#finding shinies was way easier BEFORE the charm what the FUCK

[glassrowboat]

Cinderella. Pantalone.

Summary: You didn't mean to be stranded out on the steps to the palace with a broken shoe, but some things are more like a fairy tale than one would think. It's only a shame your prince charming is a fucking dick.

Warnings: an exuberant amount of cussing, mentions of death, and the upperclass

Word count: 2500+

The sound of shoes clacking on the pavement was the first sign you were no longer as alone as once thought. A solid click, the pristine shine of black leather, and a silver buckle that somehow shined even in the cold night air when the brightest light near you was a streetlamp at most ten feet away. The fact there wasn't a very particular someone's insignia ingrained in that black already felt like a miracle given the man's pride. He did so love to adorn himself in finery.

“Regrator.”

“Miss (y/n), a pleasure as always.” He didn't even pretend to not notice your current state, his eyes might as well be full of mirth as he gazed down at you sitting on the steps leading up to a cursed banquet you had to attend. The event was already in full swing yet here you sat outside as if the clamor of voices and music playing couldn't be heard. “I hope you have not gotten yourself into another problem.”

Teasing now, of all times, really?

It was already fully evident he knew what was going on, how could he not? A shoe in your hand a broken off heel in the other made it clear there was in fact a problem. The contraption had wronged her. “I think it's rather obvious, is it not? Or do you need a new prescription for those glasses of yours?”

He didn't even bother to give an interesting reply back as he simply laughed off the jab like it was water on a ducks back. Something that wasn't event relevant enough to be addressed. “I see now, that does appear to be a problem.”

Wow. I had no fucking clue.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance to you?” His voice was musing as ever, too gentle to be real. Just the same way he acts in the middle of a business deal.

“Oh?” You looked up at him, eyes tearing off those shiny shoes you were admittedly jealous of in this moment. Any other day you might just consider spitting on them but circumstances have changed. “Tell me trousers, for amusements sake only, what could you possibly do to help me in this hour of need? Maybe you'd do the same thing Scaramouche did as he passed me by only minutes prior, telling me to walk barefoot in the snow.”

“Oh my, it would be a mad man who would dare try.” At least he understood that compared to the puppe- “Back to calling me trousers now, miss? I thought we grew past that.”

“Maybe you did.” If only the poison on your tongue was enough to sway him enough to slip off a step and fall past the railing with a nice, satisfying kurplunk. “Well seeing as my night is perfectly ruined, how has yours been going?”

"Oh, not too bad myself I must say." Pantalone's voice was calm and smooth as usual, as if nothing really affected him much. "I've been attending to a few important matters as part of my responsibilities, but now I have some free time to spend. I suppose I may have found something to do with it now."

How annoyingly easy it was for him to lie, to show no tell at all. No pinch in the eyebrow, no change in tone, not even looking else where to avoid eye contact. Truly a professional. If it weren't for the fact you had personally seen Pantalone repeatedly having to brush off the same man with a rather boring sounding business proposal you would have truly believed him. His irritation had been clear then even as that smile remained. What a talent to have, to lie easier than he breathed.

Slowly, steadily Pantalone made his was down the stairs you sat upon until he was stood before you. A kind face to be shown as he looked down at the object of your plight. “It's a rather pretty pair of shoes. A pity one of them has been torn apart. Do you think we can find you another pair in a store nearby?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I'll pass.”

It would be a fool who agrees to be in debt to the regrator, a favor or otherwise.

One of his perfectly manicured eyebrows rose as he looked down at you, almost like he was shocked at the rejection to his offer. The amusement however was clear in his face. "Is something the matter? It would be unfortunate to stay here barefoot in the cold. Though I can't say I didn't expect that answer. You are quite the character.”

“Says you. How great a character you are that your very own name is ripped from a play.”

You weren't even honored with a reply. You never are. 

“Do you live nearby, miss?”

“Yeah. Maybe like ten minutes down that street,” you pointed to the left, finger blocking one of the many piles of snow on the street. “Then you- Close. I'm close by.”

Why the fuck was I telling him this?

“I see.” 

With the wave of a hand covered in what had to be the finest of fabrics for gloves (probably something that's been hand spun by poor widows for years as they labor over raw cotton) and glittering silver Pantalone called over an attendant. Her short frame quickly moving over like she felt the need to be as efficient as possible. As to why? Well, the answer is obvious. You don't defy a harbinger. You don't deny them. You can only hope to please the over hyped power houses of Snezhaya, especially if one of them is your boss. 

“You are far too easy to easy to read, miss (y/n).” Without so much as a glance towards this woman's way he takes something from her hand. A little bottle of sorts you can't read the label of with a red cap. That is until he moves his bejeweled fingers away to give you a chance to peek at the words printed out. “One day your pride will be the end of you.”

And I hope your end will be just as pathetic as you.

Huffing you try and ignore the savior that he's holding in his hand. Shoe glue, just what you need. “Why do you even have that?”

Not even bothering to address you Pantalone tells the attendant she's excused. The same rush as when she ran over showing as she bowed to you both. “Lord harbinger. Miss (y/n).” 

And there she goes.

“Cmon slacks, gimme something I can reply to that isn't your typical droning. Otherwise I might just start mistaking your voice for those inside.” The same chatter that might as well be ringing on your ear as it grows louder and louder throughout the night. Alcohol may loosen lips, but it also apparently makes everyone too deaf to hear properly. If either of you were to go back inside surely you'd be cringing everytime someone walks by as they think it's a great idea to address someone all the way across the great hall.

“I bore you as much as ever then.” With a chuckle Pantalone holds the bottle out before you, dangling it like bait on a string, and you were the fish he was waiting for to take a bite. Warning label flashing your vision. “I could tell you how La Signora once broke her heel and simply combusted with fury. Though that wouldn't be true, she wouldn't be caught dead wearing something cheap enough to break just like that.”

Always has to have a smart reply, doesn't he? All the while you're running low on quips as this guy proves his default setting is exhausting everyone around him. The charming man one might mistake him as with a simple glance was truly such a farce. “Thanks, but I'd rather rip the boots off of some poor, unsuspecting sod then let you do something for me.”

With a click of his tongue Pantalone pulls the bottle back away from you, the shining light of hope that it was being stolen like the donations from an alms box under the nose of a priest. “Ahh yes, the fear of owing the ninth harbinger. It is a daunting cloud to loom so heavily.”

Of course it was. He may sound and look as pretty as a picture but under those silver spectacles were eyes that could only be satisfied with the sight of mora in his palm. Those that denied him such a sight had a habit of going home to a few broken objects, being randomly beaten down out of the blue on their merry way back home, and lastly disappearing in the same way your clouds of breath blown out into the cold air of the blizzard covered nation did. There was no god to pray to that could help escape him, no matter which archons name uttered.

“How about I offer you a deal,” Pantalone asked, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk. It was as if the very mention of any sort of ‘business’ had him rearing to go. Cocky bastard.

It's just a shame you had nothing to say. Another comment would have this back and forth going until either a: you get interrupted by one of the guests, b: he decides toying with you has lost its charm (an unlikely event but still one can dream), and lastly c: you bite the bullet and make a ten minute walk home in a broken shoe through snowy and icy streets you'd surely be slipping and sliding over. A face plant or two might just be worth it though.

“No objections then. As for our deal, I shall assist this damsel in distress with fixing her shoe and in turn you tell no one of this.” As if he was already certain you'd agree in a heartbeat, probably in his minds even with stars glittering around you like a scene from a shojo manga panel, Pantalone plucked the broken shoe and heel from your hands. “I'd say you would be getting the better end of the deal here tonight. You do need to get home, don't you?”

I do, and he knows that. Prick.

 “Fine. Deal or whatever.”

The fact he didn't immediately pull out a five page contract on the spot was disappointing. Unlikely, but the thought alone would be enough to cause you to laugh if it was anyone else's presence you were in. Instead you sat back on those concrete stairs, watching as the regrator of all people slipped off his rings and placed them to the side. Doesn't want his precious getting dirty then, huh?

“So what's the real reason you have that stuff on you?”

“You truly do believe every word that slips past my lips is a lie,” He stated. Stated, not questioned. “I have found myself working in collaboration with a cobbler recently and I was given this as a free sample of sorts. You were simply lucky with the timing is all.”

Your eyes narrowed as you looked down at him, his gloved hand holding that stupid little bottle in hand as he seems to run over the nails that were supposed to keep the outsole together with ease. He seemed so calm doing this but it could all just be another facade, another act. Only he, himself, and Pantalone knew what was truly going on in that pretty head of his. “I wouldn't call breaking my shoe luck.”

“Perhaps not.” 

“I never asked, just how did that attendant magically have that on hand with a wave of your- well hand.” That could of been worded a bit better. Cmon self, you're slacking here.

“Oh that? I heard of your little plight when I was inside. A noble lady with a mole over her lip, the left side, mentioned a poor miss (y/n) having tripped over her own two feet like a buffoon who then,” without missing a beat as he spoke Pantalone kneeled before you, “ran off as if a headless chicken.” 

“Lovely imagery, slacks. Thank you for that.”

“I am merely repeating what I have heard for you. I wouldn't want you to go unaware of what your fellow ladies have been gossiping about this night.”

And in doing so you purposefully worded it in a way that had the intent to embarrass me. I'm not blind nor deaf but somehow he surely thinks I am both.

“Now then.” Easily he pulled you from your thoughts. Daydreaming cast aside and asunder as his hand wrapped around your ankle. The instant jolt from the movement you were spurred into meaning little as his grip tightened, not even allowing an inch of freedom. “Give the heel some time before you start walking on it, we don't need to disturb the banquet with your dramatics again.”

A part of you wanted to believe Pantalone's hand didn't feel warm because they're just as cold and dead as his heart, but the gloves he dawned and the thermal stockings you used religiously in this winter inferno were enough to say you were just being hopeful. It was better to focus on that little fact than how he was sliding that stiletto on for you. The fact he wasn't looking at your eyes could either be a blessing or make this all worse. In the very least it gave you a chance to figure out that blaming the color burning your cheeks a rosy hue on the low temperatures could be a solid enough lie he wouldn't openly question your bull. 

“Now if you'll excuse me,” Pantalone said, calling your attention back up to his face and not the hand that had just let go of you. “It's about time I head back inside.”

Somehow there wasn't even a speck of dust on his knees as Pantalone stands back up, his perfect little demeanor the same as always without even a wrinkle to be had. Untouchable. Far off from everyone else around him. “I'm sure the Tsarita's little socialite has been missed.”

With a small laugh and a “precisely,” Pantalone steps around you, those same perfect condition having shoes of his hitting the steps with a satisfying click as he walked away. At least this time you weren't gazing upon them with envy. “Remember now miss, no going around gossiping about this.”

As if I'd ever.

“The less your name falls from my lips the better. You do so tend to leave a narly aftertaste. Plus, I have no intention of owing you anything.”

With one last flick of his gaze, one last shine of those spectacles under the streetlamp he looks at you. How unreadable that mask could be when he truly wished it. Maybe it's true what they say, once you wear a mask too long it becomes your face. 

“Have a good night then.”

And with that, he left. The night air your only company.

Good riddance.

—-------

Except now your looking down at a pink box that had been delivered to your house this morning, only a day having gone by since that unlucky encounter with the regrator yet he chose to rub this all in your face. A stink bug of a man, truly. Only there to be a pest that's always somehow present yet you shouldn't bother to do away with. After all, there would be consequences. 

So like any bug he crawled through the cracks of what is supposed to be your home. All with the ease of one delivery man and a letter with the most beautiful handwriting you had ever seen (and annoyingly written in what had to be scented ink). “I believe this means you now owe me a favor.” Signed Pantalone.

How you wanted to spit on the brand new pair of heels before you.

What a dick.

[phoenixyfriend]

Shadow and Mirror

Read on AO3, written for this prompt

Cody has a new crush.

Well, a “crush” implies something much more childish than the point he’s reached in his life.

Cody has… felt a connection and really hit it off with someone he finds reasonably attractive.

His brothers are being less than supportive.

“He is my Jedi and one of my best friends,” Rex says, “but I just… for both your sakes, life will be so much easier if you don’t go for it.”

Cody is unfazed. “You do remember he was my Jedi Commander before he got promoted and took you with him, right? I know what he’s like, and I’m into it.”

Rex makes a face. “Uh, all due respect, Cody—”

Oh, this bitch.

“—but he’s changed in some pretty big ways since he split from Kenobi.”

“So’ve I.”

This earns him an eyeroll. “Yes, yes, you’ve discovered your romantic charisma and started charming the pants off of any sentient you encounter on leave. You do realize that’s part of the problem?”

“That I have game?”

“Skywalker doesn’t do casual,” Rex insists. “Open, maybe, if you talk about it, but he doesn’t do casual.”

After a moment of consideration, Cody shrugs. “I can work with that.”

“Can you?” Rex challenges. “Can you really deal with the full force of Anakin’s attention? With him losing his entire mind if you get hurt, and calling you up at three in the morning to chat, and promising you the galaxy in a bunch of flowery words that should be hyperbole, but really, really worryingly sounds literal and sincere?”

“…did you try dating him?”

“No, but I was there basically every time he hung with Amidala, and that shit continued past the point where he gave up on romantic seduction and settled into friendship,” Rex says, more of a grumpy complaint than anything, “and she’s just as weird as he is when it comes to all that, so it’s no skin off her back to match his energy, but you are not on their level.”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying,” Rex grits out from between clenched teeth, “that you like to have fun, and Anakin likes to dedicate every morsel of crazy knocking around his brain to whichever poor soul ended up in his affections.”

“I feel like insulting your CO that much is grounds for a court martial.”

“Echo told him, to his face, that he occasionally seemed crazy as a bag of tooka kits and about as hinged as a sliding door. General Skywalker took a second to process, and then laughed. He doesn’t care, not if it’s from a friend.”

Cody hums. “Which you are.”

“Yes.”

“Enough to warn me away before I break his heart?” Cody asks. Rex looks away, and Cody can only chuckle. “You’re not that subtle, Rex.”

“I’m trying to make sure you do what’s best for both of you,” Rex insists, glancing at Cody for only a moment before breaking eye contact again, “so Anakin doesn’t get disappointed, and so you’re not walking in blind when it comes to him being… the most.”

Cody snorts. “I can handle Skywalker, Rex. I may not be a Jedi or a Senator, but I can handle one brat with a smart mouth, a bad attitude, and a couple of super-powers.”

Rex grimaces. “I mean… it’s not really… that simple. The Force stuff, I mean.”

There’s something a little odd to Rex’s voice with that one, more than just the weird pauses. Cody doesn’t dismiss it quite as easily as he might have. Instead, he carefully asks, “the whole ‘Chosen’ thing some of the Shinies were gossiping about? Kenobi said it was an old superstition more than anything, a metaphor taken too literally, and that even the Jedi argue about it.”

“When?”

Cody’s expression must speak for him, because Rex clarifies without prompting.

“When did Kenobi say that?”

Cody looks past him at the wall, frowning as he thinks. Rex waits, and doesn’t take it too personally; they know each other too well for that. Finally, Cody shrugs. “A couple months in. Skywalker was still a Jedi Commander with the 212th.”

“So, before Mortis.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “This has to do with that shitshow?”

Rex looks uncomfortable. “You… aren’t 501st.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Well… Kenobi didn’t get possessed. Or channel a god. He just used an extra weird lightsaber for a bit.”

Cody gives it a few moments, and then finally says, “Rex.”

His brother continues to look uncomfortable.

“What did that place do to Skywalker and Tano?”

(Continue on AO3)

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

angst w happy ending/fluff + fake dating + “was any of this even real” with stewy PLEASE 🙏 honestly i will take ANYTHING stewy but i feel like this fits him…

Play Pretend.

44. "Was any of this even real?" + h. Fake dating + 4. "Marry me."

Author's Note - this is a drabble written as part of my 500 Followers Celebration!! find that post here if you're interested. this is a part of my campaign to become your favourite stewy writer x

Pairing - Stewy Hosseini x Female Reader

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - cursing

Word Count - 810

Masterlist. 500 Follower Celebration Masterlist.

You never meant for it to go this far. Neither of you did.

Stewy had cruised into your bar one night, and you'd hit it off. Several whiskeys later, he's making you an offer you can't refuse.

He proposed that you be his girlfriend for any and all events that he had to attend with a date. In return, he promised to help connect you with some important people in the art world. You'll have a gallery of your own in no time, he'd said.

That was 8 months ago.

At first, it was fun. He'd send a fancy gown to your apartment, request that you be wearing it by 8pm sharp. He'd pick you up in a shiny car, and keep you on his arm all night. It was like you were living in a whole different world. You enjoyed it.

But the more you two pretended, the realer it became. You spent hours laughing, teasing each other, talking the nights away. You got to know each other, bared pieces of your soul. Now, it's bordering on something more.

You've fallen head over heels in love with him, and he sees you as a fake date.

You're stupid, and you know it. You should have known from the moment you met him that his charm would wear you down. That beaming smile, the grey streak in his hair, the way his hands were always warm. You'd fallen hard, and there was no going back.

You're panicking. You're scrambling around, looking for the eject button. You know if you keep going, you'll reach a point of no return. So, you do the only thing you can think of. You cut it off.

Can't do tonight, you'd texted. No explanation, no apology. You felt guilty, of course you did - you know he needed someone at the gala with him. But you were trying to protect yourself.

You'd expected him to reply fuck you then! and be done with it. But when has Stewy Hosseini ever been predictable? Instead, he's banging on the door of your apartment so hard you're worried he's going to break it down.

"Sweetheart, what the fuck is going on? Open this door before I kick it down!"

"Don't kick it," you yell back. "You'll ruin those Louboutins I know you're wearing."

"Open. The. Door."

"Aren't you supposed to be at the gala by now?"

You know it isn't exactly mature to be yelling through the door at each other, but it feels easier, somehow.

"Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong? Just tell me what I did and I'll fix it!"

That's your breaking point. You swing open the door to be met with Stewy in a navy blue suit, dressed up to the nines.

"You can't fix it," you murmur.

"Let me try," he begs, moving closer to you.

"Look, Stewy. Thank you, for everything, really. But I'm done. I can't do it anymore."

You sound so sure of yourself. His heart shatters so hard, he wonders if you hear it break.

"Was any of this even real?" he whispers, looking at you intently.

"... What?"

"Was any of this even real? I mean, I know it wasn't at the start, but I thought... I just... Nevermind."

"What did you think?" you ask gently. He isn't making sense, and it's putting you on edge. He's usually so assured.

"I thought - I thought this was something. I know you were my fake girlfriend, but I thought you were at least my real friend."

"I am your friend," you reassure, wrapping your arms around his middle instinctively. "That's why I can't do this anymore. Because we're friends. It's not fair."

You're holding onto each other for dear life. You both think this is the last time you'll get to do this.

"I thought you loved me," he whispers into the top of your head. "How stupid was I?"

You pull away to cradle his face in your hands, looking at him carefully.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"No, Stewy. Say it again. Please."

"I said, I thought you loved me. Guess it was all just pretend," he laughs dryly, no real humour in it.

"Oh my god," you chuckle. "We're so stupid."

"Speak for yourself," he mutters.

"I do love you," you laugh. "I thought you didn't love me. I thought you were just pretending."

"I don't think I was ever pretending."

With that, you lunge at him, smashing your lips to his. He tastes like peppermint and smells like his woody cologne and it's everything you've ever dreamed. He pulls back to wrap his arms around you, spinning you around the living room.

"You know, I think we should just skip the rest. What's the logical next step? Marriage? You wanna marry me?"

"Easy there, Casanova," you tease. "Take me on a real date first."

[electricbluebutterflies]

“we’re assigned to this mission in which we have to pretend to be a married couple, but i’m actually really in love with you”

Or, corporate spies on a cruise / how many romcom tropes can I fit into almost 6k. Jessica/Leto, PG-iiiiish (there's very vague Implications), also on ao3.

She’s done worse. She can’t easily remember when, which is never a good sign, but she’s done worse.

Corporate espionage is a weird career, and Jessica is occasionally convinced that some higher-up at the agency inexplicably hates her. On paper, she’s a great asset; in person, a mundane-pretty thirtysomething white woman is as forgettable as it gets. She doesn’t get the exciting assignments, fine, but she’s talented at fading into the background and seeing what isn’t seen and that should be enough and-

The moment she sees the phrase “cruise ship”, she deeply considers quitting on the spot. Then she sees the payout. She’s done worse and it paid less than this. She can survive ten days observing every service-oriented flaw on a floating wedding cake in the Caribbean. How bad could it actually be?

Answer – it’s a partnered assignment, and she does not get to choose who the agency sends with her. Oh, and they’re supposed to be playing newlyweds for some reason that Jessica has no desire to find out. Fuck her.

She finds out those details two days beforehand, and on the one hand at least her counterpart is someone she’s dealt with in passing but on the other hand… yeah, something on high definitely hates her, this is proof. She knows him more by reputation than personality, but supposedly that’s charming enough, and the man is very easy to look at, and-

Newlyweds. On a cruise. For ten very, very long days. With someone she has… not exactly a crush on, but only because she doesn’t do crushes or anything else in the normal spectrum of human emotional attachments. Someone she wants, maybe? Someone she won’t mind having to play couple with?

She’s going to die. She’s going to experience multiple emotions at once and fall over the edge of the ship into the perfect blue embrace of the Atlantic. She’s convinced.

Technically, the fun begins on dry land, in a questionable airport hotel somewhere in Florida – Jessica has learned to blur every detail she can in her mind, and specific locations don’t matter anyways – where everything she will need for the assignment is waiting for her. Too many revealing swimsuits in too many bright colors, and she half wonders if the implication is she’s supposed to be playing trophy wife and honestly she doesn’t have the right curves for that and-

She hears the click of the door unlocking and turns to look, hands still full of oh she is absolutely going to kill whomever thinks she looks decent in bubblegum pink as soon as she figures out who they are, and she can’t help that her heart skips half a beat. This sort of paired assignment, she reminds herself, will be easier with someone she can stand. She can fake affection if she’s not actually faking that much. She can-

“Oh thank goodness,” he says, taking her in. “At least you’re competent.”

She knows him more by reputation than personality, and the paperwork looks perfect. A few years older than her but not enough that it matters, not as much of a shapeshifter as she is but compensates more than enough by supposedly being able to talk his way out of almost anything, the kind of past-assignment pedigree that justifies their profession. Likable, she’s always heard. Polite enough, the few times they’ve interacted before. Not someone she’s scared to be alone with for the better part of two weeks. Not-

“I’m surprised that’s the word you start with.” Her own reputation, she knows, is… less shiny. She’s capable enough, and out of that she has become proud, but no one would ever mistake her icy tendencies for anything like charm, and-

“Did you consider why the payout looked unusually high?”

“I’m here. Of course I considered it.”

“Sometimes a contract comes along they can’t really say no to…”

“And usually those are the contracts that get me stuck somewhere unpleasant for multiple months,” Jessica finishes. “Not this. Not a paid vacation.”

“Paid vacation where they fully expect one of us will get food poisoning at the very least,” her counterpart corrects. “They want lawsuit bait, not trade secrets.”

“So the plan is… what, be the most obnoxious customers this cruise line has ever seen?”

“I was thinking opposite. Be normal. Be as absolutely normal as possible and don’t get any damage control run on us.”

She likes him, dammit. There is something in her that wants to defer, to not overthink this, to enjoy not being on her own on an assignment where she’ll probably burn like a lobster and-

“Plot detail seems unnecessary,” she says after a comfortable silence.

“Means we stick together and have the same experience. If something goes wrong, we both see it.”

Sounds plausible enough, but doesn’t mean she has to like it. She can be calm, she can do anything in public with enough determination to make it look real, but she doesn’t… she doesn’t…

Under such circumstances, admitting her lack of baselines does not seem like a good idea. All of the things she’s never done for her own purposes, never thought about herself that way, never seemed safe enough, never-

Something in her emotional state must slip through her careful externals, she realizes as her counterpart moves closer. There’s something warm about him, she thinks, something anyone could fall in love with and she could, she doesn’t know whether she wants to but she could, she could-

“This is only as awkward as we make it,” he says like the decision has already been made, close enough to touch her but he doesn’t. “As long as we hold hands in public…”

“You do see this, right?” She lifts up a scrap of pink floral bikini, an abomination that will find its way onto her body in the next few days even as she currently hates every detail. “There’s a set mood here. It isn’t exactly…”

“It’s not that bad.”

Jessica laughs, and at least this man won’t intentionally be the cause of her problems. “More revealing than I would’ve picked. A lot more revealing than I would’ve picked.”

“Oh. That kind of problem.”

“I’ll deal, but-“

“They don’t expect outfit reports.”

“The whole suitcase is in that vein. I’m sure most women would be okay with it, but I’m…”

Personal rule number whatever – she does not discuss her background with anyone. Ever. Especially not someone she wants to like her, on the rare occasions that happens. It just… doesn’t end well, and she can’t risk that right now, she can’t-

Instead of some attempt at a reassuring comment, he moves away and goes through the other suitcase. She turns her head to watch, and she’s almost jealous – more muted colors, practical, probably all comfortable. Less visual expectations, and she wants to say something cruel about it but instead she bites her lip hard enough to taste blood, instead-

“Here.”

An outstretched hand, a dove-gray tshirt, the smallest possible peace offering and her heart melts.

“Thank you.”

“It’ll help us be convincing if you wear something that looks like mine. Safe way around…”

“I’m sorry I’m not-“

“Don’t overthink this. Whatever happens, don’t overthink this.”

* * * * *

At least the hotel room has two beds. Not that Jessica sleeps well – she’s too adapted to privacy, and being in the same space as an unknown factor is enough to cause distress. Nothing happens; in another life, she thinks, that man would make a perfectly amicable roommate. Unfortunately…

In the morning, she puts on the most subtle outfit she can – not saying much, but she still tries – and an amount of lipgloss she thinks may be inappropriate on anyone old enough to rent a car, and she sticks out her hand and lets her counterpart put the unnecessarily fancy set of wedding rings on her finger.

“With this ring, I thee… are there specific vows for a temporary situation?”

“None I’ve ever heard,” she replies. “There ought to be. A different wedding ceremony for couples no one thinks will work out. Or marriages of convenience. Or…”

 “Can’t say I see myself as the marrying type. This may be as close as I get.”

There’s a sadness in his voice, a moment of broken eye contact, a sense of self-doubt Jessica recognizes like a mirror and she thinks in that moment that she would do anything in the world to take that pain but this is no time for her own emotions. Instead a soft smile, instead-

“What, you can’t imagine bringing someone else into this life?”

“Would you?”

She’s speechless for a moment, wants to come up with a good decoy answer, can’t. “Never even considered it.”

“Or after, maybe? None of us stay forever…”

Is he flirting with her? She’s pretty sure yes, and that’s just a nest of problems, and-

“Haven’t found a good enough reason,” she says, hoping that sounds like the end of the conversation. “Not sure whether I ever will.”

They’re quiet as the day truly begins, quiet as they shift into roles and become invisible. The rule with such assignments is to keep backstory minimal and easy, and the proximity of the assigned dynamic means no reason to discuss it. They’ll figure it out as needed, which she’s pretty sure already means her partner will say something and she’ll just go with it, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’s decided every detail of their fake life and honestly she has no problem with not thinking about it and-

This kind of trust-fall could be a mistake, she knows, but she can’t imagine anyone who’s been with their agency that long is anything worth fearing. Especially someone who’s openly side-eyeing the whole situation they’re currently in. Especially someone who gives her a look that feels like nonverbally asking for permission before he takes her hand.

She decides, in the blur of boarding and trying to hold back the instincts that want to find the weaknesses of every other cruise passenger she sees, that she’ll lean into her natural personality a little more than she suspects anyone wants her to. Be quiet in public and save all her comments for the safety of closed doors. Pass it off as just overwhelmed if anyone has concerns, and that’s accurate enough, and-

“You okay?” he asks, quiet tone and crowded space giving opportunity for openness.

“We’ll talk later.”

“Anything I need to know?”

“No. Just internals.”

“Doesn’t automatically mean-“

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she says, and it comes out harsher than she wants but she doesn’t care. “Not… not like it’s real.”

“And if it is?”

“That’s more of a problem than anything I have going on.”

This is no place for such a conversation, and they both hold back until they reach their room, which is… on the smaller side for a higher-end cruise ship, Jessica guesses, and probably on the cheaper end too. One bed that she has some doubts will accommodate both of their bodies comfortably. An equally small bathroom. Maybe designed this way to force its temporary occupants out into all the activities their vacation provides, but-

“I’ll take the floor,” she says before this too can turn into anything. “Or… that chair doesn’t look too bad to curl up in, I’ll be fine, I-“

Her counterpart gives her an unimpressed look, still a warmth to it that she can’t quite pin, but… he’s trying to be decent to her, she suspects, and she’s not making that easy for him. “You’re not sleeping on the damn floor.”

“Give me one good reason not to.”

“Several. It wouldn’t be comfortable. You didn’t sleep for more than half an hour straight last night and don’t pretend that’s not what happened. I’m not sure why you’re scared of me but-“

“Scared?” she repeats with full venom. “That’s how you’re interpreting this?!”

“Either scared or repressed. Nothing else is really-”

“Option two.”

He’s quiet for what feels like a few moments too long, just out of reach in this space that makes her feel small and trapped, and this is why she offered to keep what distance she can, this is why-

“Still? After… what was it, seven years in?”

“Seduction is different from the mundane. I can compartmentalize screwing someone I can’t stand. Not so much…”

He’s decent-looking and treats her like a human being and that’s a combination of problems she doesn’t need, she’d say if she were stronger. He’s distracting. At the same time, this may be as close to normal as she ever gets and-

“I’m quitting after this,” he says after another awkward silence. “They know already. You won’t have to deal with me again. Just get through the next ten days and forget this ever happened. Whatever you have to do. But you are not sleeping on that floor.”

“I don’t suppose you’re offering?”

“We’re both functional adults. I won’t try anything.”

She decides, against her better judgment, against a lifetime of cultivated paranoia and the fear of her own human heart, to believe him.

* * * * *

First, dinner. First, the realization that they will spend most meals with three other couples, none of whom are particularly interesting as far as Jessica is concerned. She turns her mind off, nods and affirms as it feels right, doesn’t totally process what backstory she’s agreeing to and doesn’t particularly care. It doesn’t matter. Ten more days, and then-

What if this is the motivation she needs to get out too? She’s been thinking about it for a while, what a quieter life might look like, and maybe…

No. Modern women do not quit their stable jobs due to what is quickly turning into unrequited love for someone they have no chance with in the outside world. That’s a reckless idea. She’s half tempted to do it anyway.

They get through dinner and a safety demonstration and then her counterpart suggests they take a walk to explore, to get a better sense of wherever the lawsuit bait they might be looking for may be. She feels herself losing focus and still goes with it, and as time passes she clings more and it feels safe and-

Eventually she realizes she’s crossed the line from tired to outright useless, and she isn’t sure how to say that, isn’t sure-

Dammit, this is why she doesn’t do paired assignments. Vulnerability is a curse.

It’s a few more minutes before her partner realizes something is actually wrong, and even that is subtle and respectful. “We should go back,” he says even though there’s still so much to see and this is still an ideal opportunity. “Long day.”

“I’m fine,” she says instinctively.

“You’re not fine.”

Under almost any other circumstances she’d push back, but… there is something frightfully enjoyable about being taken care of, a sense that her current weakness does not change how she is seen. She is a complication, perhaps, but not undesired. Maybe neither of them is what the other thinks. Maybe…

They’re quiet until they get back to the room, and there’s already a comfort in the silence, a sense that they are well-paired. That’s a start, she thinks, that’s enough of a reason to try to pursue this as any, that’s-

No. Terrible idea. There’s no justifiable reason to escalate beyond the boundaries of the mission. Even that may be too much.

Their superiors didn’t even think to give her normal pajamas. She’s known that for a day now, but it’s different without options, in an enclosed space where it takes too much effort not to blush and if these tiny impractical things are what normal newly-married women wear there may be valid reasons to stay single and-

“That’ll leave marks,” her counterpart says, glancing over her shoulder.

“That may be the point. And this is the most… I hate them. I hate them so much.”

“You don’t have to tolerate…”

“Don’t offer me a future. Don’t say things you won’t mean on dry land.”

“Did I do something to you?”

She’s quiet for what feels like too long, unable to make eye contact, hard enough to keep herself from crying. “No. You’re not the problem.”

“That’s not how you’re acting.”

“It’s not… you’re not… you don’t need to try with me. I don’t expect much and you’re-“

“You really are as fucked-up as I heard.”

Well, now she’s even more confused. She knows the rumors about her – it’s hard not to, she’s private even by the standards of their line of work, she’s perfect but her people skills aren’t where they could be in what passes for her outside life – but that way of putting it is new and it hurts and-

“Does that change anything?”

“Do you think it should?”

No, she wants to say. She wants to drown in the first real thing she’s ever felt, she wants to turn her body and take the first set of kisses she’s actively wanted, she wants to do a lot of impulsive things and she is goddamn terrified that none of them will end well and-

“What I want doesn’t matter,” she says instead, trying to make herself calm.

“Then no. It doesn’t change anything. You are… fascinating. And you haven’t done anything to me yet.”

“Living up to my ice-bitch reputation for a whole day doesn’t count?”

“Doesn’t feel personal.”

* * * * *

They fall asleep separate and wake up entwined. Her eyes open first, and it takes a few moments to process that there’s an arm innocently wrapped around her waist and a few moments more to decide she’s perfectly comfortable. The space is small, she justifies. The space is small enough to cause behaviors that would be unacceptable otherwise. This doesn’t have to mean anything.

She’s comfortable, and there is nothing imminent that needs done, and she is perfectly content to lie there for time without end and be held and claim this little moment for her future daydreams. None of this will happen again; after this mission is over, she decides, she will politely quit the agency and go find some boring office job somewhere and… this here will be the closest she ever comes to romance, and that will be fine by her. Better to deny herself than to want anything so risky. Better to-

Positions change as her counterpart wakes up – she can’t see him from her current angle, his body wrapped around hers, but he too seems to have no desire to move. Already this is more than it needs to be, already-

“Did you at least sleep?”

She could fall for him, she thinks. She could so easily convince herself that this is real. She shouldn’t, but she wants. She could adapt herself afterwards and make it real. She could-

“I did. I… it’s been a long time since I’ve been close to anyone like this.”

“Alright.”

There is still more exploring to do today, but a decision is made to people-watch for a while, to enjoy their circumstances. Somehow this ends up on a pool deck, Jessica in one of the godawful swimsuits and-

“Could you do my back?”

So help her, she’s not getting a sunburn on the first full day, she’s not-

She rarely has reason to remember how touch-averse she is, but it takes effort to stay calm, lying on a deck chair with almost all of her skin exposed and unfamiliar hands trying to cover her in sunscreen. She’s not sure that amount of pressure is necessary, she’s not-

“What are you doing?”

“Has anyone ever pointed out how tense you are?”

“Not while touching me.”

“Just say something if I hurt you, okay?”

She has no intention to escalate, but if her counterpart decides to then who is she to say no. His fingertips feel right, trying to take her tension, take everything maybe, trying to-

“Is this normal?” she asks, barely more than a whisper.

“Maybe?”

“You don’t know either,” she interprets, thankful her current position hides her blush.

“Haven’t exactly gotten as far as a couples’ vacation before.”

“Do I get to be surprised?”

“Lack of interest sound like enough of an explanation?”

“And here I suspected you were a romantic.”

“Idealistic, not…” His hands pause on her lower back, and already it’s easier for them to have the deep conversations without eye contact. “Dreams and reality don’t always match.”

“Never found the right person,” she interprets.

“Exactly.”

The silence becomes comfortable again, the care that makes her melt, the annoying curiosity about whether she might not be the only one having an internal crisis. She won’t move first, she decides. She absolutely will not move first. She’ll just… allow whatever happens. Whatever it is. Wherever it goes.

* * * * *

From there the mission fades into a pleasant routine. Jessica accepts that her intended role is to be a visual distraction, and it’s nice to not think for a few days, to merely confirm what her partner sees. If this is in fact how her career ends, this is a nice bow to put on it. If this is how her career ends…

The idea becomes more tempting as a few days pass, as she starts for the first time in close to a decade to think about what she might actually want. She’d fallen into observation work the same way she’d fallen into working night shift at a hotel before that, a combination of desperation and something about her that reads as impossible to take advantage of, and before that…

As far as her personal mythology goes, she came out of the ground at nineteen with a variety pack of trauma scars. The fifteen years since have been decent enough to her, and she is not healed but she is at least functional and that’s more than anyone in her situation ever hopes for, and-

Those hauntings hit hard on the morning of the sixth day, midway through what she’s decided is going to be an unnecessarily long shower. Mornings on a cruise ship are decidedly boring, even more so without a port today, and she needs to kill time, and her mind won’t stop, and-

She’s distracted. That’s what she’ll say later. She’s distracted, and she turns the water off and opens the door and reaches for a towel and grabs the rack instead and… towel racks, it turns out, are not designed to support a significant amount of her weight. She’s distracted, and she falls, taking the cheap metal off the wall with her, and-

They were sent to find lawsuit bait, she thinks as she processes her minor injuries, and they have found it. She’s lucky, she supposes, just a cut on her hand, maybe another on her shoulder, maybe-

The door opens, and okay now she can die.

“Shit.”

Jessica turns her head and it hurts, like she pulled something on the way down, like she’s going to spend the rest of the trip cocooned in bed. “Yeah.”

Her partner just stands there for a few moments, processing the situation, processing the state of her and for once she doesn’t feel the need to say anything about how visibly worried he is. At least this time it makes sense. At least this time she actually is justifiably distressed. This time…

“Are you…”

“Help?”

This is a different kind of vulnerable, her body curled up in a defense position but all her details still exposed. She is used to being seen, on the rare occasions she has been, with colder eyes. Not this, not this man who isn’t sure where he’s allowed to look as he kneels down next to her, not-

“Anything feel broken?”

“No. Not… not that bad. I’ll be alright. I’m just… not sure about moving right now.”

The towel she’d been aiming for is currently underneath her body; he reaches for another and tries to get it around her without doing anything improper, a caution she doubts right now is the right moment to point out. “Can you move?”

“I think so? Help me up?”

She has been too weak too many times on this assignment, she thinks, but at least this time she can justify. At least this time, one hand keeping a towel around her torso and an awareness how many bruises are forming on her pale skin… anyone would do the same. She is not weak, she tells herself. Unfortunate, perhaps, but not weak.

She feels steady enough on her feet, and her eyes flit to the mirror in front of her, how visible her current state of distress. She ought to push her partner’s hand away and she doesn’t; she ought to ask for privacy and she can’t. For right now, for this perfect fragile moment, she can forget everything.

Disaster averted, the energy shifts and his worry becomes something like visible relief. She’s noticed how quickly his moods change, a more visible adaptability than her own, something powerful and fascinating to it, something-

“I… I heard a crash without a scream and I thought-“

“I run quiet,” she murmurs. “No point in screaming if no one would help.”

“You could’ve. You knew-“

“I can’t break a lifetime of programming in a week. It’s not that easy.”

“You say things like that and I can’t help but wonder-“

“You don’t need to know. I’m out of your life in four days. I don’t need to-“

“What if I want to?”

Every instinct she has wants to say that’s a terrible idea. Fine, he’s motivated her to take a little more control of her life, that’s half a miracle and she probably owes him a kidney for it, but she doesn’t… she can’t…

“And what does that look like?” she asks, and she can’t help but wonder if she hit her head after all, if this isn’t all some unfortunate dream, if-

“I don’t know. Maybe if we’re in the same city at some point after this we see each other and…”

Jessica turns for better eye contact, better understanding of the blooming reality that she’s not the only one holding back, and damn her and her fragile heart, if this ends badly it may be the last thing she does, if this ends badly-

“That’s not what you want.”

“Does it matter? You’re not… you’re cautious and beautiful and-”

“I’m not scared of you,” she says, different weight to it than a few days ago, that reckless part of her that wants to fade into this forever, that wants too many damned things, wants-

“I could fall in love with you, I think. Outside of this. Like normal people do.”

“And if I don’t know how?”

“I don’t either. We could still try.”

He backs away before anything can happen, before either of them has space to do something impulsive. There has been enough awkwardness for one morning; there has been enough awkwardness, she thinks, for an entire lifetime. She should hate this so much, how much stronger her emotions have been this past week, how much-

No, she thinks as the door clicks closed and she steadies herself against the bathroom counter. She could never hate him. Someday that’ll be a problem, if she gets that kind of time, but right now it isn’t.

* * * * *

Their energy changes after that. It is easier to play her assigned role – not that it was particularly hard before, Jessica reminds herself lest she get too stuck in her head, but it’s always easier to play things as real as possible. If they are, in fact, falling for each other…

She does not plan to spend the second-to-last night in what passes for a particularly touristy nightclub, but there’s a dress in her suitcase that looks intended for that purpose, and she hates almost every life choice she’s ever made right now but this is if nothing else an opportunity.

Her self-perception has always favored her mind, not her body. Being considered pretty makes her prey, increases the odds of bad things happening, and she’s done everything she can to minimize the risk. Be unmemorable and be safe. To go against that for her own reasons, to actually care how she is seen…

It’s been one thing to bleed herself into her role, to curl up close at night because something about that man makes her calm like she didn’t know her mind was capable of a week ago and lean into whatever touch is offered and not just make the best of a bizarre situation but make it beautiful. It feels like another to make moves, this close to what should be the end, to make it all real.

She doesn’t like to think about herself as a physical being, but her hair is up out of the way and her eyeliner is perfect and this awful dress covers about half what she would in her own life and… she doesn’t mind what looks back at her in the mirror. Maybe this is what she needs to be.

Her counterpart takes the bait so well – she appreciates how easy he is to read, like being subtle about anything has never occurred to him, like there is never any need to hold back. She half expects a comment, but lingering glances say enough, just a little more proximity says enough, there is not-

“Do you ever do this outside?” he asks a while later, music just loud enough to let them have a conversation.

“Go dancing?” Jessica laughs, like that’s the wildest idea she’s ever heard, like in what world did he get that impression of her but she appreciates the space given all the same. “No. I don’t… I’m borderline reclusive when I’m not working. No friends, no lovers, managed to kill a cactus, that’s not supposed to be possible…”

“Do I get to be impressed by that last bit?”

“I think horror would be a more appropriate reaction. I was only gone for a week that time!”

“So you’re not the type to fill a hypothetical apartment with every plant you lay eyes on. You just keep getting more perfect.”

“What, you’re not the plant-parent type?”

“There’s a difference between having a few houseplants for decoration and a whole greenhouse…”

They’re quiet for a while and it’s a different kind of comfortable, forcing herself to be present in her body, forcing herself to be good at this and oh it is somehow both easier and harder than it should be and-

It occurs to her that this would be a good excuse to take a kiss, and she does. She doesn’t know how to initiate, but this is what she wants most in the world right now and it’s a perfect heartbeat and-

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“But did you want it too?”

He answers with a kiss in return, more deliberate, and she feels something dangerous wake up in her and… there’s no going back from this, she realizes. Someday she’s going to look back on this moment as a turning point, so small but her little life will never be the same after, and-

“We need to go somewhere quieter,” she breathes against his skin, hoping he picks up the implications.

She doesn’t do this, she reminds herself as they drift back to their room. She’s had disappointing sex on a few missions over the years, learned how to make herself adaptable and use her softness as just another tactic, but this is real, fuck, this is real and she’s terrified and-

She doesn’t do this, and she lets her mind turn off for the occasion, lets her partner lead once they’re behind a safely locked door, lets him kiss and touch her and it’s good and she wants and she’s overwhelmed and-

“You have… done things before, yeah?”

Back into her body, back into this moment, back into she’s down to really useless underwear on a bed and her partner is in similar state and looking at her like he’s not sure any of this is a good idea either and-

“Yeah. I have an implant. I’m okay.”

Her instincts already justify this as a lapse in judgment nothing more, but it feels right, familiar somehow, she’s not a romantic but she wants, she wants-

Out of her mind, into her body. Only them, only this.

After, she clings. After, she turns every detail into a safe memory. After – and this is the fear of it all – she barely sleeps and she wonders if there is any coming back from what they have done.

* * * * *

It ends. The details blur as they should, and they end up back in that hotel room where the mission started, a few hours of closure before it all ends. A liminal space, a cocoon, ending and beginning and-

It feels nice to change back into comfortable clothes, to become herself again, but she wonders if that is still enough. If these reckless hopes she has will mean anything anymore. If-

“What now?” she asks, just a little time to kill and all of her anxieties taking up the empty space.

“What do you mean?”

“Do we part amicably and forget this ever happened? Do we…”

Instead of an answer, her partner turns and writes something on hotel stationary and hands her a folded slip of paper. “Open that once you’re on your flight.”

“What is it?”

“A phone number the agency doesn’t know I keep. You’re… different. Call me, if you leave.”

“You still-“

“How could anyone spend nearly two weeks glued to you and not get attached?”

Jessica can think of a several-page list of reasons, but this doesn’t seem like the time. Not when it feels like, once again, she is being offered a new life.

“Trauma bonding is a thing,” she murmurs.

“You really don’t trust anyone.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Try. If you want. If you…”

“I want,” she says, moving closer and taking a parting kiss. “Is that okay?”

“Perfect.”

* * * * *

As instructed, she opens the paper on her second flight and sees not just a phone number with an unfamiliar area code but also a legal name that doesn’t match the one on the paperwork she saw two weeks ago.

She tells the agency she thinks she’s losing her touch and she’d rather not almost die again, but good luck with the case.

A month later, in a new city picked off that private information, Jessica makes a phone call.

“I got out.”

“Complicated?”

“I may be a peripheral witness in a few lawsuits, but… otherwise amicable.”

“What now?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He gives her an address, which later turns out to be a neutral midpoint of a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant, and a time.

“Start over with me.”

She wants. She does.

[sage-nebula]

Pretty sure my Shiny Charm is broken and I’m real pressed about it.

[handwrittenhello]

gave you wings

T, Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer, 4k, modern-with-magic AU. When Geralt is woken one morning by a crow tapping at his window, he finds that it's no ordinary crow--it's a shifter, bound in animal form by a nasty spell.

read here on ao3, or below:

---

Geralt was roused from sleep by something persistent tapping at his window. With a groan, he rolled over—catching sight of his alarm clock flashing 3:48 as he did—and went to investigate.

He hoped it wasn’t one of the local kids again—lately they’d become far too fond of daring each other to throw rocks at his windows. It almost made him long for the times when witchers were feared and hated—nobody would dare risk provoking him so stupidly.

When he opened the window, though, it wasn’t kids throwing rocks—no, a crow sat on his windowsill, a pebble clutched in its beak, which it promptly dropped when it saw Geralt.

“Scram,” Geralt muttered, waving it away, but all it did was hop sideways a bit before letting out a loud caw.

Geralt furrowed his brow. “Get out of here,” he said a bit louder, trying to shoo it away again. It deftly avoided his hands, flapping a little to maintain balance on the narrow sill, before hopping onto his hands and letting out an even louder CAW.

This was no ordinary crow. Why else would it be tapping on his window so early in the morning, and so unafraid of his closeness? “Fuck,” he muttered, and left the window open while he went to brew a pot of coffee.

--

The crow seemed quite at home perched atop his kitchen counter, watching him with its beady eyes as he leaned back against the fridge and downed a cup of heavily sugared coffee. “So,” Geralt finally said, setting down his mug on the counter. “What’s so important that you got me out of bed at four in the morning for?”

The crow drew itself up and ruffled its feathers, as if readying itself for a speech. It was a strangely human gesture—Geralt was reminded that they wouldn’t get very far with the crow not being able to speak.

“Hm. Can you even understand me?” Geralt backtracked, earning himself an indignant look and a low rattling sound. But the crow bobbed its head up and down in a sure nod. “But you can’t speak.” Another nod.

The crow hopped closer, then, until it was almost atop Geralt’s hand lying on the countertop. Geralt caught a flash of something shiny around its leg—was there something wrapped around it? But when he made to reach for it, the crow skittered backwards, making another low rattle and fluffing up its feathers.

“It’s alright, I just want to look,” Geralt soothed, stilling his hand. The rattle stopped, and the bird hopped hesitantly closer. Geralt waited for it to come to him, motionless and patient. Only when it perched on his hand did he bring it closer, peering intently at its leg.

A silver chain, so fine as to be nearly invisible to the eye, wound its way around the crow’s leg. This close, he could see the barely-there, shimmering aura around it—it was surely enchanted. Likely a binding charm—chains rarely served any other purpose in spells.

Geralt whistled lowly. “No ordinary crow, then,” he surmised, though he’d already known. “Human?”

The crow rattled its displeasure at the term—so it wasn’t transfigured, then. But it was still clearly sentient—

“Ah,” Geralt said, an idea dawning. “A shifter.”

Sometimes called weyr, in the old tongue—as survived in words like werewolf—the species was exceedingly rare. Even before monsters and chaos had dwindled down to nearly nothing, one would be hard-pressed to encounter a shifter, let alone recognize one upon seeing it. In human form, they were indistinguishable from anyone else, by the naked eye or by magic. They retained their wits in their animal form, too, so unless one was careless enough to be seen shifting, it was nigh impossible for them to be caught.

Their rarity had made them a target by mages and non-mages alike—they were either hunted in hopes of harnessing their unique connection to chaos, or else were pursued by the ignorant who feared anything strange.

It was nothing short of a miracle, one showing up at Geralt’s door (or window, rather).

“Someone caught you. A mage,” Geralt guessed. Only a powerful magic user would be able to bind a shifter so thoroughly. “But why are you here?”

The crow cawed and launched itself towards Geralt’s throat. Geralt jerked his head back, but he had nothing to fear—the crow was pecking at the witcher medallion that lay in the hollow of his throat.

“My friend, you’d be far better off going to a mage. I have skill with breaking curses, but none so complex as yours,” Geralt confessed.

The crow let out an ear-splitting screech. Geralt slammed his hands over his ears. That would be a resounding no, then. He decided not to broach the matter of payment just then.

He eyed the crow, wary of another reaction. When none was forthcoming, he cautiously lowered his hands, the crow watching him intently all the while—waiting for an answer.

“I’ll help you,” Geralt decided. Well, he had decided the moment he’d let the crow inside, really, but it was easier to pretend he’d made an informed decision. “May I see the charm again?”

The crow obliged, fidgeting in place but mostly managing to hold still while Geralt inspected the chain. Though it was fine, he doubted it would be as simple as snapping it—that didn’t stop him from trying anyway, though the moment he touched it, the crow screeched and beat him back with its wings, before retreating to atop the fridge. There it huddled, fussing fretfully at its leg—and then Geralt saw, almost obscured by feathers but visible when looking for it, the dark skin beneath the chain, the blackened marks that resulted from a bad burn.

“Enchanted and cursed, then. I apologize.” The crow glared at him, not moving from its spot stop the fridge and out of reach. “I won’t touch it again. I promise,” Geralt vowed, sorry that he had caused any pain in the first place.

The crow huffed, but flapped back down to the counter. It watched Geralt, waiting for his next move.

“Come with me,” Geralt said, grabbing his jacket and keys.

--

The crow gripped the handlebars of Geralt’s motorbike tightly, the wind whipping past and threatening to dislodge it. It kept starting to open its wings, only to force them closed again, as if it was reminding itself that it wasn’t actually flying. Geralt kept a close watch anyway, afraid that if he took a turn too sharply or revved the engine too suddenly, the crow would be thrown off and crushed beneath the wheels of another vehicle.

Should’ve taken a taxi, Geralt thought to himself, but it was too late now. They were already on the freeway to Vengerberg, where a certain violet-eyed sorceress kept a summer home. He supposed he could have called ahead, but he still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of cell phones—always forgot it whenever he went anywhere—and besides, Yennefer always appreciated a good surprise.

Geralt chased the sun east, watching as the horizon in front of him slowly went from indigo blue to purple to stunning gold as the sun rose. They crossed the border into Aedirn sometime mid-morning, and Geralt pulled over to a rest stop to refuel and grab something to eat.

The crow perched atop his shoulder as he entered the gas station, preening its feathers into place after being disturbed by the wind. The attendant stared openly, though Geralt was sure she must have seen weirder. He ignored it and grabbed a packet of sunflower seeds for the crow and some beef jerky for himself.

“Five sixty-eight,” the attendant said when he came up to the register, followed by, “Nice pet.”

The crow looked up from its preening and cawed loudly at her.

“He’s not a pet,” Geralt said mildly, then grabbed his food and left. While he stretched his legs out at a picnic table, the crow stretched its wings, flapping in circles above his head. Every so often, it would land briefly on the table and peck at the sunflower seeds Geralt had scattered there, before returning to its circling.

Geralt ate his jerky leisurely, and debated going back in for a soda.

--

After half an hour, Geralt felt they had delayed long enough. The crow was likely anxious to get going, and Geralt would be lying if he said he wasn’t as well. He got to his feet and whistled for the crow, which had steadily flown in greater and greater circles, and had since disappeared briefly from sight. Geralt wasn’t overly worried—until the crow didn’t show up. Geralt wished he knew what to call it—he would’ve felt stupid calling it ‘crow’.

He whistled again, louder and longer this time. Nothing happened for one second, two, and then Geralt heard it, and only thanks to his enhanced senses—frantic cawing and flapping wings among the trees behind the rest stop.

He broke out into a run, pushing aside the thin branches that snapped at his face as he fought his way through the undergrowth. The cawing was near, now, and Geralt heard tense voices accompanying.

“The cage—get the cage—!”

Geralt broke through the trees to a small clearing, stopping stunned at the sight in front of him. A silver woven net lay tangled in a heap on the ground in one corner, and opposite was a steel cage, door hanging open and waiting for an occupant. There were feathers scattered everywhere, and Geralt smelled traces of blood in the air.

And in the middle of the clearing was the source of the commotion—the crow flapped wildly above the heads of two men, talons extended and trying to scratch at their faces, while they flailed about with nets, not unlike the kind used to catch insects, though a bit bigger. A third man, older, wizened, stood apart, his eyes closed in concentration as he muttered something under his breath. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

Stregobor.

It had been centuries since Geralt had seen him, though he’d heard plenty about his latest exploits in the news—he was said to be making great strides in magical research, investigating transformative magic and its applications. Geralt had often tuned it out, but now it all made sense—if he wasn’t the one who had bound the crow shifter to a single form for some nefarious purpose, Geralt would eat his bike.

He wasted no time in instantly tackling Stregobor to the ground, disrupting the spell he was casting. The crow seemed to be holding its own against the two men with nets for the time being, though Geralt knew he needed to hurry—the scent of blood was growing stronger, the crow actively bleeding. He had the element of surprise, and didn’t waste it—he grappled with Stregobor, surprised at the strength the old mage still had even after so many centuries.

There was a sudden cry of pain behind him—Geralt thought it was human and not avian, but he couldn’t tell for sure. It distracted him momentarily, and that was all Stregobor needed to shout something in Elder that had Geralt flying backwards.

His back hit the ground hard, stunning him for half a second. Stregobor got to his feet, brushing the debris from his clothes—he still wore robes, even after all this time—and shot a bolt of light towards the crow.

It hit it in the wing, sending it tumbling out of the air in a heap of feathers. One of the men with a net—the only one still standing, the other writhing on the ground and clutching his bleeding face—slammed his net down onto the motionless crow with far too much force.

Geralt caught his breath and rolled to his feet, launching himself at the man that had the crow captive. He knocked him unconscious easily with a swift blow to the head, but that was as far as he got before Stregobor sent another pulse of magic towards him.

He dodged. It missed him by a hair, screaming past his head and exploding against a tree behind him.

“Stay out of this, witcher,” Stregobor warned, readying another spell. “This doesn’t have to concern you.”

“Let the shifter go and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Stregobor replied, and threw the spell at Geralt. Geralt dodged again, but too slowly—it clipped his arm. Hot, agonizing pain spread from the area.

If this turned into a fight between magic and witcher skills, there was no question who would win. Geralt made a snap decision, scooping the crow off the ground and darting out of the clearing, heading back towards the rest stop.

Stregobor was hopefully depleted after the many spells he had already cast—Geralt could only hope that he wasted the rest of his energy by chasing him through the brush. If they could just get to Yennefer’s…

Sure enough, as he sprinted towards his bike, Geralt heard Stregobor yelling curses behind him. Once or twice a bolt of magic went flying by, but it missed every time.

As Geralt broke through the tree line, he hoped that he had finally lost Stregobor. He straddled his bike and tucked the crow inside his jacket, hissing in apology when he jarred the crow’s injured wing. With a roar of the engine he peeled out onto the freeway, speeding east to Vengerberg.

--

Though there was nobody pursuing them, Geralt still felt hunted as he pulled his bike into Yennefer’s expansive driveway. He all but ran to her door, pounding urgently on it, regretting not calling ahead so that she knew to expect them.

Luckily, she answered only moments later. “Do you have wards up?” was the first thing Geralt asked.

“Yes. Do you know how alarming it is for that to be the first thing you say after not seeing each other for months?” Yennefer asked, beckoning him in.

“Have to be sure,” Geralt grunted. “Got a problem, and I don’t know if I was followed.”

“Would it kill you to bring flowers or wine instead of a problem every time you come by?” Yennefer sighed. “What is it?”

Geralt unzipped his jacket and carefully extracted the crow. It was no longer unconscious, but drowsy would be an understatement—it looked on the verge of a coma, eyes half-closed and breathing shallow. A few loose feathers drifted to the ground.

“Pest Services might be more apt,” Yennefer started to say, but paused when the silver chain caught her eye. “Ah. Binding spell? Friend of yours?”

“No. I’m for hire,” Geralt said, conveniently leaving out the part where he’d received no such payment. “It’s a shifter. Wanted by Stregobor—probably for research.”

The skin around Yennefer’s eyes tightened ever so slightly—he dared to call it concern for the shifter—and she gritted her teeth—and that he knew was deep-rooted hatred for Stregobor.

“Bring him to my workroom.”

He followed her upstairs, where she kept most of her magical equipment. With a wave of her hand, she cleared the books and various sundries from the worktable against the wall, and indicated for Geralt to lay the crow down on it. He did so carefully, mindful of its injuries, and hesitantly stepped back. Yennefer didn’t appreciate hovering, but he couldn’t fight back his protective instincts that had been roaring ever since the fight.

Yennefer leaned over the crow, inspecting. Her hands went to the chain, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. “Don’t,” he warned, stepping forward and reaching out as if to physically stop her.

“I know,” she snapped back. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen a binding spell or two in my time, Geralt.” But she showed demonstrably more care in handling the crow, then, lest he become alarmed again.

She moved on to inspecting the crow’s wing, then, frowning at what she saw. “This was a magical injury, yes?”

“Yes. One of Stregobor’s spells—it was a bolt of light, caught it in the wing.”

“Well, lucky for it, the damage is physical only, from what I can tell. Stregobor likely meant to stun it only. Hence the lifelessness. It’ll wear off within the hour.”

Geralt let out a sigh of relief at hearing the diagnosis. Physical injuries, those he knew what to expect, how to deal with them. Now what worried him most was the binding spell.

“And the chain? Can you remove it without hurting it?”

Yennefer pursed her lips. “No. It’s an extremely strong bond—the sort not taken as a trifle. Forging a connection like this without the shifter’s consent…” She shook her head. “It’s a violation of the worst sort, Geralt.”

Geralt’s heart thudded in his chest. He wet his lips. “So what do we do?” He gazed at the poor crow, looking so small and hopeless where it lay. He couldn’t put words to his horror—being bound body and soul, and to Stregobor, no less.

“There are… theories, things I’ve read, but you have to understand,” Yennefer said, pinning his gaze, “I don’t suggest what I’m about to lightly.”

A pit formed in Geralt’s stomach. “What is it?” It couldn’t be worse than the binding spell, could it?

“If we formed another bond, one even stronger than this, it would give us room to throw off the old one. But the strength required… it would be ironclad, unbreakable. The shifter would spend the rest of its very long life bound to us.”

Even now, some eight hundred years later, Geralt thought back to the djinn in Rinde, to the connection that had once bound their destinies together, and he knew she was remembering it too. “Yen…” he trailed off. How did he put it to words? How did he express his understanding, acknowledge that she was trying to help, while warning her of doing the same thing she’d opposed so strongly then?

But then, looking into her eyes and seeing the haunted look there, he knew that he didn’t have to. She had already had this conversation with herself, and, seeing no other option, had accepted her role as becoming exactly what she hated.

A weak croak caught their attention. Geralt looked over and saw that the crow was looking slightly more lively—it had managed to sit up, at least, though it still looked bedraggled and unsteady. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked, and received a delayed nod. Then a thought struck him. “Yen, can you…?”

“Read his thoughts? I would, but they’re too muddled. I don’t know if it’s the result of the spell or if it’s always like this in animal form. I’ve never met a shifter personally, and gods know there’s hardly any literature on them.”

The crow got shakily to its feet, and before either Geralt or Yennefer could stop it, it flew up to perch on Geralt’s shoulder, nuzzling in close to his neck. He instinctively put a hand up to cradle it in place—the last thing it needed was to fall off.

“Well, then? Clearly it’s gotten attached,” Yennefer said, arching an eyebrow.

“I don’t—I don’t know.” How could he make this decision? It was too big, too important. He held the shifter’s life in his hands, and the knowledge terrified him.

The crow nipped him on the ear. “Ow,” Geralt complained, but was drowned out by the crow cawing in his ear. He suddenly felt very foolish indeed—the crow had heard them discussing it, must have, and they hadn’t even considered asking it its opinion of the matter. “Hm. I’m sorry that we can’t give you a better option.”

The crow cawed again, softer, and nibbled gently at his ear. It’s alright, it seemed to be saying, or perhaps I understand.

“It’s your decision,” Yennefer said. “I can bind you to us—permanently—in order to break the bond with Stregobor. Or, if you’d rather, you can live out your days here, and I give you my word that no harm will you come to you—though the bond would remain.”

The crow rattled in disgust. It nipped gently once more at Geralt’s ear, then flapped-hopped over to Yennefer’s shoulder, where it began preening her hair. Geralt couldn’t believe that she would allow it, but she made no move to dislodge the crow.

“Is that a yes?” he asked nervously, anticipation curdling in his stomach. The crow stopped its preening, looked directly at Geralt, and bobbed its head up and down neatly.

“Alright,” Yennefer said softly.

--

They cleared out all the furniture for the ritual that would replace the bond. The crow watched them, perched atop the table, until they had to move that too, and then it clung to Geralt’s shoulder as he worked. Finally, the room was clear, and Yennefer drew a large chalk circle on the floor.

Geralt took his designated seat warily, nerves making his skin prickle. Yennefer sat opposite him, legs crossed, while the crow was sat in between. Yennefer dimmed the lights and closed her eyes—he copied her, relying on his other senses.

He smelled smoke as Yennefer lit the bundle of herbs she’d gathered, heard the soft susurrus of the crow’s feathers as it shifted. As she began to chant, he felt the characteristic tingle of magical energy settling over him like a second skin—the bonding had started.

Yennefer’s chanting grew steadily louder, and behind his eyelids Geralt saw the light of the candles flare even brighter. The crow’s fidgeting grew wilder, and little croaks began to make their way out of its throat.

Geralt hoped it wasn’t hurting—and if it was, he hoped it would be over soon.

He himself was in no pain at all, besides the discomfort that came with all magic cast on him. He gritted his teeth and bore it, until all at once it stopped—the candles went out, Yennefer gasped once, and the silver chain around the crow’s leg fell to the floor with a soft clink.

Geralt’s eyes flew open, and where the crow had been only moments before, there was now a pair of legs—bare—and when Geralt followed them upwards, there was an entire man—also bare. Geralt blinked a few times, mind blank, before averting his gaze.

“Well,” the shifter said, smacking his lips. “That was unpleasant.” And Geralt watched as his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, too quickly for Geralt to catch him.

“He’ll be fine,” Yennefer said, getting to her feet. She swayed a little as she stood, and Geralt ached to steady her—something she would never accept. “The bonding took a lot out of all of us—him most of all.”

Geralt hummed, gathering up the shifter in his arms. He weighed more than he looked—or perhaps Geralt was simply used to his weight as a crow. While Yennefer put her things back in order, Geralt carried the shifter to the guest room, tucking him into bed and feeling strangely fond as he did so.

“It’s the bond,” Yennefer explained, leaning in the doorway and watching the whole affair. She ambled over to the bed and sat down next to the shifter, reaching over to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Can you feel it?”

He could, he realized, when he reached deep inside. Just beside the djinn’s magic that tied him to Yennefer, he felt a fledgling something, a fluttering newness that nipped and tugged at his breastbone.

“That’s him?” Geralt asked, though he didn’t need the confirmation—he knew it as surely as he knew himself.

Yennefer nodded, dropping her arm and standing up. “Leave him to his rest. I imagine he’ll need some time to acclimate to the bond—we all will, for that matter.”

Though Geralt wanted nothing more than to stay and study the shifter, watch over him until he woke, he followed Yennefer out of the room, shutting the door softly so as not to disturb him.

--

The shifter woke some hours later, after Geralt and Yennefer had eaten a late lunch and were debating if it would be worth eating dinner. The shifter stumbled down the stairs, interrupting their discussion, and said, quite plainly, “Are we talking dinner? I’m starving.”

“You’re up,” Yennefer replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” the shifter—Geralt really needed to ask his name—answered. “Sunflower seeds are nice and all, but really, nothing compares to a good hot meal.”

He was wrapped in the bedsheet, Geralt realized suddenly. Of course—he had no clothes. It didn’t seem to overly bother him, though, as he crossed the room and promptly deposited himself on Geralt’s lap, wiggling a bit to get comfortable. Geralt’s hands came up automatically to wrap around his waist.

“And your wing?” Yennefer asked.

“Oh, good as new!” the shifter replied cheerily, untangling his arm from the bedsheet and wiggling it in demonstration. “Healed right up as soon as that awful binding spell was gone.” He turned to look at Geralt. “Thank you, by the way. You didn’t have to help me—I know it was a lot of trouble.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt answered. “I wouldn’t leave you to Stregobor.”

The shifter shuddered. Geralt held him a bit tighter. “Ugh. He caught me unaware—normally I’m careful, but this very handsome man bought me a drink, and then another, and then before I knew it I was being manhandled into the back of a car. And I thought, well, can’t be manhandled if I’m not a man, but then he had that awful chain…”

“You’re not the first to fall victim to him. Though binding a shifter to him is a new low,” Yennefer said darkly.

Guilt tightened in Geralt’s gut. It was different, what they had done—but was it really? It was still a bond the shifter had been forced into. He moved the shifter off his lap, ignoring the hurt look that he flashed him. “Need to go for a walk,” Geralt grunted, and headed for the door.

“Don’t mind him,” he heard Yennefer say behind him. “Let him clear his head and then he’ll be back. In the meantime—what do you say to pasta?”

The door shut heavily behind Geralt, cutting off their voices, giving him room to think. The bond still pulsed heartily in his chest, but like this, it was muted enough for him to catch his breath.

How was the shifter so blasé about it? Surely he understood the fact that he was now permanently bound to two strangers?

Geralt jammed his hands in his pockets and started to walk, focusing only on his feet hitting the ground and the evening calls of the bird around him.

By the time his thoughts had settled and he’d made his way back to the house, the sun was setting, and a deep tiredness was settling into his bones. The early morning and excitement of the day were catching up with him.

He could hear Yennefer and the shifter inside, chatting, and hesitated on the doorstep. He suddenly felt as if he were intruding—what right did he have to storm off in the middle of a conversation and expect them to welcome him back seamlessly? Clearly they were getting along just fine without him.

The door opened suddenly and a gust of wind at his back urged him inside. Yennefer. He let her guide him to the kitchen, where the shifter stood washing dishes at the sink and she sat on the counter. “Ah, you’re back!” the shifter said, setting down the plate it was washing.

“Jaskier was just telling me about your trip here. It sounded quite exciting,” Yennefer teased.

“I like a bit of adventure, but I could do without the almost-kidnapping,” Jaskier said, leaning in closer to Geralt. “Lucky I had you there, I suppose.”

“Hm.” Geralt hesitantly lifted an arm, and Jaskier wasted no time in burrowing into his side. “Lucky.”

“And lucky you have such wonderful friends as Yennefer,” Jaskier continued, looking meaningfully at Yennefer. She raised an eyebrow, but hopped off the counter and sidled closer. Geralt let her sink into his side too, holding them both tightly, and felt the thrumming bond inside of him settle in contentment at having them close.

Lucky indeed.

[lesbobiwan]

Congrats on 100! 🥳 I was wondering if I could request #100 and Wolffe 💕

thank u so much for the request!!!

#100: "Call me selfish, but I don't ever want anyone else to touch you." + Wolffe

warnings: kinda public sex. you dont fuck in front of anyone but its kinda close, jealous sex, clothed sex, creampies

You could think of a million different things you'd rather be doing right now.

You'd rather clean the barrack bathrooms after the boys don't have the heart to turn down Plo's well-meaning attempt at cooking. You'd rather be dropped off on an abandoned planet and be told to find a way off. You'd rather be getting shot at by fucking Seppies.

But, no. You're here in this ridiculous dress for some party thrown in the name of the GAR's brave and selfless troopers.

What a load of shit.

As if any of those senators give a shit about any of these men aside from how a picture of them shaking hands will boost their approval ratings.

You know you were invited as a deliberate political move. As the only volunteer nat-born medic for the 104th, you make the war easier to look at.

Look, Senators will say while they point to you, we don't rely solely on the creation of clones who are made to fight and die for a war they have no choice in! We have regular people involved in the war too!

Again. What a load of shit.

It's sickening the way that these politicians will pretend to care about the well-being of the soldiers who fight and die for them when it will make them look good. These people, if you can even call them that, don't know what it's like on the front lines.

You can barely understand what it's like on the frontlines, but you see the aftermath. You see the shell-shocked shinies and the trembling hands of even the most veteran trooper after a battle gone wrong.

Politicians are a disease, you think to yourself, and the sooner you can get out of this ridiculous dress the better.

The only benefit to this is the free champagne and the way Wolffe acts as a deterrent to any smart Senator or politician that comes your way.

Dressed to impress in a sharp gray suit, Wolffe cuts an imposing figure next to you. The tight suit jacket makes his already broad shoulders look impossibly broader and the buttons of his dress shirt strain against the muscles of his chest.

Your dress seems to compliment Wolffe in every way. Your dress is mainly white, but the gray accents serve as a subtle call to Wolffe's suit. Claiming you as his, you like to think. The same designs etched into the cuffs and collar of Wolffe's suit jacket are present at the bottom of your dress, circling the hem before fading as you look higher up the dress.

You think you'd enjoy the night if it wasn't for the Senate's... everything. You may be in a war, but you enjoy looking and feeling pretty. You think you'd feel very pretty if the meaning of the night didn't make you feel sick to your stomach.

With the commander acting as your shadow for the night, you've had little trouble keeping pesky Senators looking for a quick fuck away from you.

At least... the smart ones.

"As I was saying, my father is one of the main beneficiaries of the GAR," the boy — and truly he isn't enough to call a man — prattles on in front of you, totally oblivious to your uninterested expression and the clone commander hovering over your shoulder. You think he might be a senatorial aide and his father might be the Senator?

You wonder if you should adjust the plunging neckline of the dress so that the hickey Wolffe left behind last night peeks into eyesight.

"And I tell him that he shouldn't waste our family money on this war. Honestly, there's no need for clones," he continues, eyes flickering to Wolffe before he turns back to you, "I mean, what could clones possibly provide that a real man can't?"

He leans towards you, and with his last few words he drags his knuckles lightly up your arm. A smile that he must think is charming slithers onto his face as he continues to caress your crawling skin.

"Better company, for one," you mumble into your champagne glass before you can cause a scene. You drain the rest of the drink before you say something stupid.

You don't think you muffle it well enough because Wolffe's shoulders shake in muffled laughter behind you.

"Would you like to dance?" The aide blurts out, and once caressing fingers turn into a greedy grabbing hand closing around your wrist.

Wolffe stiffens behind you, jolting against your back before stopping himself.

Your face morphs into one of distain before you can stop it, "Actually," you begin, yanking your wrist from a sweaty palm, "I promised Commander Wolffe my first dance," your smile is so obviously fake it's painful, but the aide doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, maybe after you're done with the trooper, we can —"

"It's Commander," Wolffe finally speaks up, and his gravely voice has goosebumps spreading across your skin.

"Excuse me?"

Wolffe's hand splays across the small of your back as he steps beside you, "I said, it's commander," he repeats, voice cold like stone. Fuck, it makes your thighs rub together beneath your dress.

The aide's nose scrunches up, "Yes, well, when you're done with the commander, maybe you'll come my way?"

What is it with men not taking a hint?

"No, I don't think so," Wolffe answers for you before the hand on your back shifts from just a grounding touch to a guiding one, and he's leading you away.

Your skin is alight with excitement. You look up at the commander, whose jaw in clenched in obvious irritation. It makes you feel guilty, but Wolffe looks extremely attractive when he's pissed.

"Wolffe, we just passed the dance floor," you whisper as he rushes you past the chunk of the room marked out for couples to hold each other close and sway to the music.

"I know," Wolffe says shortly, leading you to the nearest exit so fast that you nearly fall out of your impractical shoes.

He practically drags you out the door and into one of the hallways you know you aren't allowed to be in.

"Wolffe, where are we — Oh!"

The commander cages you against the wall, hands on either side of your head as his hips press flush to yours through your dress. You can feel the bulge of his cock even through the layers of your clothes.

He breathes in deep through his nose before he speaks, "You're mine, you know that, right?" he rocks his hips against you as he speaks, and you don't get the best friction through the poofiness of your dress, but it's his words that make your thighs clench.

"Yes," you whisper into the space between you, "only yours, Wolffe,"

And it's true. You are Wolffe's no matter the setting — battlefield or ballroom — and no matter the outfits — hard plastoid armor or dashing suits and dresses.

Wolffe stares down at you, breathing hard through his mouth, searching for something in your face before he leans down to crush your lips together.

He kisses you like he's fighting. It's vicious and he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth until you whine, and it's only then that he lets it go. "Call me selfish," he whispers in your ear before he flips you around so that your face is pressed flush with the wall, "but I don't ever want anyone else to touch you."

Wolffe's hands are desperate as he begins to wrench the layers of your dress up and up until it's all bunched up above your hips, leaving your lower half exposed to him.

He inhales sharply at the sight of the lingerie the women who helped you into the dress had given you.

You never know whose going to unwrap you by the end of the night, one of the women had whispered like a secret to you.

But that wasn't true. You knew exactly who was going to unwrap you.

"Fuck," Wolffe hisses, dragging one of his hands across the delicate lace that covers your ass. "You wear this just for me?"

You pant against the wall, hands scrambling for purchase as Wolffe leans down to bite the meat of your ass. "Shit!" you gasp, just a bit too loud for comfort.

Wolffe drags his teeth down the curve of your ass, nosing at the wet patch of your panties. "How long have you been this wet, pretty girl?" he demands, pressing the tips of his fingers against the wet lace over your clit.

Your hips jerk against him. It's exhilarating to thing that only one door and a left turn separates a room full of Senators and Very Important People from the two of you.

It's filthy what you're doing. You're sure if anyone were to see you — pressed face first into a wall with little regard for the makeup that was applied to you with more caution than one treats a bomb and your expensive dress hiked up around your waist to expose your soaking cunt, you'd single-handedly ruin all efforts to draw support for the GAR.

"Answer me," Wolffe spits out as he drags your panties down your ass to let them fall around your ankles. One broad hand swats at your ass, right over the pulsing bite mark he left behind.

"All night!" you sob into the wall, biting your hand to muffle the groans you want to let out. "As soon as I saw you in that suit!"

A part of you wishes Wolffe would turn you back around. You want to see him in that suit — want to watch his muscles bunch and flex beneath the delicate fabric.

Wolffe's huff of laughter blows a puff of hot air against your cunt, making you clench around nothing. "You like me in this suit, sweet thing?" He raises to his feet and you can hear his hands fumbling with his belt and zipper. "Well, I'm about to fuck you in it,"

You whimper into the back of your hand. Your own slick starts to drip down your leg. "Please."

The blunt head of Wolffe's cock presses against your entrance. Usually he would make you cum at least once before he fucks you just to get you ready for his girth, but in this moment you couldn't care less.

You want Wolffe to fuck you, and you want to feel the stretch. You want him to fuck the feeling of that grimy aide touching you out of your head.

"S'that what you want?" Wolffe breathes as he starts to slide in, "you want to forget that boy? Huh? You want to be fucked by a man?"

A keen catches in your throat as he sinks in halfway. Fuck, you feel like you're being split in half. His cock just keeps going and going in this position, and all you can do is take it.

You bite down hard into the back of your hand as Wolffe finally bottoms out, but Wolffe grabs your hair, fancy curls and accessories be damned, and pulls your mouth away from your hand.

"Don't you dare," he hisses as his hips set a deafening pace. "Don't you dare hide your noises from me. I want to hear you — I want them to hear you."

Your moan echoes through the hallway.

There's something feral in the way that Wolffe fucks you. With his suit still on, totally presentable besides the cock that's been pulled out of the fly, he's beautiful.

You, on the other hand, look filthy. Your eye makeup is smudged with the tears that Wolffe forces out of you, and you know your hair will be a lost cause by the end of this. Your dress is already wrinkling and your delicate stockings are ruined with the slick that drips down your legs from your cunt.

"Wolffe!" you cry out as pressure in your core tightens.

"'m gonna cum," Wolffe grunts, hips pistoning even faster.

He's ruining you, you think through the haze of pleasure. He's ruining you and you love it.

"Please," you sob, one of your hands leaving the wall to grab at his hips. You almost can't hold on due to the force and speed of his thrusts, but your fingers claw into the fabric of his jacket and you hold on for dear life as he brings you closer and closer to release.

"I think I'll come in this tight little cunt, what do you think?" Wolffe drags the blunt edge of his teeth along your neck and up your jawline, ending just under your ear, "Stuff you full of me, and send you back into that ballroom,"

You clench at the thought. Fuck, you want that so bad.

You're nearly incoherent with pleasure. You're just babbling in agreement to the filth that drips from Wolffe's mouth like the slick that drips from your cunt.

"You like that?" Wolffe asks even though he knows the answer, "You want me to send you in there smelling like sex and dripping my cum?"

One of his hands snake around to circle mercilessly around your clit. The pressure nearly has your knees give out.

"I think I'll keep your panties with me," Wolffe whispers in your ear, "so I'll drip out of that pretty cunt and down your thighs for the rest of the night."

The pressure in your core snaps and you cum around him with a wail.

Wolffe clamps a hand over your mouth as his thrusts turn more into grinds. His teeth sink into your neck as he finally spills inside you.

The feeling of his cum flooding your cunt has you clenching around him even more.

"Fuck," Wolffe hisses, fucking his cum into your spent cunt with an obscene squelch. "Fuck, you're so tight, pretty girl,"

You moan faintly, thighs trembling as he finally pulls out. A gush of his cum starts to drip out. You clench weakly, trying your best to keep it in.

Wolffe presses a kiss to the back of your neck, "Step out of your panties, sweet thing," he whispers into your skin, hands on your hips to steady you as you do what he asked.

You stand on coltish legs, wobbling in your heels with the aftermath of your orgasm, as Wolffe bends down to grab your ruined panties and stuff them in his pockets.

They ruin the line of his suit, and anyone who looks at him for more than half a second will know he's got something in his pocket that shouldn't be there, but you think no one will be looking at him when you're there.

Not with your hair a mess and mascara smeared just so around your eyes. Not when you reek of sex and sweat and there are bite marks littered across your skin. Not when your dress is so obviously wrinkled due to less-than-appropriate events.

Still, you walk back into the ballroom with your arm linked with Wolffe's and his cum sliding down your thigh and soaking into your stockings.

The senatorial aide doesn't bother you for the rest of the night, but that might have something to do with the clone commander flashing him a bit of lace from his jacket pocket.

When you get back to the barracks, Wolffe fucks you with those same ruined panties in your mouth to make sure none of the boys hear you two.

[lisinfleur]

Movie Marathon

The request:

Author’s Notes | HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SIS! I had to produce something for you haha I chose to make your request and I hope you like the little gift, but love, the biggest gift I can offer you is the enormous love I have in my heart for you. You’re always safe in my heart and one day, I swear, I’ll go visit you just for a huge hug, a brigadeiro volcano cake and lots of rainbow sprinkles. Love you! Universe | Vikings Pairing | Hvitserk x Reader Info | Modern Age AU, requested by and produced as a birthday gift for @honestsycrets Words | 1353 ⁑ Warnings: Explicit content, cursing.

It was the most important day of the year: your birthday.

And he had planned it perfectly in his mind!

Hvitserk knew that parties were not your favorite way to celebrate: although you liked to party with him, your birthday was a day when you liked to enjoy some chilling time.

So, he prepared a surprise for you in his apartment.

He set everything up to pick you up at 6 pm, making it look like he was doing something around a surprise party - something he knew you would hate, but would come just to make him happy.

Said and done: when he came to pick you up, you had that yellow smile on your face just as he hoped to find.

Everything was ready for his plan to be perfect.

"Hey, princess," he smiled from the car, making you feel even more distressed in your heart.

Shit. You wanted so much to relax and not be wearing that dress!

But you smiled, sitting next to him, trying to hold on to his beautiful smile and the happiness in his eyes as a support to move on with that horrible idea.

Hvitserk smirked when you sighed beside him as soon as he started the car, thinking he wouldn't hear the frustration in your voice.

He took you to his apartment, jumping on his heels next to your door before opening it for you to leave the car.

As a good gentleman, of course.

Oh gods, you thought. He was so, so happy!

How could he know you so little?

How could you break that happy smile on his face by telling him that you didn't like surprise parties?

Carry on, carry on, you forced yourself, watching as he opened the building, standing next to you in the elevator with the most anxious expression you have ever seen on Hvitserk's face.

"Close your eyes, love. And don't open until I tell you to!"

Oh damn ...

You were SURE that everything would be decorated with pastel ribbons, and your friends would be there, and his friends, and music, alcohol, and you standing in the middle of...

"Surprise!"

...his empty living room?

Your eyes looked around, stunned.

Hvitserk was unable to contain his laughter.

"You thought it was a party! Haha! You did it!" he laughed louder. "Fuck, love, I wouldn't do that shit to you."

His arms wrapped around your waist as you stared, amazed, at the beautiful home cinema he'd prepared for the two of you.

"I know what my princess likes most," he said, kissing your shoulder and the curve of your neck.

"Oh my gods!" you finally found your voice. "Hvitserk ... This is perfect!"

The room was empty. Not a single soul in his home.

Instead, his sofa was pulled back to make room for a huge and comfortable fluffy rug on the floor, where TONS of pillows and cushions formed the perfect place for you to lie down together.

There was an island of pillows at your fingertips with your favorite goodies. And his TV was pulled up, re-placed to become a shiny screen jumping off the black curtains that he placed behind it on the wall to create the perfect ambiance.

To be honest? Perfection was the right word to define that place.

Hvitserk released you only to turn off the lights and ask you to lie on the rug with him.

Your smiling puppy was so happy that his surprise was a success!

"I thought you might like it," he said, smiling as you laid against his chest.

"I loved it! It's perfect! It couldn't be better!" you answered.

Not realizing when his smile became slightly malicious behind you.

"It can always be better, love... Always," he said, turning on the screen.

And you thought your favorite movies were his way of making that moment even better for both of you.

The last thing you expected was that the films were nothing more than a distraction to take your attention away from the fact that his caresses were getting hotter and hotter.

You didn't notice when his fingers stopped reaching for the treats in the bowl to slide down your body, making you sigh for him, sometimes even letting out little moans for his kisses on the curve of your neck.

When did his hands invade your clothes? The gods know!

But you really didn't care about it anymore: his fingers reached your breasts.

Screw the movie! Your Hvitserk was growling right next to your ear, breathing heavily on your skin.

Sliding through your body like an insidious snake.

Now you could understand why he told you to put on that dress: it was easier for him to reach for HIS favorite treat in the middle of your legs when you were wearing it!

Tsk, tsk, tsk ... Treacherous puppy!

"Oh, fuck it!" there goes your panties.

And your self-control!

But who would be able to keep any of them with Hvitserk and his anxious mouth close by?

In a moment, the two of you were enjoying the movie. Then he was enjoying his favorite dinner, and you were a moaning mess with his tongue.

Your voice mixed with the lines of the film, echoing around the room in moans of pleasure, filling it with a cacophony of sounds that Hvitserk was anticipating when he planned that surprise.

Only then did you notice condoms among the treats in the bowl.

"Naughty puppy!" you exclaimed when Hvitserk stood up from under your skirt, smiling and licking his lips.

"Your goodies ... My goodies," he said, taking one of the condoms between his fingers.

Making your eyes widen.

Those were not ordinary condoms. Those were the "hot marathon" ones!

"Hvitserk!" you called him and he laughed, opening the condom and applying it to his hardness already exposed.

"What?"

"Are you planning to kill me? On my birthday ???" you squeaked, making his laugh even looser.

"Maybe," he said, climbing upon you.

"Babe..." you mumbled between his kisses on your lips. "The last time... It kept you on for three hours!"

"I have the package with three of those in that bowl," he murmured back, biting your earlobe before pushing himself into your channel with a grunt.

"Oh ... my ... fuck ... Oh, damn it!"

Hvitserk laughed at the way his thrusts cut your sentences, preventing you from speaking along with the warm feeling of that condom lubricant.

Hot for you, a little anesthetic for him - that shit helped Hvitserk's control to last longer and gave him the biggest series of your orgasms ever the last time the two of you tested it!

And now he had the package!

With three of them!

"And here comes the first," growled Hvitserk when your voice was lost in pleasure and you came around for the first time.

Punching his chest when he laughed at your tired face.

"Happy birthday, love," he murmured against your mouth, pushing harder just to hit your sweet spots with that instrument of torture!

You wanted to say thank you.

You wanted to say fuck you!

But your voice became a loud moan when he led you to a second orgasm almost effortlessly.

"Fuck," you groaned.

"That's the idea for the night ... Until we break our record, baby. I'm going to drive you crazy tonight!"

He would go.

Definitely!

Thank the gods, your best friend gave you a new cream of aloe vera that morning.

It would definitely be useful at the end of the night!

But you had nothing to complain about.

If you could choose the best way to spend your birthday night it would be exactly like this: hugging Hvitserk's body, feeling nothing but his skin, his lips on yours. You two becoming one.

"I... fucking... love you!" you managed to groan cohesively before he reached the third mark with you.

Laughing, he kissed your lips, touching your forehead with his.

"I love you too ... More than yesterday. Less than I will love you tomorrow. Every day I love you more ... And more ... And more!"

You smiled.

There was no better gift than his love. And it was yours.

Totally yours.

Forever.

Do you like my work? Support me!

Tagged ones:

|| @bluearchersstuff​ || @ivarswickedqueen​ || @akamaiden​ || @bang-kim-bap​ || @cris101071​ || @elysias-temple​ || @alicedopey​ || @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla​ || @lol-haha-joke​ || @readsalot73​ || @rekdreams247​ || @naaladareia​ || @laketaj24​ || @therealcalicali​ || @grungyblonde​ || @arses21434 || @honestsycrets​ || @2thequietone4 || @blackspiritshake​ || @vikingsbifrost​ || @x-valhalla || @cyarikashakira​ || @chinduda​ || @isthat-tyra98​ || @xinyourdreamsx​ || @thiahilmarsdottir​ || @queenbeeta​ || @winchesterwife27​ || @gold-dragon-slayer​ || @mzliterarydreamer​ || @marvelouuse​ || @lif3snotouttogetyou​ || @lordsexmachine​ || @deathbyarabbit​ || @ietss​ || @tgrrose​ || @alexisshoto​ || @letsloveimagines​ || @thorins-queen-of-erebor​ || @astrape-the-weatherwitch​ || @destynelseclipsa​ || @charming-merlin​ || @violetidk​ || @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie​ || @ghvsts​ || @littlemoonchildbear​ ||

Want to be tagged? Ask me!

[godblooded]

@dinobitten asked :  fuck it five times kissed zillie edition

drops this under a cut because i bet it just ain't staying pg.

if i look at her too long, it's the worst feeling. it feels like there are little razors spinning at full speed inside my guts and it's a blender-- her mouth has this way it sits, and it's a way i know because back when i still had some stores of joi de vivre i could keep up that coquettish charm, too. sleek and--

the print of my mouth settles over the print of her lipstick like a marker tracing.

1

she's cherry-shiny, scarlet-bright, darkly-beautiful in a way i can't believe. i touch her, cup her jaw, devour her with my mouth like i'm starving. like i've never eaten before. i'm voracious and she's delicious, prey and predator to how bad i want.

when i wake up my phone is buzzing against my thigh and it's mercilessly scalding my skin. i have to get up--

the ache between my legs doesn't leave me. it refuses to. so i turn the water on a baptismal igloo-frigid and listen to the blasting cold water gush through the faucet. i wonder what she'd taste like and that's easy, easier, muffles the frenetic rising bubbles when i dip myself underwater and choke on starvation.

2

i regret it.

if you asked me if i regretted it, i'd say i regretted it. i'd say i regretted taking years of something careful, fragile, beautiful, and chose to carelessly discard it with the same furious hatred with which my mother could push my head from her lap. the way she it tasted like venom to grip all that beautiful vantablack hair and how i could get lost and how i wanted to, so bad.

i don't regret kissing her. be sure that's on-record. it means i would've done it eventually, it was just expedited. pain is a powerful motivator, but heartbreak has a kick better than tequila. i regret that it wasn't what it should've been; i regret that she deserves better and sometimes all she gets is camille preaker.

i think about that kiss. i atone for it every single one thereafter.

3

one of the girls is chattering about something i don't care to hear, but in wind gap it's just impossible to close your ears. my own feel hot; they feel like i've been packed into a box too tight. the air whistles through the trees and does nothing to quell how warm i am, but i find myself cupping her elbow to offer her a seat beside me with enormous care. it feels normal, to pay attention to her and to me.

i fold her hand up and steal a little token of something i hoard like a greedy dragon, a kiss i just leave at the back of her knuckles. i wonder if my glossy pink'll leave anything behind and that, too, feels as greedy as i'd like.

i don't let go of her hand between these insufferable white wicker seats. she's a lifeline. just her, there, just her tethering me tenuously to the tentative touch of my fingertips. it makes me think about the world around me. i feel it all drown; it all doesn't matter.

i kiss her palm this time, deliberate but, for once, not rebellious.

4

the relief won't find itself hot on its heels even if i'm pleading for relief, begging for it to overtake me, but relief won't help. relief is a black thing that's shriveled, unloved, something that gives up. right now, relief is the deceit of comfort. it's a way for the pain to stop.

her hands are all over my body. i cry out because her hands are all over my body. i scream because her hands are all over my body. i'm crying and i'm begging, but it doesn't matter, because then her hands are nowhere on my body. i soak through momma's duvet cover, slick with bile and sweat and now the sudden salt of her tears dripping into my mouth. my mouth, just pulling for air, trying to breathe like a pathetic newborn calf just pushed into a whole universe it's entirely unready for.

it doesn't make sense, but her lips are cool on my forehead.

5

[bad-bitch-beauchamp]

Songs About Me: Chapter Four

How Claire found herself inside Jamie's bookshop, and what happens when Jamie finally gets inside to watch her perform.

READ ON AO3

The Alleys of Beacon Hill, Boston; Early October, Mid-Morning.

Following a very intense conversation with Joe and Geillis in which Claire repeatedly tried to express that there was absolutely nothing going on with that guy from the night before, peppered with lines like, “Oh bullshit, Claire! Jamie couldn’t take his eyes off ye!” from Geillis and “Seriously. It was disgusting. And romantic. Something’s there!” from Joe, Claire eventually succeeded in getting them to let the topic lie… for now.

Outside in the daylight, Claire felt refreshed. She would find a place to sit and write, and decompress. Strolling down her tree-lined street, breathing in and out slowly, she savored the way autumn here made her feel. The brick townhomes was trimmed in white with shiny red and  black doors, covered in wild ivy and window boxes with trailing flowers. Mums in classic pots lined the front porches, and stone walls raised courtyards and gardens above the worn-brick sidewalks. Tall trees, oak and maple and elm, towered as tall as the buildings and brought a soft green and yellow glow to everything below their canopies. Everything felt old, here. There was a history, here. Under normal circumstances, Claire could’ve never dreamed of living here in Beacon Hill, but because of Lamb’s will, his love, his generosity, she was now able to call her favorite place, home. She was a woman who placed very little weight on material goods, but if the townhouse and her greenhouse were the only things she claimed, she would die happy. Boston was the first place that Claire felt she could create her own history. She wandered through the winding alleys of Beacon Hill, admiring how green changes to gold on every leaf and living surface. She stopped at the coffee house that knew her name, left with an earl grey latte a few minutes later, and was back outside at a wrought-iron table and chair on the sidewalk, her black leather notebook and cheap pen drawn from her purse. She admired this little courtyard, tucked just off an alley. Across the close was her favorite bookstore. She often wished to had more time to visit the physical shop, but with running a business of her own, she didn’t have as much time to peruse all the fellow small businesses around her. When she moved to Boston in 2015, she stopped in the little bookshop, and left with nearly more books than she could carry. The man behind the desk told her she could place orders online as well if that would be easier for her, smirking as the top book of the stack Claire was balancing slid off the top. The bookshop took residence in a historic three-story brick building, with the shop taking up the bottom two floors. An open staircase in the middle of the shop gave way to an open loft filled with shelves and leather chairs. The downstairs was completely open, making it easy to work your way around the shop in a u-shape. For any other type of store, it might seem like a bit much. For the bookshop, however, it was the perfect mix of historical and charming and quaint and magnificent and absolutely beautiful. It had been awhile since she had been able to physically make it in the store, and she missed it and it’s comfortable grandeur greatly.

Today was different though, as Claire had given herself the day off while Geillis worked, and she would spend it adding new books to her collection. She savored the last time of her latte and stood when she glimpsed a man inside the shop putting up a poster in the window.

Local Musician Wanted. Claire approached the sign after the man finished taping it to the window. In smaller letters, it read: Come share your talent, play for the community, and grab a good book when you’re done. Call or inquire within.

She had promised herself to have more fun, and karaoke had turned out to be a blast in the years she and her friends had been going. Music and gardening are what made her feel alive, made her heart bloom… Why not give this a chance when she wasn’t working? Claire’s heart rate sped up and she started to sweat when she thought of going inside and introducing herself as a musician. Deciding she’d call and arrange a time to come in with her keyboard, she started to turn away. The morning sunlight caught the lettering on the window, glittering just at the edge of her vision. She’d never paid much attention to the store’s exterior before -- or really even the name, since she’d long been calling it just “the bookshop” for years now -- but today, the gold paint drew her attention. Fraser Literature. Her breath hitched, her pulse raced, her head lightened. She couldn’t look away from the sparkling name on the glass. It couldn’t be… could it? Her pulse raced, her head felt light, the brick and cobblestone around her began to swirl.

With one shaky step and an attempt at a steadying breath, she pulled open the heavy wooden door.

Fraser’s Literature, Beacon Hill, Boston. Mid-Afternoon.

Jamie stepped through the doorway and tried not to jostle the small crowd that had assembled at the front of the shop. He just wanted to glimpse her, convince himself that she was real, that this, was real. That she was here in his shop, playing her music, just for him. He slowly, carefully, made his way to back of the crowd and found a small bit of standing room directly in her line of vision. She’d play a song with no lyrics, only instrumental melodies followed by quiet chords braided with thoughtful verse and chorus. The sunlight was streaming in the shop’s window now, lighting the crown of her head with rivers of auburn and gold. God, she’s ethereal. After each song, the small crowd would quietly clap and she would politely nod, cheeks turning rosey with shyness when her eyes fell back to the keys -- like she hadn’t even noticed they’d been there. She’d occasionally look up and look around the crowd, but only for a moment. Come on, lass. Look up. Find me. See me. As if she heard his plea, she held a long chord with both hands on the keys and looked up, straight into his eyes. Jamie gulped. She was singing, in French. She was singing, to him. He hadn’t expected it to work, the calling for her. He didn’t expect to be shocked into stillness by the whisky of her eyes and the dark shimmering curls around her head. He didn’t expect to feel this way after one night with a lass he barely knew… But here he was, enthralled by her. A gentle hand cupped his shoulder then and he jumped.

“Ye look completely enamored for a man who just met the lass a single night ago. Like a lovesick puppy,” said Rupert. Claire had gone back to her songs, but both men continued to watch her.

Angus had joined them now. “Ye never want to seem too eager tae please a woman, ye ken? It gives them too much power.”

Jamie watched as Claire finished another piece. He had to physically keep his feet rooted in place when she glanced his way, quirked a corner of her mouth up in a smile, and quickly looked down, tugging her cardigan tighter around her chest to hide the pink bloom erupting there and moving up her neck. “Aye, I’m completely under her power,” he smiled softly at her, “and happy tae be there.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Jamie tried to work, he really did. He refused to work in his office, since it was the furthest place from the front windows, and the furthest place from Claire. He went around with a polishing rag, trying to be inconspicuous with his meanderings until Rupert whispered, “I can practically see ma reflection in that shelf. Maybe move yerself along?” He tried to water the plants, only to remember he’d already done that when the pots started to overflow. He would run his hands through his hair just for something to occupy his time. Eventually, Angus suggested he bide his time making sure the rare and first-edition copies that sat on the highest shelves were dust-free.

“Aye, that’s a good idea! I’ll just be up on the ladder then if ye need me.” Angus laughed and shook his head as Jamie ascended the first rung. “Come get me, will ye,” Angus turned to look at him with a smirk and raised brow, “if she… uh, if anything happens.”

“Yeah yeah, get tae work. I doubt she’ll be leaving without saying hello if her looks meant anything at all -- and they definitely did.”

Jamie placed the last book at the end of the row back into its place and started his way back down the ladder to slide it to the next tall shelf when electricity pulsed up his calf. He lost his footing and came to a crashing halt on his back on the floor.

“Fuck fuck fuck… Fuck! are you okay? I shouldn’t’ve spooked you!” He tried to shift himself up, but couldn’t. “Don’t try to move; here, I’ll try to keep you still. Is your head okay?” It took Jamie a moment to get his bearings. His head smacked the hardwood floor when he landed, and his wrist tried to take the fall. Neither of those things were of much concern to him now though, since Claire was kneeling over him. Not just kneeling over him, he noticed. She was on top of him, a knee on either side of his torso. His brain was short-circuiting. She was in light-wash high-waist skinny jeans, a goldenrod cardigan, and a white tank top and she was on top of him . He couldn’t stop tracing her with his eyes. “Jamie?? I’m going to need you to respond or I’ll have to call the squad. Can you hear me? Can you say something, please? What hurts??” Dear God in heaven, nothing hurts. Nothing a damn thing. Her face came closer to his and he noticed the way her curls fell forward, how the sun was still lighting her from behind, how she was absolutely incredible. He blinked. Her brows knitted and her hands came to his face. Her touch revived him and he remembered how to speak.

“Claire,” he watched her, reverently. She smiled as her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Oh, thank god. You scared the shit out of me with that little stunt, you know,” she said as she began touching near and watching his eyes. Touch me again, never stop, he thought to himself. “How do you feel? Any ringing in the ears, nausea, blurry vision, dizziness, light sensitivity? Wait, you’re not bleeding, are you?”

Jamie smirked. “Actually, there’s some pressure on my abdominal region.”

“Your stomach? I don’t understand how that could have…” She blushed when she realized she was still straddling him, right on the storeroom floor. “You mean me.” She climbed off of him as quickly as she could manage and turned a shade of red Jamie hadn’t known was possible. “I am SO sorry about that, I didn’t know if you’d be injured and you wouldn’t stay still so I--”

“It’s quite alright, lass. Thank ye for looking after me. Truly.” His hand came out to hold hers. His thumb brushed her knuckles.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Honestly? I feel terrible.”

“I’m jes’ fine, Sassenach.” He made to stand up then, using his arm to prop himself when he stood. He came crashing back down with a grunt.

“It sure wouldn’t seem like you’re “jes’ fine”,” she replied in her best mocking tone. He smiled, sheepishly. “Is there somewhere we can go where I can have a better look at it?”

“Does up in the loft work for ye? It’s usually quieter, and better light than in the office.”

“Sounds perfect.” She extended a hand to him. “On your feet, soldier.” He looked at her then. How could one woman go from tugging on his heartstrings with soft melodies and French words to making him fall for her with demanding medical questions and authoritative requests. He watched her outstretched hand, her long fingers, her gentle bones. He watched her eyes, watch him. He grasped her hand, and she led up him up the stairs to the loft. She led him. In his shop. Seeing her lead him, he decided he’d let her lead up anywhere for the rest of his days.

She motioned for him to sit in a velvet wingback chair and took his wrist in her hands. He tried to breathe normally as her fingers probed the dips in his palm and traced down the veins in his forearm. Surely, she would feel his pulse. Surely, she would know she was the one that made it race. In the distance, Jamie heard her ask him some questions about pain and discomfort, and he’d nod or not depending on his response. He couldn’t form words. He was still in disbelief she was even there, in front of him, kneeling at his side.

Claire sat back on her heels. “Will you tell me if it starts to hurt? You could have a sprain, you know. That was a pretty nasty fall.”

His mind was working overtime but he finally found words to use. “If ye didna find anything wrong, I’m sure I’m jes’ fine.” He dipped his head to meet her eyes. “Yer a verra competent doctor, Claire.” He grinned. A tear fell from Claire’s face. “Och lass, what is it? Did I do something wrong?” She sniffed. She wouldn’t look at him. “Please, Claire. Please talk to me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not a doctor, is all.” She wiped away a tear with the sleeve of her sweater. “I actually… I quit medical school, a few years back.”

“I’m sorry, I didna know…”

“It’s honestly fine,” she replied hastily. “I’m really happy with the decisions I’ve made in my life, and I don’t have any regrets. Honestly. It’s just… sometimes it hits me that the plans I made my whole life didn’t work out. It gets me sometimes.” Jamie watched her, listening. “Oh my god, I just keep rambling!” She sat back on her hands, legs out in front of her, ankles crossed. “I’m so sorry about that, I really am fine.” She smiled at Jamie, and reached down to hold her hand.

“I understand the feeling of missing things that didna come to pass. I feel it myself sometimes.” Claire watched their hands intertwine. “Ye can always talk to me, Claire. I’m always here.” I’ll always be here.

She laughed then, and looked up at him still sitting in the chair. “Next time, I’d like to see you when one of us hasn’t nearly killed ourselves with a fall.” She giggled, and Jamie followed suit.

“Ideally, that’d lovely,” he replied with a laugh of his own. “What brings ye to the shop by the way, if ye don’t mind me asking? I never expected to see ye here today.”

“Oh, I came here for the first time after I moved, and I try to make my way in again whenever I can but work makes that a little difficult. It’s one of my favorite places in Boston though. It’s so quaint and quiet, but somehow still enchanting, and then today I saw a poster in the window asking for musicians and…” Jamie was absolutely beaming. “Wot?”

He laughed then at her absolute Englishness, and brought his free hand up to join their combined ones. “I’m jes’ glad ye like it here so much is all.”

She looked down at their hands. “To be honest, I was going to come today anyways, but then I saw the poster, and I remembered what the name of this place is, and well, I took a chance.”

Jamie was watching her intensely. “And ye took a chance.” He, too, looked down at their hands. “I’m glad ye did.”

The conversation was heavier than Claire thought it would be. She didn’t expect this. She cleared her throat and asked, “So, how long have you been here?”

“Me, or the shop?”

“Both, I suppose. The shop has been here as long as I have.”

“I moved here from Scotland--”

“Shocking, the accent didn’t give anything away,” she joked, and he pinched her forearm before continuing.

“--back in 2015--”

“Hey, that’s when I got here, too!”

“--and I’ve been here ever since. When I graduated my undergraduate studies, I went back home to the highlands and spent some time with family. Wandering the cobbled streets, the little shops, reading about the history… it was the only thing I wanted to do with my life. Some things happened back in Scotland -- some family things and some ex-girlfriend things -- and Boston seemed as good a place as any with history to start over. So, here I am. I started the shop, hired the lads when they came over a bit after me, and that’s the story.”

“I feel like there’s more to the story you’re leaving out,” she said with a grin, “and I do love a good story, Mr. Fraser.”

“Ye got the Cliffnotes version. Tell me yours,” he nodded at her.

“Well, I nearly didn’t survive medical school. I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t coping, and my mental health was kind of in the gutter,” she looked at him, and he gave her a sympathetic smile. Maybe he understood the feeling better than he let on. “I decided to drop out during my junior year and leave it behind. My uncle used to live here and left me some property, so I moved, and started over. Geillis and Joe came over after they graduated. Joe continued with medicine, and Geillis joined me, and as you said, that’s the story.”

“And where is it you started over at? What is it ye do?”

“Oh, I opened a plant shop here in Beacon Hill. It’s exotic houseplants, non-traditional bouquets, that kind of thing. It’s small, and eventually I’d like to run a greenhouse and garden, but right now, the shop is perfect. Besides, Boston isn’t exactly conducive for having that, is it?” She laughed, and tried to hold her pipe dreams at bay. “Geillis offers zero-waste products, and makes some of the macrame hangers and planters in the shop. It really is the most lovely place. If you ever want to visit and make sure I’m not the one to fall off a ladder, it’s just over on---”

“Garden Street. Aye, I know the place,” said Jamie, smiling to himself. His eyes were positively twinkling.

“You know the shop?”

“Where d’ye think all the plants in this place came from? Aye, I know yer wee shop and believe me, Claire. It’s a dream. I had no idea it was you behind it all.” He paused, watching her. Drinking her in. “We’ve just missed each other for years now, it would seem.”

All she could do was nod. Her mind was racing. How had they been so close so many times, but had never met? How had only two days with the man made her feel like her heart was beating outside her chest? He moved to the floor to sit next to her, his hand on her thigh. Suddenly, he turned to her. “I think yer verra brave, Claire. For starting over like that. For following your dreams.” Her pulse slowed with his comforting words, and her hand rested on top of his. “I could say the same about you, you know.”

They stayed that way for a while, watching the people down below, touching hands, touching legs, moving closer into shoulders and sides. Jamie leaned back into the shelves. Claire sighed.

“Since you own the place, I guess I should let you get back to work.” She stood, smiled, and started down the stairs. Jamie launched to his feet, unwilling to let what happened the previous night repeat itself.

“Claire! Lass!” He reached for her hand and she stopped a few stairs below him, turning to face him. His mouth was dry.

“I dinna think I can’t wait a week to see ye again. I didna think I could stand it this morning and then ye dropped out of the clear blue sky into my shop and ye sang yer songs -- oh, and I didna know ye knew French! I do as well,” Claire blushed at that but Jamie continued on, “and ye showed up and mended my wounds and ye told me of our shared histories, and… and I willna wait to see ye again.” He descended a step. “That is, if ye want to see me, too.”

Claire was overcome not just with Jamie’s declaration, but also with everything that had happened today and the last five years that led them here today. She could only smile at his nervousness, and admire him. You’re beautiful, James. His simple navy t-shirt was pulled taught across strong muscles, the red curls she daydreamed of were just combed straight back with the exception of a single lock that escaped with his chase of her down the stairs. His ocean eyes bore into hers with a plea, with an guarded passion Claire was increasingly desperate to unlock. She reached in her crossbody bag to retrieve a pen and finding no paper, offered up a Dunkin’ Donuts receipt. She brought the receipt up to his chest, just above his heart, and wrote her name and number.

“I’ll be waiting for your call,” she said, and turned back down the stairs, not waiting for a reply.

She reached was reaching for the door when a voice echoed down the stairs, “I promise ye’ll hardly be waiting at all, Sassenach.”

His phone rang then, and a woman’s smiling face shone up at him from the screen. As soon as he could, he would call Claire. He sighed, and hit accept on the call. 

[ereawrites]

Tim Drake x Reader - Envy

The first time he realises it's more than a stupid crush is mid-summer, sweat across the back of his neck, ice in his drink. Bruce has had a tough few weeks, and he's learning to surround himself with the people he cares about in times like these: besides, the weather is gorgeous, a rarity for Gotham, and so Bruce throws an extended family barbecue. 'Family' has always been a little tough to define, for Tim and for many others who share the Wayne name. Some - Dick, Jason, Damian, Cass - feel as though they could be his blood siblings, like they share more than a name and a vigilante identity and a proclivity for violence. Duke, Kon, and Jon have somehow become his annoying cousins who say, let me play the games on your phone, Tim, I know you get the unreleased ones, don't lie, but he loves them all the same.

It's when he sees you talking to Steph, the distant ex who he now considers one of his closest friends, that the depth of his feelings really hits him. You're in a swimsuit - he shouldn't stare, he shouldn't, it's summer and it's hot and it's perfectly normal for you to want to enjoy the pool while you're at the manor - with a cocktail in hand, golden sun catching in your hair, a warm smile lighting up your features, eyes crinkled up at the corners with laughter. Maybe Steph is telling an anecdote about the family; perhaps you're just enjoying this perfect day.

A giggle spills from your lips, shiny with the cherry-flavoured lip balm he knows you use, right as your gaze wanders across the pool and meets Tim's own. Although he's quick to react, transforming his face into a friendly smile and giving you a small wave, he has to fight back a blush from the shame of almost being caught staring. He isn't a creep. He isn't.

"Tim!", you exclaim, as he crosses around the pool and makes his way over to you and Steph. "I didn't know you could even come out in the sun! I hope you're wearing sunscreen."

Steph smirks. "You're all... milky. How long has it been since you left your computer screen?'

Tim feels your eyes drag down over his body, probably only because Steph's just pointed out how pale he is, but he's in a swimsuit too and he can feel your gaze burning hot on every inch of exposed skin. He huffs out a sarcastic laugh. "Funny, both of you. Duke attacked me with a bottle of SPF twenty minutes ago."

You and Steph dissolve into another fit of laughter: clearly the image of his assault is amusing to you. Tim would pretend to be more annoyed than he really is, maybe play it up a little to make you both feel bad, but he knows that you're only in a good mood. Why wouldn't you be? This is the first day you've had fully to yourself in weeks - he makes a point to stay updated on your activities, but he's not a creep, it's normal to take an interest - between your schoolwork and your internship. The hard work has paid off, though, and you've just graduated at the top of your class with a path straight into a major company. He can cut you some slack for now.

"Do either of you two know where I can find Damian?", Steph pipes up suddenly after a sip of her own drink. "I've gotta talk to him."

Tim exaggerates a disgusted tremble, which only earns him a playful slap from Steph and another little giggle from you. "Poor you. He's probably walking the dogs on the other side of the garden, or something - antisocial little shit."

"Damian, antisocial? I haven't heard from you in almost three weeks, Timothy Drake! You hypocrite!", Steph cries. Three weeks? He could've sworn it was only a week ago, at most; he FaceTimed her for a catch up, and she was talking about her crush on Kon's dad, and he'd explained he'd been busy because he'd been helping you write your thesis - but, wait, it hadn't even been the final section, so it must have been longer ago than he thought, because you submitted your final draft five days ago - shit.

Tim sighs. "Sorry, Steph. Actually, sorry to both of you. I... lost track of time, I guess?"

"I'll let you off this time, Drake-", Steph narrows her eyes at him, and tips back the last of her cocktail. "But you better repay me by having another drink ready for me when I come back."

She grins widely, and heads off to find Damian: God knows why she wants to talk to him when he's being so antisocial, but she's always had a way of drawing the young boy out of his shell. Tim chuckles under his breath, and turns to smile sheepishly at you.

"And you? What do I have to do to make you forgive me?", he offers. He's half-teasing, but there's a part of him that feels guilty. It's selfish. He knows it is; he's the one who finds himself wanting to spend so much time with you, not the other way around, and he sees you more than enough. You probably haven't even realised it's been four days since you last spoke to him.

You swirl the last dregs of your drinks thoughtfully, smiling at him - God, your smile is perfect, so soft and warm and kind - and then reach out to pat him on the shoulder. "I think I'm the one who owes you, you know."

Your touch lingers for just a fraction of a second and Tim is forced to suppress a shiver. "Meaning?'

"You've spent most of your free time for months helping me with schoolwork, Timmy! There's no way I would've been able to - actually, no, I would have managed fine without help - but you made it so much easier. I wish I could do more to thank you."

Tim waves away your gratitude with a small smile. "You've done plenty - besides, I enjoyed helping you."

"Why?", you grin, and the previous playfulness you'd exhibited with Steph is beginning to spark back up in your eyes. "Because my area of study interests you so much? Or is it just because I'm your favourite person?'

There are a million ways he could play this. This stupid, summer crush has been eating at him for weeks now, and Tim knows all too well that he's bad with emotions. He has no idea which course of action he should choose: flirt, or tease, or act aloof? Dick would dazzle you with a charming grin and a compliment - Jason would make a ridiculous, suggestive joke that somehow would be flirty instead of creepy - Damian (and Tim feels indescribable shame at the fact that his younger brother would be better at this than him) would brush the teasing off in a way that only drew you in.

"...Spending time with you isn't the worst thing in the world.", Tim settles on, and he mentally kicks himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. God, he isn't a creep, but he's stupid. So stupid. Almost as stupid as he is for developing a crush in the first place.

By some saving grace, your smile only widens. "So I am your favourite person?'

He needs another drink.

"You're in danger of losing that title.", he shrugs, and begins to head for the drinks table that Alfred so thoughtfully set up - you follow without question. "But, well, I wouldn't have spent all that time with you if, you know, I didn't like you. It was actually... kind of fun."

You fix yourself your own cocktail at the same time as him. It must be your favourite, since it's the same as the last one you were drinking, and Tim has to remind himself again that he's not a creep as he wonders how it would feel to kiss the taste of sweet alcohol off your lips. It's just a crush. He's going to get over it.

"Aww - I knew you loved me! Seriously, though - I did really enjoy spending that time with you. Even if you did spend half of it vibrating from caffeine overload, and the other half shouting at me for drinking caffeine myself.", you say.

He shrugs. "It's bad for you." Hypocrisy normally gets to Tim, but he can excuse the bad habit for himself. He can't help but worry about you.

The words that spill from your fruit-stained lips in response - teasing, as always, no more than that, stop it - and the glint in your eye and the little quirk of your mouth upwards; something about it just feels different and it makes his stomach lurch. "You're a bad influence, Timmy. I like it."

Fuck. He sips at his drink, too much vodka for his liking and too little ice, but oh well: he's got bigger things to worry about, like hiding how thickly he swallows. Like pretending he doesn't notice the faint sheen of sweat coating your collarbones, and the dip of your throat, spreading across your shoulders and down, down, dipping to your stomach - he pretends he doesn't notice. It's hot. You're warm. And a bit of sweat shouldn't get to him as much as it does.

"Every person here is a bad influence. You asked me for help, anyway. I'm starting to regret doing it.". That's a blatant lie and you both know it, but Tim doesn't know quite how to react other than with sarcasm. He feels like he's dancing with you every time he speaks to you, skating on paper-thin ice but loving the thrill - don't be so fucking dramatic, it's just a crush, stop it.

You roll your eyes and place your glass down onto the table. "I'm sorry. You're a fantastic influence, and you've made the last few months far more bearable. Thank you. I mean it."

And then you bring one hand to his shoulder, a feather-light touch that still sends him practically careening into ecstasy, and before Tim quite realises what's happening, you're pressing a friendly kiss to his left cheek.

You pull back with a smile. "I'll stop giving you shit for today, but only because I'm so grateful."

You just fucking kissed him. You were barely an inch away from his lips, close enough that he could almost smell your drink on your lips, and it was only a friendly gesture and he knows you do it with everyone and he knows it doesn't mean anything, to you, at least - but, to Tim, you've just punched right through his chest and grabbed his heart and squeezed, tight, snatched the breath right from his lungs and all rational thought from his brain; he wants, so badly, to lean forward and kiss you for real this time. He would, if he had the courage. He would, if he knew you felt the same way.

This is more than a stupid, summer crush.

Tim wants you to kiss him again. He wants to take your hand and parade you around the barbecue on his arm. He would lick the sweat off your fucking collarbones, if you would only let him. Maybe he is a creep. He doesn't care anymore.

Another sip of his drink. He's so fucked.

You don't notice the way his jaw tenses, or the way his breathing quickens; why would you? You're not looking for any kind of reaction, because, for you, it was just a kiss on the cheek, nothing more, nothing worthy of a revelation of his feelings.

"Oh, Tim - look, Kon's coming over!", you nudge him with your elbow, drink back in hand. Tim's too shellshocked to do anything other than follow your gaze, right over to where Kon's walking over to the two of you. He must have been in the pool with Jon and Dick, because his hair is wet and rivulets of water are running down his chest - Tim doesn't think he'll ever really get used to his best friend being so absolutely ripped. He hates it.

Kon fixes you with a beaming grin. "Hey, guys! What's with all the drinking? I though barbecues were for having fun and eating, not an alcohol club."

Tim forces a smirk: Kon will see right through him if he isn't careful, figure out what’s going on. The smile on your face, though, is wide and genuine, almost as big as Kon's.

"Says Aquaman over here.", you giggle. Kon shakes his head, flicking water at you, and you squeal and dash behind Tim.

Droplets of pool water land on Tim's face, filling his nose with the scent of chlorine instead of the scent of your drink, and he mourns the loss. "Careful, Kon. Chlorine can burn our skin right off. You wouldn't want to hurt us, right?"

The other male's eyes widen comically, and he mouths a seriously at Tim, concern evident in his gaze. Having a half-alien best friend has its drawbacks, but it's worth it for the tricks Tim gets to play.

You peek over Tim's shoulder and, upon determining that the coast is clear, step out and pout at him. "Don't tease - Kon, don't listen. He's stringing you along."

Tim scowls at you. "Fuck - you couldn't have played along for a few minutes? Seriously?"

Kon lets out a hearty chuckle, and out of nowhere he reaches his hand out towards you - for a moment, Tim just stares at it, wondering why his best friend is offering his hand to you. Then, you take it, that soft smile on your face, and Kon's pulling you into his chest and you're squeezing his hand and he's kissing you gently on the forehead.

"I knew I could rely on you.", Kon smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. The penny begins to drop for Tim, but it's as if it's in slow motion - he sees the grand reveal coming, but he it doesn't quite sink in just yet.

You turn back to face Tim, keeping your fingers interlaced with Kon's so his arm wraps around your body and settles on your waist, pressing you into his side. "I - uh, sorry, Tim. Kon's still... getting the hang of how much PDA is acceptable."

Oh. Tim should have seen this coming. He should have noticed the signs; they all spring up in his mind now, the way Kon only ever seemed to blush around you, and the way Tim's noticed you checking Kon out during training a few times (he'd not thought much of it, you'd be blind not to), and the way both of you have been so suspiciously quiet about your love lives lately - maybe to protect his feelings, to make him feel like he's not the odd-one-out of the group, to avoid excluding him.

"It's fine,", he lies. "But, well - PDA? I didn't realise you two were... close like that."

Why is he torturing himself by asking for details?

You offer him an apologetic look. "I know you've been really busy, lately - you know, with work, and stuff. I thought it would be best to hold off on telling you about anything going on until you had less on your plate."

You don't say it with pity, like you know that he's been harbouring feelings for you: no, it's just friendly concern, knowing that he would want to know about your new crush and help you navigate it, because Tim is shit with his own feelings but he's got a penchant for helping others with their own.

"Thanks for being considerate. I wouldn't have minded helping you, you know.", Tim says. Another lie. It would have absolutely fucking killed him to help you, but at least he would have seen this coming. At least he could have prepared.

Kon squeezes you into his side, and then releases you so he can pour himself a drink. His bright blue eyes, kind and piercing, prompt Tim to speak again. "And, Kon - come on, buddy. Why didn't you say anything to me?"

Kon chuckles warmly. "I guess I didn't really realise what I was feeling, you know? I mean, I knew that it was different, but I didn't exactly know what it meant... or how to explain it."

Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. There's a domino effect in Tim's mind and right now he hates how intelligent he is, wishes he could turn it off for a second if only so that he would stop making deductions about this relationship that's sprung up right under his nose.

"You made the first move, then?", he asks, directed at you, and he can feel his smile starting to slip. There are beads of water on your waist in the wake of Kon's touch.

You let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh - Kon returns to your side, not touching you this time, but still standing in a way that makes it seem as though he's protecting you. "You could put it that way. I mean, nothing's official yet - no one even knows other than you and Steph and Jon, we're still figuring it out. We don't wanna make a big deal, you know?'

Tim doesn't know. He nods anyway. "I'm happy for you both."

The smile on his lips - vodka, ice, fruit - falters just a little too much and he knows Kon notices it. Bright blue eyes soften in worry, his mouth moves to ask if Tim's alright, but Tim just glances back at you; small smile on your lips, golden sun in your hair, happy.

"I'll have to go make sure that Bruce and Jason aren't in danger of blowing us all up in a gas explosion. I'll catch up with you two after.", Tim says, just before Kon can get any words out. He gestures aimlessly in the direction of the barbecue, and you and Kon nod in unison - together, a couple - and Tim throws back the last of his drink before he leaves.

He should be happy for you - he is, in a way, glad that Kon's found someone he can be vulnerable with and you've found someone who makes you happy. He should have been more convincing - he doesn't want either of you to worry. He should have seen this coming. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should never have let himself start feeling anything for you in the first place.

Maybe, Tim thinks as he heads into the cool air of the manor and slips into a quiet room, closing the door behind him - maybe, if you hadn't have kissed him on the cheek, it would've been easier. He could've kept telling himself that this was just a stupid, summer crush, and it would've went away by the time the first snow fell in Gotham, and if worst came to worst he could've called Steph and distracted himself for a few nights. The thought of that, of touching anyone else, makes him feel sick now.

Tim runs his hands through his hair and tugs desperately at the ends. He has no idea how he's meant to come back out to the barbecue, watch Kon kiss the taste of sweet alcohol off your lips, think about Kon's hands on your body - he can't do this. He can't.

[ohwereusingourmadeupnames]

A Truth In Your Eyes (saying you’ll never leave me)

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark (Starker) Rating: Not Rated (it’s just fucking fluff, y’all!) Notes: There were a few people that were pretty stoked about my first attempt in this universe, so I decided to put out another part. If you haven’t read You Say It Best, you should probably give that one a shot first!  Word Count: 4.4k Warnings: this is the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed. Tony does describe a bit of anxiety, though - tread carefully if that’s something that triggers you!  Summary: 

After Peter is careless with his words, Tony is left feeling a little anxious about the stability of things between them. The philharmonic concert he planned to attend doesn't really help - but Peter is there to pick up some of the pieces.

Or - the one where Peter does a little damage control.

Read it on AO3 here

“I sometimes wish you could just hear like everyone else. It’d make things so much easier.”

Despite not being able to actually hear the words, each one rattled inside his head like active bombs just seconds away from going off.

They were dangerous – the type of thing that haunted Tony his entire life; from the halls of school where he struggled daily, to the comfort of his own home growing up. Everyone wished to change him, whether for their own convenience or the ease of being around him – people were always attempting.

Yet, when he met Peter Parker, Tony finally felt like he met someone who could understand him, regardless of the barrier that existed between them. For the first time in his life, Tony wanted to believe that hearing and non-hearing didn’t matter – there was a place where they both could exist in the same realm.

Then, those dreaded words slipped out of Peter’s lips so carelessly – the man not even cognizant of what kind of impact they were going to have.

They were so, so, so careless.

And, as happy as Tony was that Peter came to his senses, his heart still hurt. There wasn’t any way around that feeling – not when his idealistic thought about their relationship was so easily obliterated.

To be completely fair, Peter wasn’t even aware of Tony’s anxiety. There’d been many conversations about Tony and his experience with learning to speak and finding a way to bridge whatever gap existed between himself and another person – Peter seemed interested in all the parts and pieces, even.

After so much discussion and dissection of his experiences, Tony figured the apprehension could remain unspoken, yet understood. He so desperately wanted Peter to understand him – so, some of the hurt stemmed from that glaringly obvious barrier that still existed, no matter how much he wished it otherwise.

Over the last few weeks since Peter came back, Tony spent a lot of time thinking about their time together – the interactions that he treasured so much.

He fondly remembered their first conversation about his deafness – the adorable worry on Peter’s face when he stuttered out the question.

“So, have you always been deaf?”

Tony grinned at him then, his cheeks already warm from the intensity of the smile beaming from his face. The forwardness of Peter’s form of conversation always made him feel a little giddy – while most people hopped around him and tried to navigate murky waters with finesse, Peter barreled on, his idea of asking for forgiveness over permission totally charming.

“Yeah, I have,” Tony replied, his fingers moving through the signs before his brain remembered to add in the spoken word, too. At that time, they hadn’t been together all that long, so the fluent ASL still brought a ‘deer in the headlights’ look to Peter’s adorably rosy cheeks. It took a lot more thinking than Tony usually liked, but the man across from him seemed worth it.

“Both of my parents are hearing – they weren’t even aware I couldn’t hear until I was 3. I hadn’t started talking and did all my communication through gestures. I learned to sign first, then when my dad couldn’t pick it up, I started speech therapy.” He waited a beat, his heart pounding a little bit in anticipation for the words yet to come.

“Speaking makes people more comfortable. Recognizing that we at least have that in common allows me to have a much more genuine conversation than if I just read lips and typed on my phone.”

Peter looked at him with such awe in the minutes to follow his little tangent – his brown eyes were wide and complexly interested; there were probably a million thoughts running through his mind at the time. They were quiet while Peter looked at him and absorbed all of the things Tony said and managed to get out without really saying, too.

Reaching a hand across the table, Peter slipped their fingers together – the touch both soothing and reassuring. After the short time they’d been together at that point, Tony came to rely on the physical communication between them just as much as any other. He let himself relax a little, the usual anxiety leaving him with each dragged out breath.

“I want to make conversing with you as easy as possible, baby. Will you teach me ASL? Enough for us to talk to each other, at least? I’m a pretty quick learner.” Peter looked at him so earnestly – the words and gesture both so fucking genuine.

Tony delightfully recalled the way warmth spread from the center of his chest to every inch of his being, his fingers and toes on fire from those beautiful words – even now, after so much time and the little bit of hurt. Peter was careless, that much was certain; but he wasn’t heartless – his attempt to bridge the gap between them proved to be genuine time and time again.

Sucking in a deep breath, Tony forced himself away from his reminiscent thoughts – he’d been sitting in his seat in the audience waiting for the concert to start for a while now; long enough for his thoughts to run wild and so far away from him. If he didn’t’ force himself back to the present, he could easily miss out on Peter’s entire performance.

While stuck in his thoughts, Tony missed the room filling up – most of the seats that were once empty around him were entirely full, even the two down from his own. Tony took a second to reprimand himself for the negligence – one of his keys to success stemmed from the fact that he paid attention to everything… at all times.

Except lately – over the past few weeks, Tony found himself struggling a little harder than usual to stay present; especially with people outside of his little bubble. Usually, public gatherings weren’t too much of a hardship, but tonight – tonight, Tony was struggling.

Luckily, the lights were lowering as Tony came back to himself – the many people in the audience settling down with the reduced lighting. Most concert goers understood crowd etiquette – the when, where, and how things were conducted played a part in the whole experience.

Sitting up a little straighter in his chair, Tony let his eyes roam across the stage until he found Peter amongst the crowd of shiny instruments and stuffy individuals wrapped up in starchy, unmoving tuxedos. Though he too was stuck in such an outfit, Peter stood out – his wavy hair glistened under the lighting – his confidence radiating off of him in waves that only Tony could see.

The sight brought a smile to his face; even though he wouldn’t be able to hear a single thing his boyfriend played, Tony could clearly see how talented he was – Peter’s skill existed in every part of him, not just the sound he happened to produce.

After a short introduction from the conductor, the performance was on its way. They opened with a steady piece, the vibrations starting out minimal, then gaining pace until the ultimate crescendo peaked to end it all. The last few notes hung in the room, each person within Tony’s view completely captivated already.

For most of the performance, Tony tried his best to pick out Peter’s parts – with the combined visual cues and the learned feeling, he felt successful about half of the time. By the last few songs, Tony’s brain felt fatigued – Peter’s winks and affectionate looks between pieces the only thing really keeping him in it at all.

The last piece ended with a loud (even to Tony) sea of applause that filled up the entire room. To blend in with the crowd, Tony stood up with the rest of his row, his hands coming together to mimic the claps around him. He copied the behavior until it was clear for him to vacate the row.

His feet couldn’t carry him backstage fast enough.

Tony flashed the security guard his badge (the man fondly known as Little Ed shot him a soft smile as he did). Throughout his time with Peter, Tony learned the layout of their performance space and easily found him, his boyfriend delightfully flushed from the still flowing adrenaline of a job well done.

Brown eyes caught him before Tony could make it over to Peter physically – Peter’s stare stopping him in his tracks for a moment. The look never failed to knock him back, Tony completely smitten with the dark pupiled gaze, Peter’s nonverbal communication increasing tenfold since the first time they locked eyes like this. Without saying anything, Tony knew Peter was grateful for his presence, that seeing him right after such a big success made him just as happy as the performance itself.

Grinning, Tony narrowed the space between them, his arms wrapping around Peter’s waist the second they were within touching distance. He nuzzled his nose into Peter’s neck, the silent ‘hello’ exactly what he needed after so much artificial noise buzzing around in his head. After placing a small kiss to salty skin, Tony pulled away, a soft smile on his face.

“You were amazing,” Tony signed, his voice inaccessible to him after so much earlier strain. He trusted Peter’s ASL skill, anyway – they’d been working hard over the last few weeks to make the man completely conversational.

Peter didn’t disappoint, his handsome face breaking into a happy grin, the edges of his mouth actually reaching his eyes. He let a hand brush against Tony’s suit jacket clad shoulder, the touch brief, yet reassuring.

“Thank you,” Peter replied, his fingers touching his chin in the recognizable sign. “It’s so nice to have you in the crowd. It’s like everyone else fades away and it’s just you and me. I really like that.”

Tony smiled shyly, his eyes watching Peter’s lips form those last words with interest. He quickly recalled the last time he saw them, their skin much more flush and sticky then – both totally sated in the afterglow. The blush on his cheeks deepened, his smile turning into a smirk.

“I really like you.” Tony palmed Peter’s cheek as he spoke, his voice suddenly finding its way out of his throat.

Peter wrapped him up in a sudden hug, his arms squashing Tony to his chest. Since their little reunion a few weeks ago, Peter seemed hell bent on making up for it – whether it was through more diligent signing or an abundance of physical contact, Peter doubled his efforts – the try in his behavior apparent.

Letting a sigh slip through his lips, Tony felt himself relax into the contact. He appreciated the effort – there really wasn’t anything like the feeling of being in Peter’s arms. Yet, he wondered if it was just an attempt to win Tony back over, or if it was truly how things were going to go from now on.

He realized after Peter’s walk out, just how tangible being left behind actually was. It wasn’t as if he didn’t think about it before – every time they struggled to be on the same page, Tony found himself thinking how much easier it would be for Peter to be with someone else – someone that didn’t struggle to reciprocate… someone that, well – could hear.

When things were good between them, it was easy to brush off.

Ever since their falling out, though, Tony found it harder to just push to the side. If a little bit of annoyance could drag such careless words from Peter’s mouth, what would the long haul look like for them? Was it even worth it for Peter? Would there ever truly be a future for Tony’s deafness and Peter’s hearing to cohabitate successfully? So much fear sat in the pit of his stomach, so many unknowns and questions unanswered – Tony was already so damn overcome by love and near acceptance, losing Peter wasn’t something he ever wanted to do.

Fear and apprehension weren’t things Tony wanted to carry around with him, especially where Peter was concerned. Despite that want, Tony couldn’t stop himself from fretting or feeling anxious. Times like that very moment, when Peter wrapped him up in strong arms, they kept things at bay – but, only just barely.

Pulling away from Peter’s hug, Tony gave his boyfriend a little space – his sheet music and taken apart saxophone still sat on the table next to them, his presence obviously slowing down the cleaning up process. “Let’s get you cleaned up. The quicker we get to that after party, the quicker we’ll be able to leave.”

Peter shot him a smirk, then went about deconstructing his mouthpiece, the reed lovingly placed in its protector, then slotted into its spot in the case. Everything Peter did was precise, the movement of his hands hypnotic – Tony finding himself completely glued to them more often times than not.

Blinking the unnecessary distraction away, he turned his back to his boyfriend, cutting off any further means of communication for the time being.

Tony put Peter’s sheet music away, his eidetic memory allowing him to remember the order it usually existed in. With that done, Tony slipped it into Peter’s bag, grabbed the saxophone case from Peter’s hand, and offered up his arm for Peter to take. The weight in the crook of his elbow was comforting, the affection something Tony knew he’d need to get through the next step of their forced social adventure.

They took the extra time needed to get Peter’s instrument into the car, the few stolen minutes together some of the last they would get until obligations were fulfilled and the right people were spoken to. As much as he wanted to be by Peter’s side throughout the entire ordeal, Tony couldn’t keep up with everything – too many people to tune into and too much noise to navigate made it incredibly difficult to be anything but a bother.

Which is how Tony found himself in the corner, desperately attempting to escape conversation with the masses. He followed Peter around for a while, catching a few names here and there, exchanging the necessary hellos – then bowed out as quickly as he could. If he weren’t already in a state of anxiety, he probably would have tried to hold on a little tighter to the forced interactions. But, he couldn’t do it – not when his head was buzzing and every second he attempted to lip read felt like trudging through sludge – every exchange between himself and another person the heaviest burden.

He grabbed a flute of champagne and let himself relax against the wall, hazel eyes flitting between all of the different people occupying the space. The musicians were easy to pick out, they were still sporting the matching penguin suits. Stiff members of the upper echelon of New York society also stuck out like a sore thumb – there were only a select few that would jazz themselves up to the nines to attend a concerto. The random few (himself included) flitted in and out of recognition. Some were there with other musicians, and some seemed happy just to be in attendance, regardless of their standing.

As the minutes passed, Tony felt his head starting to buzz more intensely than before. After such a long day, he couldn’t decide if it was because the long use of his hearing aids, or the overwhelming nature of being in a crowd for an extended duration of time. Unlike Peter, Tony didn’t do much of his life surrounded by lots of people. The small five person dinners they sometimes hosted were a bit much – a huge room of people, all of which were talking non-stop, bordered on impossible.

Depositing his glass on the nearest flat surface, Tony reached up to fiddle with his hearing aids. He knew, the second he switched them off, the rest of the world would be blissfully silent – and yet, at the same time, his ability to communicate with it would be severely diminished. Despite the fact that he’d been mainstream his entire life, reading lips and keeping up with multiple people talking at the same time was not easy; and never would be.

Knowing what he knew, nimble fingers still moved to shut off the hearing devices, their assistance no longer anything but taxing and somewhat debilitating.

Peter must’ve seen him struggling – in the next second, Tony had a hand on his elbow, the comforting squeeze of familiar fingers grounding him, despite the small scare the touch provided. There was concern written all over his face, the small little crease between his brows both cute and reassuring. His hand moved to find Tony’s cheek, soft skin against soft skin.

“Are you okay? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn those off in public before,” Peter signed, his fingers pointing at the hearing aids in his ears. “This crowd must be a lot.”

Tony allowed himself to lean into Peter’s touch, the overwhelming feeling he tried to bottle up throughout the night finally coming to the surface under the affectionate care. Ducking his head, Tony rested his forehead against Peter – breaths intermingling. He sucked in a big lungful of oxygen, the smell of Peter’s cologne a familiar entity that helped to stop him from jumping over the preverbal cliff he felt perched over throughout the evening.

“I’m struggling, Pete – I’m not going to lie. This whole night has been a lot. All the sound, all the people. I just can’t keep up.” He signed each of the words, the idea of speaking without the help of his hearing aids one he didn’t even want to process. Tony was thankful Peter was paying close attention to him – the crowd not giving him any trouble at all.

The hand on his cheek shifted again, Peter’s long fingers sinking into the grown out hair at the back of his neck. Tony felt his eyes close, the world around them melted away with every pass of blunt fingernails against the surface of his scalp. With his eyes closed, it truly felt like it was only him and Peter – the bubble of silence so fucking nice after all the stress.

Peter continued to pet him until Tony opened his eyes again. The soft smile he found on Peter’s face made his heart race, his own grin settling over his lips for what felt like the first time all day. A swift tug to his hair signaled Peter’s retreat, his boyfriend using his hands to sign at him, instead.

“I think I’ve been here long enough. What do you think about heading home and ordering some take out? I could go for some pho.” Peter exaggerated the last sign, his lips making a round ‘O’ that he dragged out.

And despite being so entirely wrung out, Tony couldn’t stop the laugh that wormed its way out – Peter knew how to make him feel better, without really even trying. His ability to know what Tony needed just by simply looking at him reminded Tony of the reason he felt the need to trust Peter in the first place. He didn’t always class it up the best, but he delivered seamlessly, regardless.

Nodding, Tony stepped into Peter’s space, wrapping his arms around slim shoulders to bring him in close. He held him tightly for a moment, just long enough to absorb Peter’s heat, then let him go. “That sounds good – thank you.”

It took them a few minutes to actually make their excuses and get out of the concert hall, but they were soon on their way – Tony tucked into Peter’s side as they made quick work of the space between the building and the parking lot. Still feeling a bit off balance, Tony clung to Peter with every step; vulnerability oozed from him and for the moment, he didn’t really give a shit.

They made it back to Peter’s place twenty minutes later – both of them slipping out of their suits and into soft matching flannel pajama pants they cheesily wore during the holiday’s a couple months before. It felt good to be wrapped up in the small comforts, the companionship between himself and Peter tangible in all sorts of ways.

There wasn’t any talking while they got settled. Peter ordered their food without having to ask Tony what he wanted. While Peter took care of their eats, Tony set up the latest episode of Peaky Blinders, the closed captions on and ready to go.

The simplicity of one of their typical routines let all the surrounding anxiety melt away from Tony – the only thing left the ease of the environment he inhabited with his favorite person.

Peter made his presence in the living room known with a swift touch to Tony’s shoulder, his fingers settling on the back of his neck. Turning, Tony shot him a soft smile, his hand gracing Peter’s hip before shifting to sign.

“You really were great tonight, Pete. I love watching you play.” He finished the last sign with a soft touch to Peter’s cheek. “I sometimes wish I could hear like everyone else, too.”

Moving quickly, Peter gripped Tony’s cheeks, the move drawing Tony’s attention immediately.

“I should have never said that. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. Your eyes never left me – each song, it was like I was playing to you and you alone. It’s the most intimate playing experience I’ve ever had, Tony. You don’t need to hear me – you get me. That’s more than enough.”

Not really knowing how much he needed to be told that, Tony felt chest getting a little tighter. It didn’t occur to him that his anxiety that evening circled around the feeling of not knowing how secure things with Peter really were. He forgave him his words weeks ago – they were careless and they both understood that. Maybe he didn’t let go of the feeling those words created within him as easily, though; the whispers of them still haunting him.  

Sighing, Tony leaned forward and pressed their lips together. “I know. I really do. I just – I’m feeling anxious. I was so sure that you just sort of understood me. And you do. I know that, too. It just – broke me a little. You saying what you did. Are you going to be able to handle this,” Tony signed, pausing to gesture between them, “years down the road? I’m always going to be deaf. I’m always going to have nights like tonight. I love you, Pete. I don’t want to lose you.”

The seconds between the words sitting in the space between them and Peter’s response felt like years – Tony’s heart thudded against his chest, each beat like lead running through his veins. It wasn’t an ultimatum, per say – he wasn’t laying down a this or that, but the answer was important all the same. He already went down the rabbit hole of falling in love and depending on the man in front of him. In all of his life, Tony didn’t want anything else in this world more than a future with Peter.

There was so much potential – their relationship consisted of so many components; friendship, love, intimacy – all of the important variables for long lasting companionship and happiness.

At the same time, there were room for complications, too. Especially if there wasn’t a certain kind of commitment that came with living with a person with a disability. Accommodations would always need to be made, whether it be in their method of communication or the environment of whatever home they lived in.

They could do it – he knew they could. And even better yet, he wanted to; more than anything, he wanted to make a real go at things with Peter, even more so than they already were.

Peter returned the kiss after many seconds of silent contemplation. He let the lip to lip contact linger, Tony soaking up the touch, letting the flare of want and contentment surge through him. Brown eyes stayed on Tony as Peter created space, his hands moving to sign.

“It’s a lot – the future. What’s going to happen, where I might be. The only thing I know for sure is that I want you there with me. I was really thoughtless, wasn’t I? Saying what I said.” Peter stopped then, his right hand grabbing Tony’s while the other rubbed circles across his own chest – the sign for sorry making Tony smile lightly. He didn’t need to nod his head for Peter to know the answer to his question – the simple fact that they were having this conversation at all spoke volumes.

After a quick squeeze, Peter dropped Tony’s hand, his fingers moving to sign again. “I’m not going to say that the challenges were going to face aren’t scary – because they are. I’ll probably get it wrong most of the time, but I’m willing to try. I want to, even. This, what we have, it’s it for me.”

Not really sure where they came from, Tony was surprised to feel tears dripping down his cheeks. He couldn’t remember welling up or feeling the incessant need to let stuff out that usually prefaced the times he cried. Yet, there they were, flowing freely down to his chin – the path of which Peter quickly followed with his thumb.

It felt like a catharsis – the sort of cleansing of anger and anxiety that Tony wasn’t aware he needed until halfway in it. Instead of freaking like he did so many times before when emotions became too big, Tony let them go, the soft touch of Peter’s hand on his skin helping to relax him even further. For once, it felt good to let go – to rid his system of the terrible shit he kept inside because there wasn’t anywhere else for it to be.

Except – not anymore. As evidenced by this very moment, Peter could take on some of his burden, he could hold Tony up when everything might’ve gone to shit before.

“I want that, too,” Tony finally managed to reply. He felt completely overcome and suddenly drained of all energy. All of the emotions from what felt like his entire life were exorcised – the wash of tears the physical manifestation of it. Now, all Tony wanted to do was crawl into Peter’s arms and simply exist – no barriers or hard feelings between them.

Apart from detangling to bring the food into the apartment, Tony spent the rest of the night in that exact way – wrapped up in Peter’s embrace without a care in the world.

[liron-ao3]

Happy reading

Human AU Malec & Destiel Oneshot

Dean lets his eyes run over the spines of the library books in front of him. He knows that he has likely read all the historical novels in their small town library at this point, but it doesn't harm to check for new arrivals.

He spots a cover he hasn't seen before, well placed on a small tablet stand—a new accession. Awesome. He reaches out to get it, but before he can grab it, a large hand with black nail polish beats him to it, and Dean curses inwardly.

The other man follows the hand invading his view and scrutinises Dean with black-rimmed eyes. "Sorry. Were you interested in this one?"

Dean needs a moment to take the man fully in. He is a work of art from the black cowboy boots right up to the blue-tinted tips of his spiked up hair. Dean has to clear his throat. He's never seen anyone like him in their little town. He's probably from the new settlement up the hill. Many New Yorkers moved here, much to the villagers' dismay.

Mr Perfect-Style raises a questioning eyebrow, and Dean realises that he hasn't answered for too long. "Um, yeah. It's from my favourite author, and I haven't read it yet."

The other man smiles. "Same."

Dean likes the other man's voice. And his confident posture. And his taste in books. Dammit! He hasn't looked at a man for years now. Hook-ups with women are safer. But he's settled now, and Dean is pretty confident that the man gives off queer vibes with all the makeup and shiny clothes.

Dean feels courageous today and decides to check his hunch. He leans against the bookshelf and puts on his most winsome smile. "What do I have to do for you to give me way with this book? I'm a fast reader."

Two sentences without stammering. This must be Dean's new record regarding gay flirting. He's nearly proud of himself.

The other man raises the single eyebrow even higher, eyes sparkling with mirth. He gives Dean a once-over, and his lips pull into a wide grin. "I'm not sure if I should hit that," he says, and Dean freaking blushes, the smirk gliding off his face instantly.

Suffering a rebuff is bad enough. But he never hit a wall so quickly before he could even reveal all his charm. Not with women though, so...

He straightens himself and nods. "Gonna make a reservation then," he says and turns around, leaving the library without new reading fodder.

***

"Here, Mr Winchester. Happy reading," the librarian says.

Dean smiles at her as he takes the book after she scanned it together with his library card. "I'm lucky that it was returned so quickly. Two days. That's impressive."

"Maybe the other reader didn't enjoy it," she supplies with a shrug. Dean doubts that very much. He nods nonetheless. He's still a little miffed. Usually, he's so smooth when it comes to flirting with the ladies, but men still give him a headache. All those contradicting signals.

He walks out to the bus stop, and when he finds a seat in the last row, he opens the book, unable to wait a minute longer now that he has it in his hands. At the beginning of the first chapter, he finds a scrap of paper. No. It's handmade paper adorned with beautiful handwriting. Dean furrows his brow. And reads the short note.

Sorry if I was too harsh on you on Tuesday. I would like to atone. Do you have plans for the spring fair?

Dean stares at the delicate letters and numbers, then he lets out a snort and pushes the paper into the pocket of his jacket.

***

"A date would do you good," Alec says and pushes a bottle of ice-cold beer into Dean's hand. "Is he good-looking?"

Dean snorts. "Not my usual type."

"Your usual type is women. You haven't been with a single man since you came out."

Dean shrugs. "Men are intimidating as fuck." Alec snorts at that. "You have no right to make fun of me. How many men exactly did you date in the last two years?"

"That's different. I don't need a man," Alec says and slumps on the other side of the sofa.

"And I do?"

Alec scans him from head to toe. "Most definitely." Dean huffs a laugh and doesn't dignify him with an answer. "What do you have to lose? We wanted to go to the fair anyway. Ask him if he has a nice, good-looking buddy who's interested in men, and we're going on a double date."

Dean laughs out loud. "Just a second ago, you said you don't need a man."

"I don't need a partner. But a nice flirt? Why not?" Alec shrugs.

Dean shakes his head. "I won't go out with that guy just to get you laid."

Alec rolls his eyes. "Come on, man. Maybe he knows where the hot, secretly gay people are hiding in this town."

"They are assembled in this room, Alec." Dean takes a swig of his beer and shakes his head. "Wouldn't it be easier to simply be fuck buddies?"

Alec screws up his face in disgust. "You're like my brother. Don't even—urgh."

Dean giggles and plops into the sofa cushions. "Okay. I'll text him."

***

"You owe me. Big time," Castiel grumbles. "I don't care that we've been friends since kindergarten. If my date is a stupid meathead, I'm killing you."

Magnus chuckles. "Now and then, a meathead is exactly what one needs, Castiel. It's not always about finding your one true love. You know that I'm a romantic by heart, but sometimes you just need a good, mmpf," he says as Castiel covers his mouth with his hand.

He pierces Magnus with his eyes. "I know you are a bit of a lothario, but not everyone needs that to be happy." He pulls his hand away and looks at it in disgust before he cleans the lipgloss away with a handkerchief that he pulls out of his trenchcoat.

"Sorry, darling. I should've known better than to say that. But I'm sure he'll be nice." He looks at his watch. "They must be here any second. Oh, there." Magnus waves wildly at two approaching men and shouts Dean's name.

"Which one is supposed to be mine?" Castiel grunts.

"The one with the neck tattoo," Magnus smirks.

"Of course it's him," Castiel says and rolls his eyes.

***

"So, you're afraid of heights," Castiel asks Dean, who eyes Magnus and Alec in the line for the Ferris wheel.

"Yeah. Since childhood. And you?"

"I kind of fell from the sky once. Don't need a repetition of this experience."

Dean chuckles. "I can imagine. So, you and Magnus, you never…?"

Castiel looks at him in disgust. "Oh no. He's way too sexual for my taste." His eyes widen when he realises what he just said. "I mean, I love him, and he is a great guy. Smart, funny. Stylish, I guess." He squirms under Dean's piercing gaze.

"I wouldn't have expected someone like you when he promised his best-looking friend," Dean says, grinning from ear to ear.

Castiel snorts. "That's because Ragnor is on the other side of the pond, and all his other male friends are straight or heteroromantic."

"What?"

"They are asexual but like women romantically."

Dean raises his eyebrows but doesn't comment on it. Who wants to look like a complete idiot in front of a handsome guy like Castiel? Not that Dean would look at him that way. He's on a date with Magnus, after all. Magnus, who smiles at Alec in a way that Dean wasn't graced with until now.

Dean pulls his gaze from the two other men and turns to Castiel. "So, you're a professor? Of what exactly?"

"Church history." Great change of topic, Winchester. "Are you a martial arts instructor like Alec?"

"No," Dean chuckles. "I train in my spare time, but I'm a car mechanic and teach the next generation."

It's the first time that Castiel's frown smooths out this evening and a tender smile plays on his lips. "Teaching is such a great vocation, don't you agree?"

Dean thinks of his trainees and nods. "It's pretty rewarding, yeah." Dean can't take his eyes off Castiel's beautiful lips. Alec will kill him.

***

"Oh, you must go to the London Eye, should you ever be there. It's magnificent."

Alec chuckles. "I will remember that the next time I portal over."

Magnus hits his arm playfully. "I'm just so happy to finally be on a Ferris Wheel again. Castiel is such a—no, that would be mean to say. He has his reasons."

"I like people who don't feel the need to belittle others," Alec says, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"I think everyone has an intrinsic value. No matter their strengths or weaknesses." Alec smiles at him. Magnus quirks an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," Alec smirks. "You're just really beautiful." Magnus' lips part in surprise. The sight is very distracting. "Sorry. I guess that was inappropriate. You're Dean's date after all."

Magnus looks down at his date standing suspiciously close to his friend, who usually hates it when people do that. "I don't have the feeling he's truly interested in me. Are you sure he's gay?"

Alec laughs out loud. "He's a disaster bi. Can get every woman he wants, but let a man flirt with him and he switches into panic mode."

"I figured that. I was playing hard to get and he turned the other way."

Alec chuckles. "I can imagine that. But I'm happy that you tried to get to know him anyway. Although I don't think that you two are a good match."

Magnus smirks in amusement. "Is that so?"

Alec nods and moves over to Magnus' bench. "Yeah," he says when the cabin has finally stopped swaying. "I wish you were my date."

"Why? Because we have so much in common?" Magnus snorts.

Alec shrugs. "Opposites attract." He leans in, to Magnus' ear. "And I saw you checking out my ass," he whispers over the noises of the fair.

"You have a very nice ass, Alec. Who would blame me?"

***

"Sonofabitch! I can't believe he's kissing my date!"

Castiel chuckles, and the sound worms itself into Dean's chest and settles in his heart. "They look cute together, though."

"I guess they'll take another round, huh?" Dean laughs.

"Seems that way. Would you like to walk over the fair with me?" Dean smiles at him. He intertwines their fingers and relishes Castiel's answering smile. Alec will likely not use Krav Maga on him.

[i-jus-wanna-writehappy]

Handful

Pairing: Finan x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut y’all 18+ READ ONLY

Author’s Note: I love Finan with all my heart, and I have a fluff for him started, and for some unknown reason, this idea clocked me clean in my jaw, lol. I hope you enjoy. I do some head hopping by paragraphs in the beginning. I know a lot of people don’t like it, but I really enjoy writing it

Tags: @thotyana-in-this-hoe @neeadinghugs

Masterlist    Black Girl Insert Series

*     *     *     *

Finan huffed as he watched the women sashay through the alehouse. It wasn’t a huff of judgement, not at all, these were beautiful women, perfectly plush women. His huff came from a place of frustration, because he was surrounded by all the ale he could want, and multiple women perfect for a drunken hump, and his cock didn’t stir at all. Finan grumbled into his ale and looked around with a sharper eye. He didn’t have to look long before a slender hand caressed the back of his neck. He didn’t have to see her to know that touch, he’d spent a lot of silver on it. 

“Leofwen.” It was Uhtred that called out the woman’s name. He’d noticed his friend was in a mood, and surely a good fuck from one of his favorite women would make him feel better. Leaning back in his chair and watching the woman scratch softly through the hair at the nape of Finan’s neck, Uhtred was sure the two of them would be gone in a flurry of hands within moments. Much to his surprise, Finan simply leaned back into her touch for a moment and groaned, “I’m not much tonight, Leofwen.” The tall woman snorted and leaned down beside Finan, “When are you ever much?” Finan laughed and Uhtred felt a little better for that. “’S nice to know I don’t have t’ lose any silver for your mouth.” Finan took one more breath enjoying Leofwen’s hand on the nape of his neck before leaning out of the embrace, “Seriously, go find someone who’ll give y’eh some silver tonight.”

With one last scrape of her short fingernails, Leofwen sashayed across the alehouse, eyes on a man with shiny shoes. “What is it?” Uhtred finally asked, watching Finan watch everyone in the alehouse grab tits and laugh merrily. He would usually be the life of the night, shouting out songs for people to join in singing and wooing women left and right. It wasn’t until Finan answered with a closed-eyed, “Nothing.” that Uhtred found the problem with his friend. “Ah, so it’s Y/N.” Finan groaned, hating the teasing he knew was to come.

You’d asked for a place in Coccham nearly a year ago. You’d heard of Uhtred, that he was an honorable lord and had no qualms with the religious preferences of his peoples, and the prospect of starting your adult life under his eye was promising. You’d been presented to Uhtred and his men, and as soon as Finan saw you, he knew you’d be trouble for him one  way or another. He had no idea that his torture would last so long and that every conversation with you would add more pressure to the heap of heat in his body firmly stamped with your name.

“It’s becomin’ a problem. I said no - to Leofwen. And you know she does that thing I always like -”

“With your ear, yes, I remember. Have you spoken to Y/N about it? She doesn’t have a man, and she doesn’t dislike you, she listens to you tell shit jokes too often for that.” Uhtred poked fun at his friend. And he was right about that, you had seemed a bit friendly with him, flirtatious even, so maybe he could turn on some Irish charm and pull you his way. But you were surely long sleep, and he needed something to sate the more primal hunger he had for you now. “Maybe I’ll stop by her door tomorrow, tonight, I hav’ta sleep off this ale before I fall asleep here.”

Giving pat to Uhtred’s shoulder, Finan made his way out of the alehouse. The cool air was helpful in clearing his head, the alehouse was humid and stuffy, but then Finan passed by your home and knew what he needed to do. He didn’t necessarily like it, but he knew.

Stepping into his home, Finan lit a fire and shed his clothes. The night time left a chill in his home it would take a while to shake, but still, with goosebumps rising on his skin, Finan flopped down on top of his furs. For a moment, he was just there, lying spread eagle, naked as the day he was born, wondering if he’d hate it as much once he started. God, once he finished. Listening as the wood crackled, Finan closed his eyes and thought about the nights you’d join him and the others at the alehouse. The dress you’d wear in hopes of finding yourself a man. It was low-cut, and a rich purple that made you look like royalty. It began to get a lot easier from there as Finan felt himself heat up and his cock harden.

Keeping his eyes closed to keep you with him, Finan lowered his hand to his growing member. Behind his eyelids, Finan saw you open the door to his home, dress cut low and feet bare. You’d rushed to him in the night, so needy for the feel of his flesh on yours that you couldn’t be bothered to put on shoes or a cloak. Your voice came to him easily, and he could hear you in his mind, “Fin? I’m sorry to bother you so late.” Finan can’t decide whether he’s wearing clothes in this encounter, still so caught up in the nickname you’ve given him, so for now he focuses on you as his warm hand squeezes his base.

“Yer fine, lass. What’s botherin’ ya?” You looked behind yourself to make sure you weren’t being watched before slipping in all the way and closing the door behind you, “I just - I can’t generate any heat. My fire isn’t building, and I can’t seem to get comfortable in the cold tonight. This was the only place I could think to come.” You didn’t need Finan to say anymore, you looked at him and knew you were welcome. The warmth of his home wrapped you up in a tight embrace as you made your way to the edge of his bed. Sitting down, feet still on the ground and hand achingly close to his decidedly bare leg, you stared into the fire as you spoke, “Can I tell you the truth?” Finan shivered as he began to throb in his hand, but he couldn’t move yet. He was waiting. “Anything, Y/N.” You kept still, “I came here straight from the alehouse.” You turned to him now, scooting your body and resting on your knees so they were pressing against the side of his leg, “I saw you leave and I couldn’t go another moment without touching you,” You ran your hand up his side and rested your forehead on his temple, “Feeling you. Can I feel you, Fin?” Another shiver made its way through Finan’s body as he nodded.

You shifted again until you were sitting right behind Finan, your legs were spread so his body was nestled between them and your hand caressed its way down to his throbbing cock. Finan grunted, applying more pressure, the heat from the fire began to reach him on his bed and for a moment he felt like maybe he wasn’t just imagining you. Finan still knew better than to open his eyes and check for you, so he put his attention back on you behind his eyelids. Finan pressed his hand over top yours to finally get you to move. His senses were bouncing all over the place: he could feel your breath on the nape of his neck, the sweat on your thighs made them stick to his skin just a little, the fabric of the dress you had pulled up to your waist brushed against his back, and your warm calloused hand, just rough enough to make him grit his teeth.

Part of Finan wanted to commend itself for how vivid his imagination was, but his cock twitched in his hand and he realized he didn’t care enough about how he was doing it, but he did care that you were fully present through the entire endeavor. Without him even having to say anything, you pressed your lips to the back of Finan’s neck kissing between your words, “I’ve wanted this for so long. To grip you tight and listen to the sounds you make when you’re enveloped in the warmth of a woman. To feel you sweat and pant against my skin. The only thing that could make this better would be you getting me here for real. Do you know what I would do if you came up to me, Fin? What I’d say when you recommended we have a hump?”

Finan groaned and pumped his hips up into his hand, “I don’t, but I reckon you’re gonna tell me?” He gritted through clenched teeth. You nodded as your lips pressed to his neck in a wet kiss, “I would tell you how often I reach beneath my gown at home, fingers seeking to give me release as I think of you. I would moan and cry out your name as I bounced on your cock. Hold you tight when I came, whimpering and hungry for more of your touch.” Your confession was all Finan needed. He was sweating like a madman now and he was sure that anyone passing by would hear him grunting, but his orgasm was so close, and nothing but God could stop him from chasing it.

Releasing the tight grip he had on his covers with his free hand, Finan cupped his balls. “Fuck, fuck,” He muttered over and over as he imagined your hands beneath his own, jerking him faster as you whispered words of encouragement in his ear. A handful of fires sparked in succession in the pit of Finan’s stomach and with one final growl, his release spurted from the tip of his swollen cock.

Finan spent some time recovering, panting with his eyes closed as the warmth of your imaginary touch slipped away. Once he’d gathered himself, Finan was able to open his eyes and see what a mess he’d made of himself. His right hand was still wrapped softly around his dick, the edges of his fingers warm and sticky from his cum. Up his stomach and neck, Finan’s cum sat, thick and still. He was glad that he hadn’t gotten any in his beard this time. He already hated having to fuck himself in your absence, he didn’t want to do anything like clean the cum from his beard too.

Standing with a stretch, Finan grabbed one of the loose strips of fabric he had to wrap or clean woulds and wiped the cum from his stomach. He also found that he was efficiently exhausted and collapsed back onto his bed. Just as Finan was letting sleep take him, a knock shook him out of his slumber. “Whadda ya want?” He called out, sure the know was coming from Sihtric, who probably had some dumb drunken game or adventure he wished for Finan to join. A jolt went through his body when he heard you speak, “Fin? Can I see you? I need your help with something.” Thinking back to his little dream, Finan felt his cock begin to stiffen again, and almost asked you to leave, but he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see you. Finan jumped up and rushed to grab some clothes, “Yeah, Y/N, I’m in my sleep clothes now, just give me a moment.”

He heard you huff outside the door and the knob began to turn, “That’s fine.” You replied, pushing the door open. Finan didn’t know what to do what you opened the door and saw him naked, but he knew he was in need of another release.

[chainmailchalamet]

Lights Up (Chapter One)

Prompt: You work at a fashion magazine styling celebrities, and for this month’s issue, you’re working closely with Harry Styles on an editorial piece. You try hard not to get distracted and get the job done, but Harry’s dedicated to making that difficult for you. Black nonbinary OC x Harry Styles. Eventual sugar daddy HS. Fashion heavy (fashion is one of the kinks shh).

---

You've worked as a stylist for Extravagance for roughly three years, so you're mostly used to seeing pretty, sparkly people in various states of undress. You operate at the highest level of professionalism though, barely even drooling over the many celebrities you’ve worked with. You’d laced Timothee Chalamet into a satin corset for the Fall Issue a couple months ago, and you didn't even bat an eye, even though, yes, he was unfairly pretty and really charming in the awkward doe-eyed way you really like. 

You're only human, so from time to time there is some flirting, some innocent banter and sometimes some less innocent looks exchanged, but you're proud to say you've never hooked up with any of your clients. You like to keep business separate from pleasure, and again, your job is literally to make really pretty people look even prettier. Sometimes the pretty people are assholes which makes everything easier for you. It's worse when they're polite and charming.

  And then you find out that the magazine is doing an editorial, and at first it's like fuck yes, because with all those hours that you're gonna have to put in the payday is going to be incredible, which means your ssense wish list is going to get a little smaller (you're got your eyes on a MOWALOLA tee in a lime-green tie-dye that's going to make all the fashion gays sick with envy). 

But then your editor says "so, this is the Harry Styles issue" all casually like it's not a big deal at all instead of like, the biggest fucking deal and the end of your career. Because she knows how you feel about Harry Styles, she knows it's going to scramble your brain to be in close proximity with his half-naked pretty-boy body, to put him in and take him out of gorgeous clothes, that it's going to activate your fight or flight to have to do that everyday for like a week. 

She can see the panic in your eyes while you sit across from her in her office, and because she's your boss she doesn't outright laugh at you, but because she's your friend she also gives you a little pout with laughing eyes like she wants to. 

"I hate you," you grumble, but in a professional way, with a smile showing all your teeth. 

"I know you do," she says. "You're my best stylist, and I have complete trust in you."

And that's kind of sweet, isn’t it? "Oh, what? Thank you..."

"I trust that you won't jump his bones and put us all out of a job with the ensuing scandal," she smirks, turning back to her laptop, effectively dismissing you. She pretends not to see you flip her off as you start to leave, and then calls out, right before you get out the door, "Especially considering this issue's theme!"

You think, what is she on about? and then it hits you like a tonne of bricks, that you'd pitched this one theme a couple months earlier over cocktails with the rest of the team, and it'd been a complete joke, except it turns out the joke is your life. 

"What if, for the next issue," you'd crowed, giggly and delirious, "we did the boy-heroine, like, one of those puppy boys that followed Jane Austin heroines around begging for her strap..."

"What the fuck does that even mean?" someone way more sensible than you had asked, and then you'd said some more drunk bullshit and gone on a full rant about gender in the Gothic romantic tradition and ruffle collars and rose petals and fishnets. 

"Oh fuck," you say out loud to yourself in the present moment, as you recall your editor had asked you a week or two back if you still had the tights studded with the rhinestones. 

You did have the tights. And now you had no choice but to eat the tights, for the sake of your own sanity. 

Harry shows up twenty minutes early to your first fitting, which means you're twenty minutes late to your first fitting. You walk in too-confident in a full Jacqmeus bike short and crop top moment in a buttery rust knit, chunky sneakers, and the most elaborate Badu-scarf situation you can maneuver your bleach-blonde dreads into, feeling very fucking cute and very on time. 

"Bring on the pretty white boy," you announce, walking in and doing this little dance, a little shimmy with your hips. 

Your editor, Etta, is standing by a rack of clothes with a tall white boy with curly hair tied back with a a silk scarf that you're 90% sure is vintage Gucci, and you're about to say something like "killer scarf, where'd you thrift it?" when your rat brain catches up with you and you realize the tall white boy with the cool scarf is Harry Styles, who has turned to give you a look like he's trying really hard not to laugh. 

"I suppose I'm the pretty white boy?" he says, at the same time that Etta says "I have never met this person in my life, Harry, this is obviously an overheated toddler."

You flip her off with one hand and meet Harry halfway for a handshake with the other. "In my defense, I really only talk about the talent like that when I assume the talent won't be here for another twenty minutes..."

"And in my defense, I had an early start this morning," Harry says good-naturedly. “Woke up on the right side of the bed, ate my Wheaties, that whole thing.”

He's unfairly pretty, is the thing, like properly handsome. His hair falls smooth and shiny around his shoulders, and he's got a little stubble moment going on (you're a sucker for the sensation of stubble, the smell of expensive aftershave), and that scarf is definitely vintage Gucci, and the rest of it is giving off-duty rock star; black Bootsy Collins t-shirt, velvet lounge pants, well-loved black converse.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “To learn.”

My brain wanted to write something in first person present tense today. I have no idea why, but I let it go wild. I hope you all like it :) A little bit different than my usual style :)

I just needed some time.

You ever tried putting yourself back together after war, it isn’t easy, or at least I don’t find it to be. I don’t know, call me a sissy, but I don’t actually like war., I don’t take pleasure from killing, but it is part of my job, a big part of it and if the universe continues the way it is, I am going to see war a lot more often.

I wish it didn’t affect me so much.

I wish I had a better way of handling it.

People think I’m a strong person, but they’re wrong. There are plenty of people who could take up my mantle and do a more badass job. They wouldn’t grow sick as the sight of carnage, and they wouldn’t hesitate to put the armor back on.

I’m not like that ….

I’m a coward.

If my friends knew…. Well I have no idea what they would think of me.

But that’s why I had to take some time. Since my first injury, I have never been totally alone. There was always someone there to check on me, there was always someone there to help me deal with my issues. I don’t think I ever figured out how to take care of myself, which is why I decided to take this trip, alone.

The others didn’t understand it…. well , one of them did but he still didn’t like it, but If I am being honest it will be good for them….. Especially her…. The last thing I want to do is make it so we can’t function alone.

I think its called…. Codependency or something.

I don’t know sounds like the sort of thing I’d get caught up in.

I suppose it's for all those reasons that I ended up here. 

Looking out the window, I can see Anum suspended against the sky glassy in shades of blue purple and green like a lucky marble. It almost feels as if I can reach out and touch it.

The last time I saw this place, it was receding into the distance,.

I lost a lot here, my leg, and my mind for a short time.

Now it kind of makes me laugh to think that a piece of me was left behind to fertilize some of the plant matter. Of course, it looks a bit different now that the dark season has abated. I had only ever seen the place when it was covered in ash, but it's actually quite beautiful. 

The pilot of the shuttle is pretty average, and I only feel like tightening my hands on the seatbelts just a little as we enter the atmosphere.

Fire rolls up around us as friction begins to heat up the outer hull.

Around me men and aliens alike rock in their seats.

Most of them are miners, come here to work on extracting the precious metals from below Anum’s surface.

Personally, I prefer asteroid mining, but statistics say that is more dangerous and expensive so of course corporations like it a lot less, and besides, all of this was sort of just a massive pissing contest with the GA forcing the Drev to pay for the damages caused during war. I don’t think they should, but who am I to give my opinion.

I’m just a soldier.

It doesn't take us long to leave the atmosphere, and it isn’t long before we are looking down at a massive open mining operation. The face of Anum has been scoured with a massive terraced hole overrun by machines and workers cutting into the stone. Volcanoes pipe smoke in the distance.

The scars of industry really are ugly sometimes.

I’ve seen pictures of anum during the bright season, without the machinery.

It's honestly very beautiful, but maybe I'm a bit biased. It’s the one part of home that Sunny misses, and I’ve always wanted to see it for myself. With all the times we’ve gone to earth, you think we'd have visited her home planet too, but I guess the cosmos have ust never taken us this way.

Red lights blink above the doors, and I unbuckle my harness pulling on my bag and gear with the rest of the miners, though I’m not here for the same reason they are. Boots clatter loudly on the ramp below our feet, and I head outside.

It smells clean and cool, though for a distant tang of sulfur.

You barely notice it though, less bad than visiting the hot springs at yellowstone, so your nose adjusts quickly.

The sky overhead is blue, just like on earth, though the ground beyond the launch pad is an amalgamation of rainbow color. I have to blink a few times to adjust my vision, pulling up the eyepatch to take a look from my mechanical eye and its UV filter.

“Holy shit.”

It's beautiful, the sheer amount of color is astonishing like the Lucky Charms leprechaun had some sort of horrific accident. T

he miners ignore me and continue on their way towards the docking pad. 

I don’t plan on following.

I am not here for them. I drop the patch back over my eye, and adjust the bag over my shoulder striking it out into the bush, barely looking back. No one notices, or cares, and it isn’t long before the launch field and the mining operation disappears over the horizon. Anum’s circumference is just a little smaller than that of earth with the horizon eating up anything beyond that around three miles.

Gravity is somewhat lessened too, which makes it easier as I walk.

My boots are silent against the multicolored moss at my feet, this stuff teal in color. Little white flowers spring up from the surface like clover back home. A light gust of wind rolls past me causing the flowers to ripple. I lift my head closing my eyes and allowing the wind to carry with it distant smells.

This is the same wind that Sunny would have known growing up, the same feeling under her feet.

I decide to stop a couple miles out under the meager shade of a coiltree. I have never actually seen one before now, and I can see why it’s called a coiltree. Honestly it looks like something straight out of a Dr. Seus book striped up the trunk and with branches that curl into spirals. More little whit blossoms erupt from the trunk, and between those are little white berries. 

I seem to recall those being edible.

Reaching up, I pluck one or two down from the branches and pop them into my mouth. Though the skin is white, the berries juice stains my hands purple. One of them is horrifically sour, but the other is pleasantly sweet, probably more ripe than the other, though I can’t yet tell the difference between them. 

I sit there under the tree for a little while looking out across the lonely landscape. Something is moving on the distant horizon, though I can't exactly tell what they are, a herd of some sort of animal or another. They are very tall as far as I can tell, just a little shorter than the coiltree.

As a last moment decision, I kick off my boots, and strip my socks tying them to my bag before standing.

The moss is very soft under my feet erupting upwards between my toes like a shag carpet, but you know much less hideous.

My footsteps are even softer now, though the prosthetic clatters sometimes when metal hits stone.

Sweat runs down my back,sides, and front.

I have no idea where I am going, but I know they will see me soon enough.

They have patroll parties out here, and if they aren’t watching me already, then they will be soon enough.

I keep walking heading parallel to the volcanic chain.

For the most part, my hike is uneventful, except for that time that I stepped on something slimy and wriggly. I hate to admit it but I squealed like an idiot and nearly fell over, only made worse when I looked down and saw the giant pale maggot burrowing into the moss and underground.

I nearly gagged, and my skin crawled.

Sunny had mentioned those, though I forgot their names.

THey lived primarily off of decomposing plant and animal material, very common in areas where war had continued.

I didn’t like it, but it was probably one of those nasty suckers that ate my leg.

Ew…

Gross.

I contemplated putting my boots back on, but kept walking instead. 

A group of unknown flying critters appear overhead. They have two sets of membranous wings, kind of like those of a bat, no tail though, just a long rail of fur like the streamer of a kite.

These ones are bright colors like pink and yellow.

Pretty cool.

Its nice to walk in the silence, though after a while my brain devolves into humming the star wars theme, and then singing stupid songs dancing around and hopping about from one foot to another as I badly sing the choruses to all the songs I know.

My eye of the tiger rendition probably left something to be desired, though I doubt anyone out here would know the difference.

Then comes the stupid dialogs with myself as I try to imagine what Krill Conn and Sunny would say about all this.

“Commander, I will have you know that you behavior is highly disquieting, I insist we get an MRI on your brain to make sure you have not developed a severe case of bilateral goop disease.”

“What kind of dumbass just goes wandering around with no idea where he’s going. The dumbass kind of dumbass.”

“Adam, I need you to understand that Anum is a dangerous place. I know you grew up on earth, but there are still things that can go wrong on Anum. Do you know how common surprise hot springs are. What if you fell in and died.”

Speaking of which, “Thanks imaginary Sunny, I totally forgot about that.”

Other than that, what can go wrong, it is a bright shiny day, the temperature is perfect, nothing someone like me can’t handle. Oh and is that a crunchy pink orb I see. I fucking love those, they taste so good.

I hop over the rocks, my feet warm on the moss, and reach down to pluck one of the spheres from it’s short stumpy stem.

And that's when the spear appears at my throat.

Shit.

I drop my hand back and look up to see a drev that is at least three feet taller than me, holding his massive spear orange eyes narrowed. Holy shit, I didn’t even hear her/him coming. Honestly I should have seen them coming long before anything else bright fuschia as they were.

“Lod tsa ee nin tsa daeen darish.”  They jab the spear at my neck, and the obsidian lined head cuts through my sin like butter. 

Oh shit, uh, my translator is not picking up shit. Guess these guys have a different accent than we’re used to. I rack my brains trying to remember how to speak what little I know, but it seems that it has all fled me when I needed it the most.

“Lod tsa ee nin tsa daeen darish!” I stumble backwards onto my butt and hands. Shit shit.

I hold up a hand.

“Cheeyat neahasan!” Shit I forgot to conjugate the verb. Damn I must look like an idiot yelling ‘to speak slow!’ at the top of my lungs 

However, my botched attempt at speaking seems to work, and they pull back. “Tsa dzhal Cheeyish.” 

Oh I understood that one, “Yid zhe cheeyi dzhal.” yes, yes I speak Drev, “neahasan.” Slolwy anyway. 

They pull back. I don't know why, but I’m getting a female vibe off this one. I can't tell though, Drev voices all tend to be rather deep.

“Lod tsa ee nin tsa daeen darish” She says it slower this time, and all around her I watch as a small group of other Drev move to flank me from the sides. They are listening very intently.

I think I understand this time, the rough translation being who are you and what are you doing.

I want to speak with your leader, “Zhe zhegingi s tsak eeda cheeyat.” My voice is halting and I am butchering the pronunciation, but they seem to get my request.

She trusts the spear at me, “Tsaee!”

I hold up my hands, “Woah woah, easy easy…. I uh.” Shit what was the word to learn, “zhe….zhengingi hak tsa…. “ Damn it… I can’t remember,  “um….. Rekazat nin dzhal….. Rekazazh.”

Oh wow, that sounds really intelligent. I wanted to learn from them but instead apparently I ‘want to know what they know.’ riveting conversationalist that I am.

She stares at me confused.

In frustration I point at her spear, “Zhe zhengingi…..zheengat?” 

Uh this was going poorly. I clearly did not know as much of their language as I thought I did.

I want to know to fight.

Wow excellent work their commander that will convince them.

They look back and forth at each other, and fire off some quick shot dialogue that leaves my head spinning.

She turns to me and lowers her spear, “s jya Hajish.”

Come with us.

Great a sentence I understood.

It was in the next few hours that I was either going to live, or I was going to die horribly. 

A pretty exciting time in my life.

And I followed.

Not like I had a choice at this point.