms, you can go no farther!” a guard said, stopping Skye at the gate.

“What?” Skye snapped, frowning at him. “Why not?”

“It is too dangerous, you must turn back.” He told her, waving her away. “I am sorry.” He added, but Skye didn't move.

“Why is it dangerous?” She demanded, leaning forward in the saddle.

“There is a manic Witcher on the loose, the officials are trying to restrain him, before his rampage endangers anyone else in the town.”

Skye blinked at him, mouth hanging open and slowly turned Arthas away from the guard and gate. “Geralt, what the hell are you doing?” She frowned and rode a little ways away, out of sight of the guard.

Hopping down from Arthas's saddle and tying him to a tree, Skye snuck around, trying to find an opening or unmanned gate into Rinde, so she could get through. Crouching behind a low wall, Skye watched the guard stationed at the gate she had just tried to get through, stopping another person trying to enter Rinde. Taking the opening, she quickly ran for the gate, slipping through and dodging behind a nearby building as the guard turned back towards the gate. Checking to see if the coast was clear, Skye started moving through the mostly empty streets of the ordinarily bustling town of Rinde.

She heard a loud ruckus coming from a nearby shop, its doors busted open and the sounds of screams of help and pain coming from it. “What is the chance?” Skye huffed to herself, rolling her eyes and heading towards the shop, the Pawnbroker's, read the sign above the door.

Lo and behold, there was the infamous White Wolf, having obviously smashed nearly everything in the Pawnbroker's shop and now had said Pawnbroker, trapped in a corner, where he was mercilessly kicking him between the legs. Even Skye winced at each of the full strength kicks to the poor man's genitals.

“Help me!” The Pawnbroker howled, shaking in agony and fear, as he saw Skye standing there, mouth hanging open.

Snapping out of it, Skye advanced on Geralt. “Geralt, stop!” She barked, wrapping her arms around one of his and yanking as hard as she could. “Stop this, Geralt!” She begged him, giving up on pulling him and tried pushing him sideways, only getting a similar outcome.

“This isn't you, Geralt!” She screamed, punching him in the shoulder and side. “Please!” She pleaded with him as he continued to kick the Pawnbroker, acting as if her blows were nothing more than the pathetic bites of a flea.

“Motherfucker!” She howled, managing to wedge herself between Geralt and the Pawnbroker, blocking a couple of the kicks with her own body, bruises forming within seconds after each blow. “Come on, Geralt!” She panted, frantically searching his face.

His eyes were glassed over, face set in a snarl of anger, yet somehow blank and distant.

“What's happened to you?” She whined and hissed as she blocked another blow, punching him in the chest a few times.

“Magic!” The Pawnbroker screamed, as Skye missed a blow and he got another kick between the legs. “That bitch of a mage has taken control of his mind with her vile magic.”

Skye's shoulders dropped, “Not again.” She sighed, then slapped Geralt across the face, hoping it would snap him out of it, but it only seemed to anger him more and shift his full focus onto her. “Oh fuck.” She whimpered, gulping up at him.

Geralt grabbed the front of Skye's shirt, yanking her against his heaving body, then twisted sideways and shoved her away; sending Skye flying through a bank of shelves that crashed down on top of her as she landed, knocking her out. His influenced attention losing interest in both the Pawnbroker and Skye, and turning on his heels, Geralt strode out of the Pawnbroker's shop and stormed towards his next target. Whining, the Pawnbroker gingerly crawled out of the corner and towards where Skye was laid out, a trickle of blood streaming down her forehead, from a cut at her hairline and above her left eye.

“Girl.” The Pawnbroker groaned, gingerly shaking Skye, half terrified she was dead.

“Kobus!” A voice screamed out, as a soldier filled the broken doorway of the shop.

“Here, Berg.” The Pawnbroker, Kobus, shouted back, still trying to stir Skye.

“Who is she?” Berg asked, picking his way through the ruined shop.

“I don't know.” Kobus responded, pushing away the blood matted hair on Skye's face, trying to see how bad the wound was. “She took some of the punishment the Witcher was giving me, then he tossed her into my shelves.” He explained, wincing at the nasty gash.

“Here, splash her with this.” Berg said, taking a water skin from his belt and handing it to Kobus.

Uncorking the water skin, Kobus tipped it upside down and poured all the water out of it, over Skye's face. With a sputter, Skye came back around, coughing as some of the water went in her nose, and tried sitting up, woozy and aching. She looked at the two men standing over her, recognizing the Pawnbroker, but not the other man.

“Who are you?” She asked, finally managing to sit up.

“I could ask you the same.” Berg replied, lifting a suspicious brow at her. “What is your relation to the Witcher?” She asked.

“He owes me something important.” Skye replied, stumbling to her feet and leaned against the Pawnbroker's counter.

“And what would that be?” Berg pressed her, narrowing his eyes.

“That's my personal business.” She snapped, gingerly touching the cuts on her face. “Looks like he's going to owe me a hell of a lot more, when this is all over.” She added to herself, pushing off the counter.

“I don'--”

The sound of screams in the streets stopped Berg from interrogating Skye further, all three of them stumbling out of the shop at the sound of them. Skye groaned, rolling her throbbing eyes back as she watched Geralt forcefully drag another man out of his shop, the Apothecary, it looked like, and tossed him into the middle of the street. Nabbing the Apothecary, before he could crawl away from him, Geralt hauled the Apothecary up onto their feet, yanked their belt free from the loops of their trousers, which fell down around his ankles, and promptly started thrashing the Apothecary's ass with the belt.

Skye, Kobus and Berg's mouths dropped to the cobblestone street as they watched him spank the poor Apothecary.

“Witcher!” A voice yelled and an Elf came running into view and towards Geralt, trying to stop him from doing any further damage.

Skye tried to run forward, but Berg grabbed her around the waist, holding her back. “Arrest them!” Berg yelled to several other guards, who were likely standing around with slack jaws, but they quickly jumped into action, seizing the Elf and, after a mild struggle and a blow to the back of his head, subdued Geralt.

The soldiers carried Geralt and the Elf away, and Berg turned his attention back to Skye. “What are your dealings with the Witcher?” He asked her again. “Be truthful this time, or you will be joining them in their cell.” He warned her.

“I hired the pig-headed lout to kill a drowned dead on my farm and he took the money I paid, then ran.” Skye hissed, hotly. “I want it back!” She told him, repeating the same twisted lie she had been telling anyone that asked, it had become second nature over the last several weeks.

“Well, you won't be getting your money back from that Witcher.” Berg huffed, letting her go. “He's attacked two of the Rinde council members.”

“And he'll be hanged for it, too!” The Pawnbroker growled, lip twitching and stood in a slight hunched position, hand resting gingerly on his wounded crotch.

Skye let out an angry and disgruntled huff, despite her stomach twisting into nauseating and icy knots. “As long as the jerk gets what he deserves for taking liberties with people.” She spat out, feeling her knees shake as her mind raced to figure out a way to save Geralt from the gallows.

“Geralt!”

“Skye.”

“Geralt!”

“Skye.”

“Ger—wake up!”

“Skye?”

“G—wake up!”

“Wake up!”

“Hm.” Geralt groaned, the sound of Skye calling him slowly fading and changing, until he opened his eyes, a blurry vision of someone in front of his face, until it cleared. “Chireadan?” He frowned at the Elf healer.

“At long last.” Chireadan replied and stepped back from Geralt, the tinkling sound of chains following his movements.

Geralt looked around the strange vaulted and brick ceiling and walls, feeling the tight iron clasped around his wrists. “Where are we?” He asked, his body throbbing as he laid on the cold, hard floor of the dungeon cell, before sitting himself up.

“The spa.” Chireadan replied, irritated. “Where do you think? I hope your rampage was well worth it.” He added, more angrily.

“Rampage?” Geralt frowned, steadying himself. “What did I do?”

“Where do I begin?” the Elf asked, lifting his brows at the Witcher. “You attacked a Pawnbroker in his shop, kicking him in the delicate places.” He explained, as Geralt moved about the cell.

“Hm.” He grunted, shaking the secure bars on the windows.

“You dragged out the Apothecary, yanked down his pants and thrashed his arse with his own belt.” Chireadan continued, as Geralt shook the cell door. “Both are on the town council, that are trying to overthrow the mayor and kick out the mage you sought help from.”

“Do you remember none of this?” He asked, once Geralt gave up on trying to find a way out.

“Like a faded dream.”

“Your punishment will be passed by the very members you attacked,” Chireadan said, grimly. “It's more than like to be death.” He added in a more somber tone. “By hanging.”

Geralt sighed and shook his head, “That's one way to get some peace.” He mumbled, sitting back down on the floor, his back against the wall, literally and figuratively.

“Why did you go to the mage after I told you not too?” Chireadan berated him, shaking with anger. “It's like you thought the scorpion was more beautiful than the spider, because of its lovely tail!”

“You didn't exactly tell me who she was.”

Chireadan relaxed, knowing that getting angry at their situation wasn't going to get them out of it. “I admit I could have warned you better about Yennefer.”

“You're under her spell, aren't you?” Geralt rasped, looking the Elf in the eyes and reading his body language.

“No.” Chireadan shook his head, tired and defeated. “It's a simple problem of body chemistry.” He admitted, begrudgingly.

Geralt blinked at him, tilting his head forward. “You're in love with her?”

“Yes.” He nodded, biting his lip. “I believe we both understand each other now.”

An opening door reverberated through the brick dungeon and the sound of steps approaching echoed towards them. Geralt and Chireadan stood as the owner of the steps appeared in the arched doorway that opened into a room to their cell.

“Ah, fuck.” Geralt grumbled under his breath seeing the guard he knocked out, so he could gain access to the Mayor's house and get Jaskier to the mage, Yennefer, before he died.

“You remember me, Witcher?” the Guard asked and leaned his forehead between the cell bars, grinning at Geralt.

Geralt pressed his lips together and smiled tightly back, giving the guard a soft nod of his head.

“I did not know you were a Witcher, last we met.” the Guard chuckled, his expression smug. “I've always wanted to play with one of you, and it looks like I get to, before we hang you in the morning.”

Skye had stayed behind Berg from a safe distance as he left the main area of Rinde. She knew he had to be someone of importance since he could order the soldiers around without being questioned. So, she trailed after him and did her best not to get caught or draw any attention to herself.

Ducking into a side alley, Skye pressed her back flush to the wall as Berg stopped and looked around, before entering a building two doors down from Skye's hiding place. Calming her heart, Skye slipped back out onto the walkway and quickly made her way to the door Berg vanished into, pressing her ear to the smooth and worn wood. Hearing the faintest muffled sounds through the door, Skye carefully opened it and slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind her.

Scanning the plastered and river rock room, Skye tiptoed towards the only other door there was, behind a counter and large desk. The door was propped open and creaked as she tried pushing it open, making her wince, before she squeezed her body through the available crack, the door complaining as she did. Skye stood glued to the wall beside the door, heart pounding, as she expected Berg or someone else to come into the hall and find her there. Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone heard the door, or anyone was around at all, but she knew at least Berg had to be, there was nowhere else for him to be in the building.

Tiptoeing slowly over the slate flooring and taking one careful step after another, mindful to the squeak of her leather soles as she did, Skye found there were five arched doorways along the hall she was in, two to the left and three to the right. Biting her lip, Skye poked her head around the first doorway on the left and found an empty and shabby office, then moved across the hall and peeked into the first doorway on the right, finding an empty cell. Crossing to the second doorway on the left, she found another empty cell, then moved across the hall again, to the middle doorway along the right side of the hall, but froze, hearing the soft echo of a voice, Berg's voice.

“I did not know you were a Witcher, last we met.” Berg was saying.

Biting her lip, Skye zigzagged across the hallway until she made it to the last doorway on the right, she squatted down and carefully peeked around the corner. She saw Berg standing at the cell's bars, the Elf that had tried stopping Geralt in the street, then Geralt himself, who looked like he had snapped out of the trance the mage had put him under.

“I've always wanted to play with one of you, and it looks like I get to, before we hang you in the morning.” Berg told Geralt, sounding extremely excited about the prospect.

Skye jerked and slapped a hand over her mouth, hearing the door at the end of the hall start to open. Thinking and moving quickly, Skye ran down the hall and dove into the doorway of the closet cell, just as steps came up the hall, going towards Geralt and the Elf's cell, the jingle of keys thumping against the new person's thigh.

“You asked for the keys, Master Berg?” the person asked, stopping in the doorway and lifting the keys from the loop of his belt.

“Yes, Daren.” Berg nodded, grinning maliciously at Geralt and stepping away from the cell door.

Daren stepped forward, flipping through several of the keys until he found the one for Geralt's cell and opened it for Berg. Stepping inside, Berg ordered Daren to lock the door again behind him.

“I'll call you, when I've finished with the Witcher.” Berg told him, flexing and popping his gloved fingers.

Daren locked the cell and went to the little office Skye had seen on her inspection of the hallway. Listening carefully, Skye heard the scrape of the wooden chair legs on the slate flooring and Daren's groan as he lowered himself onto the chair. Taking the cue, Skye crouched and slowly crawled into the hallway and along with wall, back to Geralt's cell, peeking around the door as Berg sized up Geralt, who was unfairly shackled to a short chain, fastened to an anchor in the floor and clasped around the wrists, there was no way for Geralt to fight back or really defend himself against Berg. Berg slowly bent down and grabbed the chain to Geralt's cuffs, wrapping a bit of it around his hand and yanked Geralt towards him, using the forward momentum to drive him knee into Geralt's stomach, and unable to properly catch himself as Geralt fell, hit the ground face first; making Skye wince.

Berg grabbed the back of Geralt's shirt and pulled him up onto his knees. “What's the difference between a Witcher and a tub of dung?” He asked, then kneed Geralt in the face.

Geralt groaned at the blow, wobbling on his knees, but started laughing and nodded his head. “I know that one.” He chuckled, amused.

Yanking him to his feet, Berg punched Geralt in the kidney, turned him around and struck him across the face, sending him stumbling back into the cell bars. Skye watched Geralt's beating with a twisted heart and hopelessness as she tried to figure out how to get him out of there. But, the answer came for her, literally. So consumed and distracted by watching Berg beating Geralt, Skye missed the steps coming up behind her, until a hand twisted into the back of her shirt, making her yelp as she was pulled clear off her hands and knees, and slammed against the brick wall by the doorway. Daren pinned Skye to the wall by the shoulders, his face so close to hers, the tip of their noses brushed.

“Who are you?” He hissed, hot breath wafting over Skye's face.

“Who are you?”

She echoed back, blinking at him as her hand slowly moved towards her scabbard and her sword, but her face paled, when she touched her bare thigh, realizing she had forgotten her sword on Arthas's saddle outside of Rinde. Daren felt the movement of her hand through her shoulder and glanced down, chuckling, when he realized what had caused her to go ashen, and met her eye again.

“Forget something?” He teased her, smugly.

“Not really.” Skye replied, then drove her knee up into his groin, causing him to howl at the top of his lungs.

The three men in the cell heard his yelp of pain and froze, heads snapping to the doorway.

“Daren, what is all that!” Berg yelled out to his deputy, but didn't receive an answer. “Daren!” He barked, growing heated as Daren didn't answer him or appear. “Daren!”

Daren stood up, looming above Skye as he did, chuckling, despite his pain, at her audible gulp at seeing how big he actually was. She tried kneeing him again, but Daren blocked it with his hands and elbowed Skye sharply in the gut, driving all of the air out of her lungs and leaving black, flashing spots in her eyes and her still throbbing head spinning. Grabbing the front of her shirt, Daren snapped Skye off the wall and took a step back.

“Aye, right here, Berg!” He finally called out to him, who had kept shouting for him. “Looks like we have a little sneak.” His laugh was raspy as he shoved Skye backwards into the room.

Tripping over her feet, Skye fell backwards and hit her head on the slate, gasping with pain and getting more spots in her eyes. Geralt was leaning his shoulder against the brick wall, trying to take advantage of Berg's pause in beating him to catch his breath and prepare himself for whatever else the guard was going to treat him too. But, looked up, when the deputy finally answered Berg and shoved in what had been keeping him so long. He felt his stomach give out, seeing Skye roughly shoved into the room and the sick smack of her head hitting the ground, his mouth hung open as he stared at her, shocked to see her there, and in such a sorry state. She had blood caked into her hair and drying down the side of her face, and covered in cuts and painful looking bruises.

“Her again!” Berg barked, stepping up to the cell bars, to get a closer look at Skye.

“Again?” Daren frowned at his boss.

“Yeah, she was in the square, when the Witcher was on his spree.” He explained, jabbing a thumb behind him to Geralt. “She even tried stopping him from beating Kobus. Ended up taking most of it herself.” He chuckled, amused.

Geralt's eyes flared with shock, hearing that Skye had tried getting between him and the Pawnbroker, realizing that several of her wounds and marks were from him, and that he hadn't dreamed of her calling his name, she had actually done so.

“What is your business with this harlot, Witcher?” Berg asked, turning back to Geralt, then saw the look on the Witcher's face. “Oh, you know her.”

Geralt's face went stony instantly, trying to guard against anything Berg could use with his and Skye's connection, to further harm him, and ultimately, Skye. But, it was too late, Berg had seen the expression on Geralt's face and in his golden eyes. The two guards took infinite amusement out of this new development, glancing at Skye and Geralt, than at each other. Berg leaned down and picked up Geralt's chain again.

“A Witcher with feelings.” He mused, a sick and sinister grin on his bearded face. “How sweet. I wonder how much he feels, Daren.” He inquired of his partner.

“We could find out.” Daren smirked, understanding Berg's hint as he leaned over Skye, who was starting to come back around, having momentarily lost consciousness.

Daren moved around to Skye and drove the blunt and rounded tip of his worn boot into her ribs, causing her to cry out and roll onto her other side, curling up to try and protect herself, tears rolling down her cheeks. Geralt jerked against his shackles and Berg, instinctively trying to get to Skye, despite a locked cell door between them, halting his progress to protect her.

Laughing, Berg slowly reeled Geralt in by his chain. “What is vile..” He pulled the chain in faster. “deviant and repulsive?” He asked, suddenly yanking Geralt forward and punching him across the face, sending Geralt spiraling backwards and to his knees, facing Skye.

“A Witcher without a nose.” He laughed, taking great pleasure in the tandem torture.

Geralt gulped down the thick saliva in his mouth, swaying back and forth on his knees, blood dripping from a split lip and a gash just below one of his eyes. He struggled to keep his eyes open, his vision fuzzy as he helplessly watched Daren continue to assault Skye. She whimpered as another boot tip connected to her spine and kidneys, trying to curl up and protect herself the best she possibly could. But, Daren wasn't having any of it, he straddled Skye's body, grasping her by the shoulder and pressed her down onto her back, forcing her to uncurl with a blinding slap across the cheek, that made her ears ring and left a bloody split across her bottom lip.

Skye shook her head, trying to relieve some of the agonizing pain in her face and head. Daren started to strike her again, when she pulled her knees up towards her shoulders and kicked out both feet at the same time, connecting to his chest and sent him flying backwards into the wall behind him and down to his hands and knees. Geralt couldn't help the smirk on his face, the pride he felt, as Skye defended herself, but it was short lived, when Berg rammed his foot into Geralt's back knocking him flat to the ground, groaning as he again went face first.

“Is that your little whore, Witcher?” Berg rasped, pressing his heel down on the back of Geralt's neck. “How much you must have paid her, that she'd follow you so far and want to try and rescue you.” He taunted him, stomping on Geralt's back.

“She must be good in bed.”

“Not when I finish with her.” Daren growled, using a bench against the wall to pull himself back onto his feet.

Skye was laying splayed on the floor, trying to recover herself, as Daren got up and advanced on her. She looked up at the domed stone ceiling, trying to muster any amount of energy to fight back and defend herself against whatever it was the Redanian guard had in his mind. Geralt shuffled and carefully pushed himself back up onto his knees, spent and battered from everything he had been through since finding the djinn in the Rinde lake, from heartbreak, to almost killing Jaskier, who he hadn't seen since the mage, Yennefer, had healed him and managed to get control of Geralt's mind, to send him on a rampage to avenge and payback the people that had tied to ruin whatever plans she had going. Now, there was Skye, the biggest surprise since he arrived in Rinde three days before, laying out on the floor as bloody and exhausted as he was. His fear spiked seeing Daren advance on her, grabbing her by the ankles and yanking her to him so hard, her arms went over her head, the rough flooring scratching up her back as her shirt rode up.

“This is it, Witcher.” Berg said, out of breath as he stood behind Geralt, pulling a long club from his belt.

Daren leaned over Skye and wrapped his hands around her throat, she gurgled and choked around his broad and meaty palms, gripping and clawing at his wrists and arms, feet pathetically flailing between his wide spread and planted legs. Geralt watched her face start to change colors, a white-hot anger broiled up inside of him, tensing up and swelling his already massive and thickly muscular body, angry at the audacity of Daren to put his hands on Skye, furious that he couldn't get to him and snap his measly neck and save Skye, before it was too late.

“Any last words, Witcher?” Berg asked, slapping the club in his palm, smugly. “Make them good.” He chuckled.

Geralt growled deep in his throat and chest, hands squeezing into fists as he rested back on his heels. “I want you to burst, you son of a whore.” He hissed, roughly.

An unnatural breeze stirred up in the otherwise stagnant cell and Berg's back stiffened, his mouth falling open and his stone-blue eyes bulged out of their sockets. With a look of terrified shock and horror on his face, the pressure inside Berg's head expanded, until it popped like a water balloon, spraying blood and matter on the walls and the side of poor Chireadan's face as he stood there behind him, watching all the events with a dumbfounded and helpless shock. Chireadan blinked several times, trying to keep himself together as he felt the warm blood, skull bits and brain matter slide down the side of his face and neck, an eye watering lump of hot nausea rising up in his gullet, but he managed to shove it down and keep himself from fainting.

“You--” He shook his head and gulped down the persistent nausea again. “You are the-the one with the...wishes.” He said, around the lump fighting to get out of his throat.

Geralt's mouth hung open as he yanked up the black sleeve of his shirt, seeing an identical cut on his forearm above the first one. He realized now, that whoever removed the seal from the amphora, was the person that had control over the djinn. That the first cut to his forearm was caused by him, angrily, telling Jaskier that he had just wanted some peace, he had caused the djinn to magically attack Jaskier's throat, to shut up him and grant Geralt's wish of peace. The same for the second cut and the popping of Berg's head.

His head and eyes snapped up, seeing Skye still trapped underneath Daren, who had only applied more pressure to her throat in his rage for Berg's strange and sudden death. “The keys!” Geralt barked, spinning around on his knees towards Berg's body, looking for keys.

Chireadan's eyes panned over Berg's body, until he remembered. “He doesn't have the keys.” The Elf told Geralt, frantic as Skye's struggle started to fade. “He has them!” He gasped, pointing to Daren with his bound hands.

Geralt shot a look at Daren and Skye, her face and lips starting to go blue and her hands weakly wrapped around his wrists, starting to slip away from them. She was fading quickly and if Geralt didn't act even faster, she'd be dead in a minute. He looked down at his arm, at the thin bloody scratches on his thick forearm and realized what he had to do, so he cleared his dry throat.

“I wish,” He whispered, and the djinn's wind kicked up again around them, as he mumbled the wish out, too quiet for Chireadan to hear.

Then, suddenly, Skye's minty-green eyes flew open and she took a deep, wheezy breath around Daren's iron grasp. She squirmed against him for a moment, before letting go of his wrist with one hand and reached for her ankle as she brought a foot up, her hand wrapping around the handle of her father's dagger, having forgotten she had the weapon strapped to her ankle and calf. Yanking the blade free from its sheath, Skye gripped the hilt tightly, raised it, then plunged it into his back, slipping the sharp tip between two of his ribs and into his kidney. Daren instantly released her throat, allowing Skye to gasp for several more lungfuls of air, the color slowly returning to her face and lips.

“Skye.” Geralt let out a soft breath of relief, almost bringing tears to his eyes.

But, the war wasn't over yet.

Skye had yanked the dagger free as Daren stumbled away from her, howling with pain and anger, then started at her again. But, Sky brought her knees up, catching Daren as he started to fall on her, bracing the pummel of the dagger against her chest and letting Daren fall on it, the tip piercing through his chest, killing him, finally.

“Fuck.” Skye huffed in a weak and rough voice, swallowing down thick saliva as she tipped to one side to get Daren off the top of her, then laid there for a few minutes, dizzy, falling in and out of consciousness as her whole body, inside and out, throbbed and bleed.

“Skye.” Geralt called to her louder, frightened as he watched her lay on her side, facing away from him, terrified that she was dead, but gasped, hearing her pained groan. “Skye!”

Fighting off another wave that threatened her to lose consciousness, she rolled onto her back, and laid there for a long moment, then struggled to sit herself up, holding her head in her hands once she managed that.

“Geralt.” She whined, looking over at him, warmed to see his relieved smile, but was too battered to return it.

Sighing, Skye snatched the cell keys from Daren's belt with numb fingers, then pulling herself to her feet, staggering and widening her stance for a few minutes to keep herself upright, then moved to unlock the cell door.

“Here, here.” Chireadan offered, seeing Skye struggle to work the key into the lock, and reached through the bars to open it.

“Thanks.” Skye sighed, clearing her throat and shaking her head, trying to keep her eyes open.

“Skye!” Geralt called out, as the shackles around his wrists fell free, and quickly moved forward. “Gods, Skye.” He panted heavily, wrapping an arm around her swaying hips, steadying her. “What the fuck were you thinking, coming after me?” He chided her softly and meaninglessly.

Skye didn't answer for a moment, she just leaned in against him, the solid warmth of his body and his scent filling her bloody nose had a strong effect on her, her struggle against staying conscious vanished and she was alert and clear headed. That's when she yanked her body out of Geralt's arms and looked up at him, furious and boiling with rage.

“What was I thinking?” She shouted at him. “What was I thinking! What the hell were you thinking!? Leaving me like that!”

“I was--” Geralt tried to explain himself.

“You were what!?” Skye barked at him, her voice echoing and amplified. “Being a pig-headed lout! Abandoning me like some sort of wounded animal that you didn't have the bloody heart to put out of its misery!” She continued to berate him, suddenly striking him in the chest, in her fit of rage.

“Sk-” He tried to get a word in, his shoulders slumping.

“I hate you!” She hissed and punched him in the chest again. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, Geralt.” She howled, her anger losing out to her anguish, her punches growing weaker and feeble.

Geralt gripped her wrists and pulled her against him again, resting her head against his chest and cradled the back of her head. “I know.” He whispered into her dirty hair. “I know, Skye. I know.”

She sobbed into his chest, depleted and done, her hands gripping the back of the leather shirt he wore. “I came..” She choked and wiped her nose on her bloody sleeve. “I came...because..” Her mouth worked for a moment, tears making her face even more of a bloody mess.

“I-I..I l-love..you, Geralt.” She sighed, going slack against him.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, burying his nose into her hair and nuzzling the top of her head, a thick lump in his throat. “I-I..” He folded his arms around her, squeezing despite the agony both of their bodies were in.

“I love you too, Skye.”

-- Chapter VI --

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captain-kingliamsqueen · 4 years

Text

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!”

Pairing: Liam x Riley, Liam x MC,

Summary: Bradshaw has a run in with Liam and Riley.

Word Count: 1,708

Masterlist

ASK IF YOU WANT TAGGED! SORRY IF I MISSED ANYONE!

I always notice every single spelling mistake or issue after I’ve posted…so apologies in advance!

Tags aren’t working so I will be tagging in the comments.

Riley stretched before flickering her eyes open to be greeted by the early morning sun that shone through the gaps in the blinds. She yawned as she threw the duvet back and climbed from the bed. Riley pulled her fuzzy robe on along with her slippers before making her way to living room where Liam was sitting with 3-month-old Delilah, feeding her, her bottle, whilst he ate his breakfast. Due to Liam's meetings usually starting earlier than Riley's, they had a routine, Liam would see to Delilah when he got up, he would feed and change her whilst eating his breakfast at the same time, by the time he was done Riley would be up and would take over whilst Liam went to shower and dress.

“Good Morning” Riley smirked as she leaned down to place a kiss on Delilah’s head then another on Liam's lips.

“Good Morning, my love, how did you sleep?”

“Really well actually, I missed my husband when I woke up though” she grinned

“one day my love, me might just get to wake up together” he chuckled as Delilah started babbling away, patting her little hand against his cheek

“we can only dream” Riley chuckled “why don’t I take little miss here and you can eat your breakfast” Riley reached her hands out, taking her daughter into her hold.

“Hello, my beautiful little one!” she grinned as Delilah giggled away.

“would you like a cup of tea?” Riley asked Liam as she headed for the kitchenette

“now that would be magnificent!”

Just a short while later, Liam was just getting out of the shower, whilst Riley was finishing her breakfast whilst Delilah napped in her room. Once Riley had finished eating, she headed for the bedroom where Liam stood with just his trousers.

“is she sleeping?” Liam asked as he made his way over to his wife.

“yeah, she’s been down for about fifteen minutes”

“hmmm good, then I can have a few minutes with my wife” Liam smirked as he wrapped his arms around Riley, as she done the same to him. As Riley look up at him and smiled and she moved to her tiptoes, placing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I love you” he whispered

“I love you too” Riley replied in the same tone.

“Liam, do you really think Amalas will pull through for us in time for the betrothal ball?” Riley asked, worried that they would not manage to get Delilah out of the betrothal.

“I’m not sure, sweetie, all we can do is hope, my love” Liam sighed as he held her tight. “I promise…I will do everything I can to get her out this, I put her in this position, I’ll get her out of it”

“hey…” Riley whispered as she placed her hand gently on Liam's cheek. “do not blame yourself for this, we have been through this Liam, you done what you had to do, this is not your fault! They put you in a position where you had to make that decision, and you chose to save mine and Delilah’s lives, they put her in this position Liam, not you!”

“I can’t help but feel responsible”

“then I will spend the rest of my life persuading you otherwise” she smirked

When five pm hit, the family started to get ready for the ball, Riley dressed in an elegant red lace gown, whilst Liam wore a black tux with red accents. Delilah was dressed in red tutu dress, with detailing on the top that resembled her mothers. Before they knew it, it was time to head down to the ballroom. Liam held Delilah as they headed down the grand staircase, Rileys nerves could be seen from miles away, she was fiddling with her dress, she was messing with her hands, frown evident on her face. Liam placed his free hand comfortably on her lower back as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey…take a deep breathe, everything is going to be fine, I promise, I will make sure of it! no matter what, we leave here tonight, no longer caught up in all of this, I give you my word”

“I just…I”

“I know…it’s alright to be scared sweetheart, I am too, but we can’t let it get the better of us, we will get out of this”

Once the couple reached the large double doors leading to the ballroom, they stopped walked, Riley fixed the bottom of Delilah’s dress that had gotten a little bunched up, then gently used her thumb to wipe the drool that was slowly gathering on the little ones chin. Once the three of them were ready, they were announced into the room. As soon as she entered the room, the two slyly looked around the room hoping to see Amalas among the faces, but neither came across her.

They spent the evening on edge, hoping that she would appear.

It was a few hours into the ball, everyone had finished their meals and were either mingling around the ballroom or dancing.

Liam was currently doing some rounds, talking to the nobles, whilst Hana, Maxwell and Riley (with Delilah in her arms) discussed the proposal that Hana had been working on for the local primary school, that she would be presenting to the council in the next few days

Riley laughed as she watched her daughter babbling away as Maxwell pulled faces at her. It was just moments later that they were approached by Bradshaw.

“Queen Kayliegh, I don’t think I’ve had the chance to say how stunning you look this evening.” He smirked creepily as he placed his hand on Riley's upper arm, she could smell the booze on his breath.

“please remove your hand from my arm”

“now why would I want to do that!”

“BECAUSE IM TELLING YOU TO! YOU NEED NO OTHER REASON!”

She shrugged his hand off her with a sigh, “don’t you dare touch me again!” she stated as she passed Delilah to Hana. “Hana could you please take Delilah outside for some air”

“of course!”

“Thank you!”

“ha! You think you can talk to me like that? I am a king!” Bradshaw huffed

“and I am a queen! I do not care what your status is! You WILL NOT! Put your hands on me again!”

“HA! A queen? You wish you were a real Queen! You were handed your position as queen! You did not earn it! you are merely just an actress! you are here for one reason and one reason only and that is to please your husband! And soon…very soon, you’ll be pleasing me in the same way! when we take Cordonia for our own and ive stripped Liam of his crown…I’ll be taking you as my property as well!”

“I think you’ll find I earned my title!” Riley squared up to him, causing him to take a step back as she moved closer “YOU WILL NOT COME INTO MY HOME AND SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT! DO YOU HEAR ME! YOU MAY THINK YOU CAN SPEAK TO ALL THE OTHER WOMAN IN HERE LIKE DIRT BUT YOU WILL NOT SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? YOU ARE A DISGUSTING HUMAN BEING, HOW DARE YOU THINK YOU CAN SPEAK TO PEOPLE LIKE THAT! I AM NO ONES PROPERTY! ESPECIALLY YOURS!” the whole court went silent as soon as Riley raised her voice, since the day she stepped foot in the palace she had never once raised her voice the way she did.

“YOU EARNED IT? BY DOING WHAT…OPENING YOUR LEGS FOR THE KING? I WILL SPEAK TO YOU WHATEVER WAY I PLEASE AND THERES NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT! JUST WAIT! I WILL HAVE CORDONIA… I WILL HAVE YOUR CROWNS…I WILL HAVE YOU! YOU’RE FAMILY WILL BELONG TO ME! YOUR WOOS OF A HUSBAND! THE WANNA BE ACTRESS THE QUEEN…AND THEIR PERFECT LITTLE ANGEL!” As soon as he mentioned their daughter Riley's fist swung at his jaw

“YOU WILL NEVER HAVE MY DAUGTHER! I WILL MAKE SURE OF THAT!”

Riley watched as she seen Liam approaching, he stopped dead in his tracks, directly behind Bradshaw. The anger could be seen throughout his face with the snap of a finger, Liam had pinned him to the closest wall by the throat.

“SPEAK TO MY WIFE IN SUCH A MANNOR AGAIN, I DARE YOU!!”

“HOW DARE YOU TREAT A KING THIS WAY!”

“YOU ARE IN MY PALACE! IN MY KINGDOM! MY LAND! I AM KING OF CORDONIA AND MY WIFE, IS QUEEN, SHE EARNED HER CROWN AND HER THRONE!! SHE IS CORDONIAS QUEEN AND YOU WILL TREAT HER AS SUCH! YOU WILL NOT COME INTO MY KINGDOM, SPEAK TO OUR QUEEN AS THOUGH SHE IS DIRT! THEN DEMAND TO BE TREATED WITH RESPECT!! YOU WILL APPOLOGISE!”

“I WILL NO-”

“Liam…just leave it…it’s alright” rile could see Liam relax a little at just the touch of her hand.

“Ha-ha! Well we all know who wears the pants in your marriage!” Bradshaw laughed

Liam took a deep breath as he clenched his hand into a fist before Swinging his arm, connecting his knuckles with Bradshaw’s jaw. Riley could swear she heard a crack.

“YOU WILL FUCKING APPOLOGISE THEN YOU WILL GET YOUR SHIT! AND YOU WILL GET OUT OF CORDONIA! AND YOU ARE NEVER TO COME BACK! DO YOU HEAR ME!?!? YOU ARE NO LONGER WELCOME IN MY KINGDOM! YOU WILL NEVER RULE OVER CORDONIA! YOU WILL NEVER HAVE MY CROWN…MY WIFE OR MY DAUGHTER! THE BETROTHAL IS OFF” Liam practically flung Bradshaw to the floor.

“Bastian! You are to escort Bradshaw and his family to the airport! You are to ensure they get on the plane and that the plane takes off!” Liam demanded as he walked past Bradshaw, midst trying to get back to his feet.

“KING LIAM! I WILL BRING WAR TO CORDONIA!” he called as he got to his feet. Liam took a deep breathe before turning to face him but before he could say anything…

“I THINK YOU’LL FIND BRADSHAW…YOU AREN’T IN A POSITION TO DO THAT!” everyone turned to see Queen Amalas stood at the large double doors, with a manila folder in her hand and a smirk upon her face.

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astralkoo · 5 years

Text

Beautifully Misfit

SERIES; Hybrid BTS

‣ Genre: fluff, smutt, hybrid au

‣ Word Count: 2.08k

‣ Pairing(s): skunk!Jimin x reader, puppy!Taehyung x reader, bunny!Jungkook x reader

‣ Warning(s): very strong language, lots and lots of f-bombs so beware of that, bit of angst if you squint real hard, nothin else for this chapter so enjoy ;)

‣ to be aware of: sub!jimin, switch!taehyung, switch!jungkook, dom!reader, some kinky ass future happenings, BDSM themes, some heavy angst, and triggering themes.

Summary: you never really saw yourself as a hybrid person. that is, until your best friend introduces you to his hybrid, and you suddenly find yourself craving the companionship. you only intended to bring home one. somewhere between the lines you ended up with three beautifully misfit hybrids who craved nothing but your love.

part. i | ii | iii | iv | v | vi (coming soon)

A/N; this is my first post on here, so I’ll make this short… thanks for reading, I’m sorry, ily

Lonely.

It hit you all of a sudden.

You were lonely. For about four months, you’ve been living in you home, working as an editor for your aunt’s absurd gossip magazine, eating solitary meals, sleeping in your admittedly cold bed, and you were just now realizing how lonely you’ve been all this time.

This wasn’t completely out of the blue. You had been feeling a nagging sensation of emptiness in the pit of your stomach for a while now.

But it wasn’t until you had your best friend’s hybrid curled up in your lap, playing with your hair, and babbling about his love for food and pretty things that it settled in exactly what that feeling was.

“You know, you’re kind of cute. Your face is… decent, I suppose. But Namjoonie is much cuter and— oh my gosh you’re crying,” Jin squealed in surprise, shock lighting up on his features as an onslaught of tears suddenly poured from your eyes.

“Shoot, I’m s–sorry, Jin,” you softly cursed, gently pushing the angora hybrid off your lap as you jumped to your feet, hands feverishly working to dry your wet cheeks.

“Was it the cute comment? I mean, it’s true, but I wasn’t intending to hurt your feelings… didn’t realize you were that sensitive,” he grumbled, pouting at the fact that you’d just ruined the mood for him.

You quickly shook you head, “no– no it wasn’t that, I just— shit, I mean, fuck, excuse my language.”

“Y/n! How many times do I have to tell you to watch your profanity around Jin— holy shit, why are you crying?” Namjoon gasped in concern as he walked out of the kitchen before running to your aid. “Did Jin hurt your feelings? I’m so sorry he has no filter whatsoever and says thing without thinking and—”

“It wasn’t that, a Joonie,” you cut him off with a sniffle, “I just realized something.”

Namjoon stared at you for a moment with worried eyes, before turning to his hybrid. “Jinnie, you stay here for a moment, y/n and I need to have a quick talk, alright?” The angora rolled his eyes, not appreciating the secrecy but not arguing to Namjoon’s relief. He quickly guided you into the kitchen, urging you to take a seat while he made you a glass of water.

“What happened? What upset you? Was it really not Jinnie because I know that he can be—” your best friend in ten years began to ramble out questions.

Chuckling lightly, you shook you head. “No, Joon. I swear it wasn’t anything Jin said. He’s a sweetheart, really. A bit blunt, if anything but nothing extreme,” you reassured him with a soft smile. He nodded, eyes swirling with a mixture of relief and confusion.

“Then, what was it?”

You sighed, turning away from him. “I just… I realized how lonely I’ve been.”

Namjoon settled himself in the seat beside yours, gently placing his hand over yours in a comforting gesture. “What do you mean? Lonely how? You know you’ve always got me, and now Jinnie.”

“Of course I know that. And I am so lucky to have you in my life, seriously. You’re the best best friend a girl could as for… when your clumsy ass isn’t breaking my shit, that is.” He gasped dramatically, swatting at your arm, causing you to giggle quietly. “But, we can’t be around each other 24/7, you know? You have your life, your job, your responsibilities, and now your hybrid; and I have mine– minus the hybrid.”

“What’re you trying to say?” He asked, searching your eyes for further explanation.

“I– I just… I hate being alone all the time. Especially in that big house. I’m home all the time, the only places I go are your place and the grocery store when my fridge empties. That’s really sad, Joon,” you muttered, glancing at your intertwined fingers.

“You’re right… that’s really pathetic, y/n.” You laughed, lightly kicking his ankle to which he grinned and squeezed your hand, “but seriously, if you’re so lonely… why not find a boyfriend?”

You snorted loudly at that. “Me? Boyfriend? Please, let’s not get too crazy here, Joonie. Try to keep it realistic, yeah?”

Namjoon rolled his eyes heavily at your response, scoffing softly, “I’m serious, y/n! When’s the last time you even got laid?” His voice dropped to a whisper at the last word, knowing his impressionable hybrid with impeccable hearing was just the next room over. You gaped at him, taking that as your turn hit his arm.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to my loneliness in the least,” you countered sharply despite the glowing blush making its way into your cheeks, glaring at him pointedly.

He smirked, cocking a brow. “That long, huh?”

You scowled at him stubbornly for a moment. “…yes. Fine. That long, you asshole.”

“Thought so~” he sang, sticking his tongue out, “why don’t you get out there then, huh? It could do you some good, relieve some of that tension.”

“Because, Joonie,” you groaned, slumping forward onto the countertop, face dropping into your folded arms, “that’s not what I want. I don’t want a stupid hook up with some random guy I met in a germ infested bar. That won’t solve my problem, I’m lonely not horny.”

“Same thing,” he shrugged.

You decided it best to just ignore him, continuing, “but I don’t want a boyfriend either. Every time in the past that I’ve had a boyfriend, they’ve only caused me more trouble then they were worth. Either they found someone they found more attractive and ditched me or found someone more interesting and ditched me. Not to mention, guys are just all around dipshits.”

Namjoon pouted, pointing at himself and waiting for some kind of exclusion.

“Besides you of course, Joonie, you’re an angel. I’m talking about straight dudes. They’re the real problem in this society,” you confirmed with an angry huff.

Namjoon raised your half empty glass, “I’ll drink to that.”

“All guys do is cause problems. They will in no way help to solve mine. So now… I don’t know… I just don’t want to be alone anymore,” you groaned, slapping your palms over your face in frustration, “maybe I should just get a bunch of dogs. Become a crazy dog lady. That’d be fun.”

Namjoon was quiet for a moment. “Or… maybe… you could get a hybrid.”

You choked on air, eyes bulging out of your head. “What? No! You’re crazy.” You immediately shot down the idea, shaking your head rapidly.

You? A hybrid owner? Yeah fucking right. You can barely take care of yourself, let alone an entire other human– er, hybrid being. Not to mention you’d be a terrible influence, with your drinking and cursing habits. No hybrid would stand a chance in your home. Owning a hybrid is essentially adopting a child with animalistic appendages and habits. It was really a two for one. Which also meant two times the responsibility.

Responsibility you were anything but prepared for.

“What’s so crazy about it? You’re great with Jin, you took a course on hybrids in college so you’re well informed, and they make amazing companions,” he informed, hands waving around in emphasis.

You shook your head. “No way. I’m not a hybrid person.”

“Says who?”

“Says me! I don’t know the first thing about hybrids, I only took that stupid course in the first place for the easy grade!” You retorted quickly, before a sudden thought occurred.

“Well, personally, I think—”

“Shit what time is it?”

He glanced down at his watch, “almost ten, why?”

You lurched out of the chair, quickly gathering up your belonging, “I’ve got an article deadline at twelve is why, fuck.”

Namjoon nodded with a quiet sigh, following as you scrambled to his front door. Like the gentleman he was, he opened the door, only to stop you half way out it with a hand on your shoulder. You turned back to him with raised brows and a questioning glint in your eyes.

“Just think about it, okay? For me? I hate seeing you like this.”

For the sake of his sanity, as he had a tendency to over worry, you agreed, “okay, Joon. I’ll think about it,” giving him a parting hug before darting to your car, grumbling under your breath, “when you start eating pussy.”

In other words, you definitely would not be reconsidering your decision.

Okay. So you were reconsidering.

It had been a day since you had dropped by Namjoon’s place. A day since he’d made that absolutely ludicrous suggestion, which gradually looking less and less ludicrous.

It was almost… appealing.

A hybrid companion… that would definitely make the house feel a lot less lonely.

You even wondered about what type you’d get. A dog, maybe. You’ve always had a soft spot for puppies, and you can’t help but coo and swoon whenever you see one on the street.

A cat, perhaps. Cats could be annoying, but they also knew when to step back and give you space, which would be nice. A lot less maintenance than dogs. But dogs were cuddly as hell and you’d enjoy having a cuddle buddy, that’s for sure.

Now, this is all circumstantial depending on the breed.

Hell, you were really bad at making important decisions.

“Shit, focus!” You cursed, smacking your cheeks harshly enough to make yourself groan as the skin tinted a hot red. You were supposed to be working on an article your aunt had just sent to you for editing.

But god damn the only thing on your mind was hybrids, hybrids, hybrids, and… what do you know— more hybrids!

“Fucking mother fucker fucking bitch can’t mind his own god damn son of a bitch business,” you growled under your breath as you slammed your laptop shut and yanked your phone out of the pocket of your baggy sweat (perk of working at home; you never have anyone to impress) and aggressively typing in Namjoon’s number before holding it up to your ear, muttering angrily to empty air. After the third ring, he finally picked up.

“Hey, Y/n, what’s--”

“Fuck you, Kim Namjoon. Fuck you to hell.”

“Up,” a short pause, “okay, I admit, was not expecting that response, but okay. Any particular reason you’re fucking me to hell?”

“Hybrids.”

“Hybrids?”

“Yes, hybrids. I want a hybrid so fuck you.”

“Why fuck me if you’re the one that wants a hybrid?”

“Because you’re the one that put the idea of hybrids into my head in the first place,” you hissed in retaliation, slamming your fist down on your desk for emphasis.

He snorted loudly, “well, it wouldn’t be in your head if you didn’t want it a little bit in the first place. My suggestion just made you realize what was already a subconscious desire.”

It was your turn to pause, lips pursing together as you thought it over. Fuck, you hated logic and reason, always ruining all your fun. “Fuck, you’re right. In that case, fuck me, too. In fact, fuck everything, the world is bullshit and this is not what I signed up for.”

“When has the world ever been fair, babe,” he chuckled.

Groaning loudly, you slumped back in your chair, dramatically throwing your arm over your face. “I don’t know what to do, Joon.”

“Do you really want a hybrid? They can be a lot of responsibility, but they really do make phenomenal companions, especially if you get the perfect one for you.” His words were somewhat consoling for your brain, which was currently going on overdrive.

You pouted, tugging your knees up to your chest. “Do you think I could handle it?”

“I know you can handle it. You’re a lot more mature than you give yourself credit for. And even if it gets a bit overwhelming, I’ll always be there to help you out, you know that.”

You nodded to no one in particular, gnawing at your lip with furrowed brows, buried in your own thoughts, a back and forth battle going on in your brain. Do you really want this? A hybrid all your own. It would be nothing like going and visiting with Jin, you knew that much. It would be completely your responsibility, your companion, all yours.

For some reason, that thought brought a ghost of a smile to your lips.

Yours. That sounds surprisingly nice.

“Okay,” you murmured softly.

“Okay?” He repeated.

“Okay... it looks like I’m adopting a hybrid.”

#hybrid #bts #hybrid!bts #sub!bts #hybrid!jimin #hybrid!taehyung #hyrbid!jungkook #hybrid!au #bts fanfiction #bts hybrid!au #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #jungkook x reader #sub!jimin #switch!jungkook #switch!taehyung #dom!reader

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freddiesaysalright · 5 years

Text

Catching Up Part IV

A Joe Mazzello x Reader Story

Summary: Reader is a writer for an entertainment news network and after Joe comes in to do an interview, they reconnect.

Word Count: 2.6K

Tag List: @crazylittlethingcalledobsession, @jennyggggrrr, @somethinginthewayiam, @grandaddy-roger-trash, @rogerloveshiscar, @hopefully-aesthetically-pleasing, @danamaleksworld If you’d like to be added let me know!

Part I Part II Part III

Part IV here we go!!!

Monday rolled around and you dreaded going back to work. Although, you knew Joe was coming in to re-do the Bohemian Rhapsody interview, so you had that to look forward to. The past few days with him had been bliss. Cute dates and great sex. You couldn’t have been happier. The only damper was that Joe was leaving New York a week after the interview at your station. He’d be back the next month, but going so long without seeing him was going to be the wait of a lifetime.

You walked into the newsroom, humming to yourself. You stopped in your tracks when you saw Don sitting at your desk, smiling eerily at you. You shot him a questioning glance as you slowly approached.

“‘Sup?” he said when you reached him.

“Good morning,” you returned. “Is something wrong?”

“Come on, let’s go in my office and talk,” he said.

You set your purse in your seat when he stood up. You shook your jacket off your shoulders and followed him. He closed the door behind you. You worried for a moment he was going to ask you to do the interview again, even though Emily was already at her desk. You took a hesitant seat across from him.

“What’s going on, Don?” you asked.

“Are you seriously going out with Joe Mazzello?” he replied.

Your gaped at him. “I - I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“It is my business,” he said. “When our own magazine Tweets pictures they caught of you two together this weekend.”

Your heart sunk. You thought you’d been so careful.

“Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for us?” he said, raising his voice slightly. “One of our own writers is sleeping with a source!”

“Hey!” you cried. “He’s just doing a promotional interview. This isn’t an ongoing story. Even if it was, I’m not the reporter on it, so it doesn’t violate any ethical rules!”

“So you are sleeping together?” he wondered.

“You know I’m not going to answer that,” you returned levelly. You were impressed with your own composure. Anger was boiling in the pit of your stomach.

“You can’t see him anymore.”

“You can’t ask that of me.”

You glowered at each other over his desk for a moment. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

“I just don’t get it,” he said almost under his breath, but you still heard.

“There’s nothing to get,” you replied. “Joe and I are two adults having a relationship. It’s no one’s business but ours. If those are your only concerns, I’ll be going now.”

You stood up, turning on your heel and going for the door. He leapt to his feet and grabbed your arm to stop you, turning you to face him. Then, before you could ask what he wanted, he kissed you. You scrunched up your face and shoved him hard away from you.

“What the hell, Don?” you demanded. “Is all this because you’re jealous?! You don’t even like me!”

He looked down, clearly embarrassed. “It’s - uh - well, it’s a weird self preservation thing. When I like someone, I’m ruder to them.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” you returned. “I’m going to say something to you that is insubordinate and grounds for termination, but you need to hear it. If you are attracted to a woman, man up and ask her out. You’re an adult, so quit pulling pigtails.”

You stood there, waiting for him to tell you to pack up your desk, but he just looked at you, shocked.

“Well?” you said. “Are you going to fire me or do I have to tell you how to do that too?”

He rolled his eyes, his usual self returning at last. “You’re not fired. Just...don’t mention this to anyone. I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” you said coldly, and you swept out of the room.

You walked over to your desk. You looked up and saw, once again, the four stars of Bohemian Rhapsody coming into the newsroom for their interview. This time, when you caught Joe’s eye, you smiled. He winked and you waved at him. His presence made your anger melt away. Don didn’t matter.

Putting off your work, you made your way to the green room to say hello.

“Welcome back, guys,” you said warmly.

They all said their thanks as you went to Joe and wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head on his chest. He kissed the top of your head and you hummed with satisfaction.

“What’s up, babe?” he asked.

“I just like holding you,” you said.

“Well, then by all means, carry on,” he said lightly.

You considered for a moment telling him about what happened between you and Don, but decided against it. He was about to do an interview Don was producing, and you didn’t want any tension there. Especially on Joe’s end since he would be on camera.

Emily came into the room shortly afterward. She was definitely made for daytime television. She had think, beautiful blonde hair. Round, brown doe eyes, and a wide, sparkly smile. She was so pretty, but it was hard to be jealous of her because she was also so kind.

“Hey!” she greeted, her thick Georgia accent coming through already. She took in you and Joe. “Aw, y’all are cute! Good for you, Y/N!”

You and Joe looked at each other and smiled in a way you were sure was disgusting to the onlookers in the room.

“Well, I’m Emily,” she said, shaking hands with all of them. “I just wanted to come by and introduce myself before we got started. And apologize for last week. I heard Don was pretty rude.”

“Well, to Y/N, yeah,” said Joe. “But not to us.”

“Still, it was unprofessional,” she said. “He’s still producing the segment, though.”

“Really, it’s alright,” said Gwilym.

As if summoned by the mention of him, Don poked his head in the door. You refused to meet his gaze, burying your face in Joe’s chest and closing your eyes.

“Emily, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to them. “We’re gonna get started in just a few minutes. Y/N, if you could get back to your desk and do some actual work, please.”

You rolled your eyes. To be extra snarky, you kissed Joe long and passionately before you left. But when you got to your desk, you ignored your work further. You jumped on Twitter - which wasn’t abnormal since you often wrote for the social media accounts associated with the network - and found the magazine’s page. The first thing up under the pinned Tweet was the picture of you and Joe. It was a nice picture. You were grinning at each other.

The Tweet just said your name, under your byline, and that you and Joe were the “new flame.” It had pretty good traffic too. There were about two hundred comments, eight hundred retweets, and one thousand likes. You clicked on it to read the replies, hoping that no one recognized you. You had not posted a picture of yourself online since the ones your ex leaked, for fear that someone would reverse search and match your face to the one in the nudes.

The replies were mostly shocked emojis, people congratulating you and Joe, or something nasty about your appearance. You read every single one of them, looking for any chance that someone had linked your image. You breathed a sigh of relief when you read the last one and it hadn’t happened. You kept the page open to keep an eye on it in case that changed. But for now, you could breathe a sigh of relief.

When the interview was over, Joe took you to lunch. You chose a casual place and got burgers. You laughed and talked together. At one point you were tossing French fries at each other, trying to catch them in your mouths, much to the amusement of a baby at the next table over, who giggled, high pitched and adorable.

“Oh, hey, bud,” Joe cooed. “Didn’t see you there.”

The baby gurgled some nonsense back and Joe nodded thoughtfully. “You make a very good point, there. I agree.”

A smile parted your lips as you looked on at Joe having a full, made-up conversation with this little baby boy. It was the sweetest thing you’d ever seen.

“What’s that?” Joe said, leaning closer as the boy said something that sounded like “a-goo.” Joe looked between you and the boy. “Well, you can tell her that yourself.” A beat passed and then the boy went “ga!” loudly and pumped his tiny fists in the air. “Alright, I’ll tell her if you’re really that shy about it.” He looked at you. “He says you look very beautiful today.”

You brought your hand to your chest and gasped dramatically. “My, my! What a kind compliment from such a handsome boy!” You looked at the baby and wiggled a finger at him.

Finally, the mother, who had been in deep conversation with her girlfriends, noticed you and Joe entertaining her son. She smiled.

“Wow, I didn’t realize Russell was over here making some new friends,” she said kindly.

“He’s quite the chatterbox,” said Joe, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Joe, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“Nancy,” she replied. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for keeping him busy.”

“No problem,” you assured her.

“He is a great conversationalist,” Joe continued. “And a bit of a flirt.”

She chuckled. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Heck yeah!” he replied.

Smiling still, she took Russell from his carrier. He shrieked with excitement as she put him in Joe’s arms. He twisted his face up to earn laughter from Russell. They babbled back and forth to each other and you thought your heart might explode from how adorable it all was.

“Honey, you need to keep him,” Nancy said to you under her breath. “He’s gonna be an incredible dad one day.”

“We’re just starting out,” you told her. “But it’s something to keep in mind for sure.”

Russell and Nancy left shortly after, but you looked at Joe like he hung the moon.

“You really like kids, huh?” you observed.

“Oh, yeah,” he returned. “My nephews are like, the lights of my life.”

“That’s so sweet,” you said. “Are you going to see them while you’re in town?”

He nodded. “Yeah, actually. This afternoon. But I’m free the rest of the week if you want to spend some time before we leave.”

“Absolutely,” you returned. “I already took the time off work.”

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“I want to be with you, Joe,” you said. “Work just isn’t as important.”

He smiled and leaned over the table for a kiss. You thought of how your day started compared to what you were feeling now. Don didn’t matter. Twitter pictures didn’t matter. All you needed was Joe to take you out of your fear and and anxiety.

The week passed far too quickly. You took Joe to the airport, parked, and walked him inside. You hated that you couldn’t go all the way to the gate with him, but he had a little bit of time before he absolutely had to be there. After he checked his bag, he came back to you. Hot tears filled your eyes and you tried to wipe them away before he saw. He still saw.

“Aw, baby, don’t cry,” he said, pulling you into his arms. “I’ll call you every night. And, if you’re comfortable with it, we can face time.”

You looked up at him, color draining from your face. “I don’t know about that.”

“That’s okay,” he said, rubbing your arms. “Like I said, only if you’re comfortable.”

You rested your forehead on his chest, relishing each moment you had him here in your arms. Where you could really feel him there with you. You etched the details into your memory to hold you through the next eight weeks until he returned. The rhythm of his heartbeat. The soft warmth of his skin. The way he drummed his impatient fingers against you.

He leaned in and kissed you, and you gave the kiss similar treatment. Although, with the way he kissed you it was hard to concentrate. It was passionate and yet soft. Romantic. A kiss to remember on nights you missed him most.

“I’m not saying this to freak you out, okay?” he said. “But Y/N, I really think I’m falling in love with you.”

Neither of you had used the word “love” before. It felt soon, but it also didn’t. It didn’t scare you to hear that from Joe. In fact, it excited you. You beamed through your tears.

“I’m falling in love with you too,” you said.

He sighed, relieved, and kissed you again. He checked his watch.

“I’ve got to get through security,” he said.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you told him.

“I’m gonna miss you too,” he returned.

With one last kiss and squeeze of your hand, he let go. You watched him until he disappeared through the line. It felt like your whole heart was going with him.

The weeks without Joe passed in a haze. You were exhausted all the time and becoming oddly emotional about him. Each time you hung up with him at night, you cried to yourself a little, missing him so much. You were an emotional person, but you’d never felt so weepy before. It concerned you, but you knew you’d also never felt this strongly about someone before.

After a month of Joe being gone, you were finishing up your feature article on up and coming female directors. The deadline was the following day, and you were making the final edits before submitting it to your editor to look over.

A sudden wave of nausea hit you. You felt your stomach churn uncomfortably, and you pressed your hand to it, frowning. You’d had a normal breakfast so you couldn’t imagine what was causing this. Your body heaved, and you jumped up to run to the bathroom. You just barely made it into a stall - not even having time to lock it behind you - and you vomited into the toilet. It took a few minutes before you were done and sat back on the floor.

“Rough night?” came the voice of Don from the door.

You jumped and squeaked with fright. “God, Don! I know this is a unisex, but don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Are you sick? Do you need to go home?”

“I don’t know,” you replied.

“Well, whatever this is, I don’t want it spread around the office,” he said. “Go ahead and take the day off.”

Tears sprang to your eyes. “Don…that’s so nice.”

“Holy shit, it’s not that nice,” he said, eyes widening. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Everything makes me cry recently, so I’m sorry for the waterworks,” you said with a sniffle. “But I probably should go home.”

“Please do,” he said. “I’m...so uncomfortable.”

You thanked him again before leaving the office and heading home. When you entered your apartment, Christy was there, reading on the couch. She worked in an upscale restaurant that was only open in the evening, so she was home all day.

“You’re home early,” she said.

“Yeah,” you said, wiping tears from your face.

“Everything okay?” she wondered, setting the book down.

“I don’t know,” you told her.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m so tired, I’m emotional as hell, and I just threw up at work. In front of Don.”

“Jesus,” she muttered. “I hope you’re not pregnant.”

You stared at her, wide eyed. She sighed.

“Let’s go to the store.”

You went together and picked up a couple tests. When you came home and took them, the result was always the same. Pregnant. You still had two weeks before Joe returned to New York. How on Earth were you going to tell him?

#joe mazzello #joe mazzello x reader #joe mazzello x you #joe mazzello imagine #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #borhap boys #borhap imagine #borhap cast #queen #queen imagine #john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon imagine #john deacon x you #gwilym lee #rami malek #ben hardy

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orcinusorca1617 · 5 years

Text

Favorite Star Wars Fics

REBELCAPTAIN

Floating, Sinking shuofthewind

Somewhere in her is the sinking feeling that they weren't supposed to survive.

[In which they all live, in a manner of speaking, and they keep going, in spite of the odds.]

[Post-Rogue One. Runs through A New Hope. Eventual Rebelcaptain.]

whetstone shuofthewind

They're finished with their first mission. Now it's just the matter of downtime.

[Part of the floating, sinking universe. Mostly just fluff.]

Restless jenniferjun1per

Jyn needs to sleep, but she can't seem to get comfortable.

You Still Are leralynne

The scar zigzags down her side, puckered white along the ridges of her ribs. Cassian’s fingers still the first time they brush over it. With her head on his chest, she can feel his intake of breath.

A Long Pause leralynne

“Be quiet!” Jyn hisses. “I hear something!” Cassian stills. And then slowly, very slowly, he lifts his lips from Jyn’s collarbone.

slowly, and then all at once caramelle

It's probably sheer stubbornness, Cassian thinks wryly.

Even so, it doesn't mean he's just going to leave her like that.

Or, the one where Jyn has a habit of falling asleep around the apartment, and Cassian develops a habit of carrying her back to bed, because he's a Gentleman, and a Good Friend.

There For You guineapiggie

They reach Yavin IV and Jyn has every intention to lock herself in the room they've given her and not come out ever again. However, someone strongly disagrees with that plan.

flight lessons ignitesthestars

“One hundred percent of the crashes I have experienced involved you, Jyn Erso.” K2 informs her pleasantly. “Given that no other flight experience I've been involved in has experienced an abrupt descent, I can only conclude that you - oh. You're bleeding.

Or, Jyn is slightly impaled and Cassian sees to her wound. Emotions are had.

Won't You Let Us Wander (series) angel_deux

Cassian came back for her. Again and again. After Scarif, that complicates things for Jyn, who's used to running | 13 part series.

Cuddling for Warmth leralynne

“Jyn is shivering,” K2 observes, with the kind of bland indifference only possible when one is a droid incapable of experiencing just how goddamn freezing this planet is.

Bloody Little Worms Kobo

Jyn Erso is accustomed to being jolted awake. Saw Gerrera shaking her awake at every hour of the night, keeping her on her toes; the rough shift from hyperspace to realspace rattling the frame of a ship; Imperial guards smacking their batons against iron bars; nightmares, images of her father’s last breath or the echoing smack of Cassian’s back against steel bars: Jyn is accustomed to those.

A white hot grip on her lungs? This marks the first time she’s awoken to that.

Closer muggleindenial28

"They don’t speak on the way down.

They don’t acknowledge the distant shrill screams of TIE Fighters and X-Wings outside.

They don’t think about how they’re not going to get out in time."

They make it off Scarif, but not without scars.

like real people do mollivanders

“I have an idea,” she says, mind whirling as she steps towards the room. “We need a reason to be here like this.” He follows close behind her and she can practically feel the tension washing over him. In contrast, the plan forming in her mind has provided her with a calm clarity. He closes the door behind them before she props it ajar/

They need to be caught.

Beach House lyresandlasers

“Never say I don’t support you,” Jyn lifted his head into her lap, cradled in crossed legs.

cover me, i'll cover you mollivanders

“Are you hurt?” he asks blindly, reaching for her only to snatch his fingers back as she lurches away. He forgets she’s like a feral animal when she’s injured, used to being the only person having her back. “Let me see,” he says, trying to force authority and calm into his voice, both to reassure her and take control of the situation.

Inside, he’s anything but.

I hear the revolution rebsrising

The babble sounds through the baby monitor, soft and quiet, but enough to wake two well-trained soldiers still adjusting to the safety of peace.

Bodhi's Perspective rebsrising

It’s a simple scene - and that’s what strikes Bodhi the most. They kiss like they’re going to do it everyday for the rest of their lives. And he hopes, not for the first time, that they have the chance.

We Can Turn Over and Start Again kyrdwyn

After Scarif, Jyn starts over, with a new mission, and an unexpected friend.

Fifteen Days clashofqueens

It's hard to hold on to a happy ending during a war, and in the final days of the Rebellion, Jyn might lose hers.

Lay Down My Shields katsumi

Jyn comes down with a strange reaction to a foreign plant, but it doesn't seem like a big enough deal to bother anyone with. That is, until she faints in the middle of the hallway.

Run to Me in the Rising Dawn katsumi

Jyn has never had anyone stick around before. The battle is over now, but the war rages on and Jyn is already preparing for the day when she loses Cassian, too. (She doesn't realize he's terrified of the exact same thing.)

the quiet we hold ithacas

After Scarif, Cassian wakes up broken. He and Jyn learn to fix each other.

We Should laurie2000ann

Jyn could have died trying to save Cassian and he’s pretty angry about it.

Let's Give 'Em Something to Talk About astoriamalfoys

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks her, a wry smile twisting his lips. Jyn ducks her head. “Nightmares or the medicine?”

It’s meant to be an easy conversation, but she says, “I was worried about you,” and his heart stutters to a staccato instead.

Han x Leia captainkitten

Important Thing of Awesomeness™ meets Dumpster Fire of a Human Being™

REYLO

we could plant a house, we could build a tree Like_A_Dove

Ben takes a deep breath. “It’s—it’s a project. Conceptual art. You wouldn’t get it.”

Rey presses her lips together to keep from laughing. She plans her next words quickly and carefully, determining what will get her the best reaction. “Really? Looks like you ruined a bedsheet to me.”

His reaction does not disappoint. “Get out.”

Parenthood (series) pontmercy44

What to expect when you're expecting the child of a rich, womanizing, alcoholic, unredeemable asshole? And what to do when the unexpected, improbable, irrational happens?

What She's Worth g_girl143

After being sent to train under his uncle in the Jedi academy, Ben Solo meets a youngling girl who would change the course of his life. An alternative universe companion fic for Claudia Gray's "Bloodline" novel. A scenario in which Ben Solo and Rey are fellow students of Luke's Jedi Academy and the events that led to the birth of Kylo Ren.

A Proposal by Any Other Name LucidLucy

Rey and Finn have been A Thing for a long time now. Since she was eighteen, to be exact. When Finn leaves on a trip to Europe for six months for work, Rey finally chases after him to Dublin to do what he seems to be putting off: propose. | Leap Year AU

If You Trust What's in Your Heart (What Better Can You Do) TheJGatsby

After the war, Rey likes to savor the peace on her own sometimes. Then she's not alone anymore.

Black Gloves, Orange Soup Solia

While the dwindling Rebellion starves, awaiting their chance to attack a First Order supply vessel, Rey is trying to keep busy repairing the lightsaber. As luck would have it, her Force-bonded rival Kylo Ren is knowledgeable on the subject and keen to help, but he is also very... distracting.

A Good Fall ohwise1ne

Ben Solo refuses to take a stunt double and pays the price when he breaks his leg filming his latest action blockbuster. His new physical therapist, Rey Sanders, seems to be the only person in Hollywood who doesn’t recognize the infamous Kylo Ren – and for some reason, he finds himself fighting to keep it that way.

A Royal Mistake reyofdarkness

Ben Solo (aka The Playboy Prince): Prince of Alderaan and tabloid sensation, never seen with the same girl twice.

Rey: Mechanic, blissfully unaware of Ben Solo's very existence.

Until Paige recruits her for a night servicing the Met Gala, host to a diverse class of guests, including royalty. It is there that a chance encounter gets Rey caught up in a pair of pretty eyes and a charming personality that she knows she should stay far, far away from. The universe, however, seems to have other plans. Hot Tip: Don’t look up your crush’s sex tape.

The End of a String Silvershine

A bridge still exists between the Supreme Leader of the First Order and the rebel known as Rey. As the connection winds tighter, the line between enemy and friend continues to blur, and Rey's loyalties are called into question. A force bond can bring companionship and support, but it's not without its dangers... or delights.

No Ill Will Castiloar

His face set into a resigned expression before tapping his phone with a final flourish, sending whatever excuse he made. She almost jumped when he squarely met her gaze. “Me? Your hostage? I’d almost think you like having me here.” Even with the congestion he managed to drop his voice low enough to make the quip weigh heavy.

variations on a theme of you disasterisms

"Who knows?" Luke darted a faint smile at Ben and Rey as they stewed in silence and disbelief. "The two of you might even learn to get along. Right, Leia?"

"Like a house on fire," the General deadpanned. "Complete with screams, flames, and people running for safety."

"Indeed." Luke's blue eyes twinkled. "There may be no survivors."

As Hard As I Try... KKetura

When her friends find out about her force bond with Kylo Ren, Rey finds herself more alone than ever. But in her forced solitude, she slowly discovers a better understanding of herself and the man to whom she's inextricably linked.

lying restless (as the dawn comes near) TheJGatsby

They have a tradition for nightmares.

you gotta stop doing that semi-hiatus

She caught herself right before the words ‘you gotta stop doing that’ slipped from her lips, saving her from having the explain why she randomly started talking to herself in the hallway.

Why Her? Aramenialys

Just one last battle. One. Then they can be done and put everything behind them. That was the plan. Then it's smashed to bits, and Kylo has to figure out how to come back from tragedy and form a new one. A short drabble/oneshot about Rey dying and (redeemed) Kylo learning to cope.

Quiet issueswithjedipedagogy

He wasn’t sleeping. She had caught sight of him in the darkness, blinking awake to the strange vacuum the bond created around her; the quiet focus on two souls that seemed to make everything else fall away.

Soft Things catmusing

Kylo Ren wakes up aboard a familiar and yet unknown ship. His body aches and it hurts to remember but there is Rey of light.

Aphelion ambiguously

Stranded on a barren planet together, Rey and Kylo Ren have only each other to help them survive.

Vulnerability and Soft Hair smallenoughtofit

After two years with the Resistance, Kylo Ren still lacks any real security or relationships outside of his tenuous whatever-this-is with Rey. And Rey still wonders what his hair feels like.

the remedy is the experience (i won't worry my life away) TheJGatsby

Rey gets sick, and she isn't very good at letting people look after her.

Proper Sleep tearoomsaloon

Much to her frustration, Rey can no longer properly sleep unless she's snuggled between Ben's glorious pecs

ad infinitum hyperphonic

for the prompt: Rey and Kylo telling Leia, Rey is pregnant. Leia had no clue.

any way you want it thegoodlannister

rey helps ben begin to work through the process of making decisions - even really simple ones - for himself. rehabilitation is a slow process in the aftermath of the mess snoke has spent three decades making of ben's mind.

It Will Come Back ReyloTrashCompactor

“Honey, don’t feed it. It will come back”

A Series of Firsts Tandy

Ben (or is it Ren?) and Rey sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love and then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage.

A story told in firsts.

Dark Prism whythokylo (OpalElephant)

Rey awakens again, except this time it's to a life she can't recall with a man she only knows as her enemy. My attempt at a long form, dark AU. (Formerly titled Aphelion)

A Few Small Repairs TourmalineGreen

Rey buried her face in her blankets. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t going to allow herself to feel anything. Rain was just water, and so were tears. It would all dry, in time. The storm would pass, and then she’d keep going. That’s how it always had been, and that’s how it was going to be.

She would be alright, after this. She would find a way, find something…

what ails you thegoodlannister

or: three times ben solo was sick and one time kylo ren was. unabashed reylo and even more unabashed hurt/comfort.

100 Ways to Say I Love You AquaWolfGirl

Taken from a list on Tumblr of 100 Ways To Say I Love You, 100 little oneshots leading up to Valentine's Day.

I'm always in this twilight (in the shadow of your heart) disasterisms

Coded on a secondhand datapad in a run-down motel room in Mos Eisley, deleted and never sent: Everything about us was a whirlwind.

Written on a scrap of durasheet in a Tion Cluster outpost, the words fading after a while into air and ghosts: You shouldn't have forgiven me for any of it.

Scraped into the bark of an oak tree on the Argazdan homeworld: You won't believe the dreams I have about you.

the one with the lust writing-reylo

She has bigger things to worry about than that.

The most pressing of which is reclining in her bed, shirtless.

“Can you move?” She asks, unwinding her scarf and shrugging off her huge jacket.

Milking It thewayofthetrashcompactor

“Rey.”

The voice was deep and familiar, rough with exhaustion, and echoed across the gap closed by the Force.

She ignored it, hunched over on the edge of the cot she'd been sleeping on. She wanted nothing more than to lean back and curl up into an unconscious ball again, but another voice, this one much closer, called her name again.

morning in the burned house disasterisms

Leia's not really surprised at all, to be honest, but, for the sake of his pride, she should probably pretend to be.

find a thread to pull, and we can watch it unravel again_please

The war is over, Snoke dead at Rey and Kylo's hands. The two of them find themselves feeling a bit out of place as the Resistance celebrates and decide that the answer is a bit of good old fashioned Corellian whiskey. Enjoyed responsibly, of course. And in private.

Because You're There disasterisms

Three years ago, Rey had not yet climbed Everest.

Presenting the first half of my fic/art trade with the lovely lilithsaur, based on her trash triplets x 2 universe. The gist is that there are three Solo boys— Kylo, Ben, and Matt (the character from Adam Driver's SNL skit)— and three Kenobi girls— Kira (dark Rey), Rey, and Daisy (undercover Rey).

Sword of the Jedi (series) diasterisms

“What do you think?” Luke asks his nephew. “She has potential.”

“She bit me, Master,” is Ben’s stiff response. “Any opinion I give would be biased.”

Or: Everyone is connected, even if, sometimes, it's just by the skin of our teeth. Even in the midst of darkness, still, luminous beings are we.

Reign OptimisticBeth

Alternate Ending to "The Last Jedi." Rey accepts Kylo Ren’s offer in return for the lives of the retreating ships.

Political maneuvering is not Rey's forte. She must adjust to life as the First Order's first lady, making friends and enemies along the way and indulging in sweet awkward romance with her Ben.

Burgeoning Hope crossingwinter

#ShesPregnantAndHesDumbAndHasntLeftHisJobYet

miles from where you are mooncactus

After an argument over Star Wars fandom with a "gatekeeping, entitled monster" with the cryptic username of KyloRen, Rey finds herself stuck in a series of unavoidable video calls.

Prisoner orphan_account

Rey has been running all her life. She had known since she was a small girl that she was born with the powers that had been cursed and labeled evil by the galaxy. Running had worked for so long, that she was almost surprised when the bounty hunter Kylo Ren had caught her trail. But they might have more in common than they both originally thought.

Hand of Fate sweetestcondition

Rey is offered a choice at the end of Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi. This time, she takes the hand of Kylo Ren, grasping at the chance to transform the First Order from the inside. She hopes to create a Resistance from within, starting with the heart of Ben Solo. | feat. KoR, Kezzik

keep me in your clouded mind hi_raeth

Flu season has claimed its latest victim: Rey’s roommate, Ben Solo. But it’s fine. She’ll get him dressed, bring him to the hospital, and everything will be okay. Things are totally under control.

Except for the part where Ben has completely lost his verbal filter and keeps babbling about his feelings for her.

Exile Ernzo

The war is over and the First Order has fallen. Ben has returned home to face his consequences.

A story of Rey and Ben finding peace in the aftermath of war as Ben accepts his punishment.

made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter disasterisms

The First Order does not exist, what is dead stays dead, and they grow up together at Luke's Jedi Academy.

Or: The one where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

(Then again, it's Ben and Rey, so maybe things hurt a little.)

A little ginger, a little honey Areah51

Rey is sick, and Ben shows up where he's not wanted, but in the end, we all need someone to take care of us when we're ill.

my wildest wind (come blow into my room) meritmut

“Would it have been so terrible?” he asks. “Staying?”

Could we have had this? she thinks, like she always does.

Non-consecutive ForceTime vignettes in the days, weeks and months after Crait.

Play to Win Enterprisingly

Ben Solo – aka KyloRen – is a professional gamer, playing the first-person-shooter StarKiller for the internationally ranked eSports team, The First Order. He’s made a name for himself as a ruthless competitor with a ferocious temper and top-notch skills that can’t be beat. That is, until a mystery player named ReyOfLight begins thoroughly trouncing him whenever they cross paths.

Unwell AquaWolfGirl

Jakku was cold, but nothing compared to Hoth. While staying at the old Rebel base, Rey catches a cold, and someone is a huge worry wart over the woman who denied his offer.

The One Where He Decides writing_reylo

He’s on the bridge and he’s alone.

The First Order are no more.

It only took him a year, carefully manipulating every weak mind he came across, emotionally manipulating the ones he couldn’t.

Embers sciosophia

All the myriad things he’d been—someone who made her laugh; the warmth on the other side of the bed; her best friend—those things, Rey had buried.

Rey left Ben two years, three months, and sixteen days ago. But who's counting?

Interstellar Transmissions LovelyThings, ricca_riot

Rey’s interrogation at the hands of Kylo Ren triggered an awakening in the Force, as well as an unwelcome bond that links them across the galaxy and grows stronger every day.

What Stays and What Fades Away astra_inclinant

Her feelings for Kylo Ren are quiet, not acknowledged, but deeply felt. She cannot make peace with them and send them from her mind.

Or, everyone is emotionally stunted and no one has healthy coping skills.

Our Heaven is Just Waiting FrostedFox

It's his turn to fall wounded before her, and her turn to decide where to go from there.

If only she could convince him to stay alive.

make it look just the way i planned TheJGatsby

Ben buys the painting on a brokenhearted impulse, and somehow it ends up being exactly the right choice.

(Based on the song Paint Me a Birmingham)

#reylo #rebelcaptain #star wars #sw tfa #sw tlj #kylo x rey #ben solo #cassian x jyn #rogue one

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