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river-bottom-nightmare · 3 years

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zatanna said the word anchor point, and that's where she lost dick. anchor points and multiversal constants and universal stability. galaxies shattering into pieces behind his eyelids before swirling together tighter and more whole, before dick would inevitably wake, the lights from that goddamn recurring dream still flashing in his mind.

constantine was looking at him with sympathy, pity. dick wanted to wipe that look off his face with bleach. with acid. he normally wouldn't consider fighting john constantine, since he's always been able to sense the sheer power bubbling under the man's drunken and sloppy exterior. though, apparently, that ability to sense was what could possibly give him the edge in the fight he was imagining, but would never happen.

there were only a few people in the room, but someone would rip him off the man. maybe clark, whose features were painted with worry and concern. that, and the lights from the galaxies outside the watchtower windows, the eternity of the galaxy covering the entire room in a gentle wash that dick had been able to ignore for all of his life, excluding the past couple of hours. maybe diana, who was starting to look at dick with a bit of fear. not of him, but for him, and for everybody else. dick couldn't blame her. she had more than enough experience with powerful men who made themselves god. the only difference was that dick would rather let himself burn up from the flame that was inside of him before becoming whatever they said he was.

it's not about becoming, raven whispered in his mind. her presence was gentle, familiar. it took a certain length of self control for dick not to latch onto her, about the length of rope needed to make a noose. you already are. there are no new powers or abilities or anything that will happen to you. you always were a nexus being, and you always will be. it's just a part of you.

"just a part of him." just a part of him? like how wally's slowly failing heart had just been a part of him? or how jason's pit-induced fits of rage were just a part of him? or how cass' assassin training she fell back on no matter how hard she tried to override it was just a part of her?

bruce hadn't said anything. actually, zatanna had stopped talking, not that dick had been fully listening in the first place, and everyone was lost in their own quiet thoughts. but bruce's silence had been the most stomach-churning, the most horrific.

dick knew bruce didn't like metas. knew it because of the sighs he used to make due to the league's foolishness back when dick was robin, running a hand through dick's ruffled hair and telling him he was so glad you're not like them, dick, they're exhausting. he knew it because of bruce's fury every time someone powerful fought in gotham and destroyed the city, rubble on the ground as they went off, completely unconcerned of the damage they left behind. he knew it because of the extensive files in the batcomputer detailing each league-affiliated and known meta's weakness, or how their strength could be flipped like a playing card, until dick was almost convinced being a meta made one weaker. (according to bruce, it did.)

bruce didn't like metas. and dick wasn't a meta, but no one knew what he was anyway. no one but the magic users, whose vague explanations told them they weren't really sure what he was either.

"you're connected to the universe, dick," zatanna sighed. "the multiverse comes together in you. and as much as i don't like it, we need you."

all eyes were on him. dick was looking at his feet, but he could still feel them. that was one of his new "powers," right? knowledge of the multiverse? a gross misuse and bitter accusation, dick knew. but he couldn't get the fear out of his mind, and fear left unchecked grew fuzzy with mold until it disintegrated into anger.

"you need me?" dick said hoarsely. "the multiverse, what, comes together in me? you do realize what utter bullshit that sounds like?"

"i know it don't seem all that good, but trust me," constantine said. "it's a thing. it's real. you are one."

"you said these people are supposed to be beings of power," dick argued back. "so why aren't you a nexus being? or raven? or fucking ra's al ghul. i'm sure as hell not a being of power. i'm human."

"i suppose that's exactly what makes you one," diana murmured. "i have met many powerful men in my life. i've found the ones that i respected the most were the ones that were most in touch with their humanity."

this was crazy. this was crazy. dick felt like the particles that came together to make him were blowing away in confusion until he was one big cloud of unrecognizable light, before he was scattered in every direction. how the hell was he supposed to be one of the things that kept the universe together when he couldn't even keep his own damn self together?

avoiding bruce wasn't working. dick just felt like he was about to fray at the edges. so, gathering up his courage, dick turned to face the man and quietly, in a voice more delicate than china, said, "b?"

batman didn't look at him. batman didn't even look up. but batman did speak.

"alternate universe superman. he called you the multiversal constant. the one thing he could depend on."

out of the corner of his eye, dick could see clark nodding a little.

bruce continued. "you named yourself after a mythological figure who was known as the catalyst of change. or the great rebuilder. and kryptonians we've met have said how well you embody the role."

"it's...it's just a name, bruce."

"you, of all people, know it's not," clark said.

"so what am i supposed to do, huh?" dick whirled around. "fight this battle zee's recruiting me for that's entirely above my skill level. become some sort of, what did you say, universal anchor? i don't know the first thing about this shit, and i don't know what it'll do to me!"

"you're scared," bruce said, always willing to cut right to the chase with everyone but himself.

dick didn't answer.

"raven, establish a mental link between me and nightwing."

raven nodded, then with a flutter of her hands, dick felt a presence inside his head. it scared him to realize how easily he accepted it, how easily he had always accepted it. he never understood how unusual that was until now.

of course i'm scared, dick whispered into the mind link. i've gone my entire life knowing exactly who i was, what i could do, what i strive to be. and in the span of one day, that's all gone.

then what do you plan to do about it? bruce asked.

he said it so simply, so easily. like discovering something this monumental about himself was just another tricky case or difficult puzzle to solve. dick would have an easier time plucking each and every star in the galaxy and making a mosiac out of them.

raven's hood was lowered, but dick could still feel her eyes on him. constantine's features were still dripping in pity, zee looked imploring. diana was looking at him with hesitating acceptance, bruce was unreadable as always.

but clark. clark was looking at him with steady eyes and and a kind smile. he looked knowing, quietly vindicated. it was as if he'd known there was something...off about dick. something two hopscotches and a backbend away from "special," but close enough. something that had led to clark giving dick a piece of his people's legacy, and trusting him to fulfill it to the best of his ability.

clark wasn't scared of him at all. but clark couldn't make up for bruce.

"will you help?" zatanna asked.

everything inside dick was itching to say yes. jumping at the chance to help his friends, aching to be useful. it was a response he'd carefully cultivated years ago, and pushing it down was an almost physical ache.

but the stardust behind his eyes wasn't so easily forgotten. the hook behind his navel that seemed to drag him into the fabric of a universe that dick couldn't comprehend still dug into him. the world was spinning and the stars were turning and the earth was tumbling over itself, all of them in an effort to stop their twisting and turning and to right themselves once and for all. but dick wasn't moving. dick was completely, utterly still.

"i don't know," he said.

Dick Grayson Anniversary Week ‘21, Day 6: Universal Constant

"i don't know," the author says, because she truly has no idea what the fuck she just wrote. i started imagining nexus dick grayson and this just spilled out onto the page. it makes absolutely no sense, but there are some nice sentences in there that i don't want to get rid of, so hopefully yall can somewhat make sense of this ramen soup of a fic.

tag list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @screennamealreadyused @subtleappreciation @bikoncon @catxsnow @pricetagofficial @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump @dickgraysonweek

#scribbles from the swamp #dickgraysonweek2021 #dick grayson #nightwing #nexus beings #nexus dick grayson #dick grayson headcanon #dick grayson fic #nightwing headcanon #nightwing fic #nexus beings headcanon #nexus beings fic #nexus dick grayson headcanon #nexus dick grayson fic #dc #dc headcanon #dc fic

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harryissuchalittleshit · 3 years

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Five Men Who Broke Lily's Heart And One Who Healed It

For training prompt Tuesday, @petalstosarah, I told you I would make it angsty. You can read it below the cut or on Ao3!

1. Michael Evans, 1971

Lily could remember the day her father left like the back of her hand.

It had been sometime in quiet days after Christmas, but before New Year’s. He had stood in the doorway, his suitcase packed, his jacket on, his life with them erased from the walls of their home. She would see him again, just a small handful of times, but it would never be the same. He would never be her father, not like how he had once been before.

Lily would cry for hours and hours and hours after. Christmas would never be the same after that. She would find ways to stay away from home, from her mother and sister during the most festive time of year.

Michael Evans would never return to them. He would never pick Lily up and spin her around in his arms again, he would never kiss Iris again, he would never wink at Petunia and smile as they shared their own private joke again. The thing was, he would never be in their life again, not as he used to be, as he wanted to be, no, the separation would never go away.

He wasn’t breaking just his eleven year old daughter’s heart, he was breaking up a family. He was showing his daughter’s that faithfulness wasn’t a thing. He was showing them that men couldn’t be trusted.

How could they? He wasn’t faithful to their mother, he wasn’t kind to her, he broke the trust they had once created.

He broke the trust his daughters had in him.

Michael Evans was the first man to ever break Lily’s heart, and she would remember that. She would remember him and that cold, cold morning when he left. Lily and Petunia sitting side-by-side at the top of the stairs, their mother, Iris standing at the bottom, trying to protect them even then.

Michael Evans would die a few years later, when Petunia had left the house and Lily was away at school. Iris would get the last laugh, but even then it wouldn’t be kind, it wouldn’t be nice.

Either way, the damage was done.

2. Remus Lupin, 1973

The next one would be Remus Lupin.

He wasn’t a man yet, just a kind sweet boy who was thirteen. He studied with her in the library, they passed notes in Arithmancy as none of their friends were with them. They spent hours and days together, just the pair of them, just having fun and discovering a new friendship.

Until it became too real.

Lily would forever keep the photo of her and Remus, taken a warm and sunny day, the pair of them studying in the library, only looking up at the sound of the shutter clicking. The camera was a gift from her father, old and worn down, but still able to make something beautiful.

She would always have a copy, it would be framed, it would move from home to home with Lily. A document of a friendship that she loved, that she cared about, that ended one horrible day over a discovery made public.

She wasn’t afraid of Remus, no one could be afraid of a boy that tucked in his sweaters, and owned more cardigans than shirts, and who sing ever Beatles song as long as he heard the first few notes. No one could be afraid of a boy whose smiles had to earned and his laughter fought with well timed jokes. No one could be afraid of a boy who slept like the dead and studied as if his life was in danger.

No one was afraid of Remus Lupin, but he wasn’t just Remus Lupin.

It wasn’t the admittance of the truth, it was the lie to cover it up. Lily hated being lied to, it made her feel like she was eleven and crying into her sister’s shoulder as their father left to never return again. Broken trust, from a broken man.

It would take almost a full year for Lily to let her guard down again around him, a year of apologizes and passed notes and studying in the library together. It would take a year of whispered conversations and explanations for everything to go back to how it was.

It would take time for the trust to reform.

3. Sirius Black, 1976

When people hear the name Sirius Black, they think trouble.

They don’t think of a broken boy, of a child thrown out of a broken home. They don’t think of tattoos and motorbikes and leather jackets. The first word is trouble, the second is Marauder, the third is brother.

For Lily, it’s unfaithful.

Lily had known him for five years at this point, she had classes with him, she had been partnered with him more times that she could count, she had held his hand after he received Howler after Howler. She didn’t know what it meant to be a Black, but she did know what it meant to not feel at home in your own childhood home.

She knew what it felt like to not belong.

And with that they bonded, they drank tea and told stories about their siblings and cousins and parents, they shared their life. They were friends because none of their other friends got it, they were friends because they needed someone else to understand.

The pact had been simple. They would write during the summers, swap war stories twice a week of their craziness. They would share what they knew, what they could tell, what the other could understand.

But after a week in, Lily got radio silence.

Another week passed, then another, then another, unanswered and unopened letters littered her desk. Worries went unchecked.

Her worries grew, they went into overdrive, she cried herself to sleep. This boy that she loved, that she cared about, that knew her and the life she lived, was forced into during the summer and holiday visits had abandoned her.

This boy who knew everything, who understood everything…he broke her heart in the most selfish way.

Sirius Black would come back, he would squeeze her hand when Howlers came to him at Hogwarts, he would cry on her shoulder when his brother would die years later, he would walk her down the aisle on her wedding day. But he would also take something from her that summer, that long and hot and cruel summer without the lifeline of someone who understood a bitchy sibling and parents who didn’t know how to love a child different than them.

It would take months for Lily to love him again, but she would fall for his heart break all over again. It would never be his charms and jokes and infectious laughter that earned her heart, it would be his familiar tragedy and the way he helped save her.

4. James Potter, 1977

The first time Lily ever kissed James Potter, it was because he broke her heart.

Years and years and years of mixed feelings, of fights and arguments that never seemed to blow over, of day dreams and pining looks and lingers touches. It had been stupid, all of it had been stupid.

Love was stupid.

It was overrated, irrational, and life ending. And yet she fell.

She fell because despite all of the fights, all of the day dreams, all of his smiles and rushed words and his stupid, stupid ticks, she had always loved him. He had the rights to her heart when they met at eleven on the Hogwarts Express. She, going away from everything she knew at top speed, and he, surging forward towards everything he wanted.

She had always been a sucker for kind eyes and a nice smile. She just didn’t realize it until it was much too late.

Until her heart ached whenever he was near, until her head grew dizzy when their arms brushed, until she looked at him and saw everything she could ever want. This was a boy, no man, that you did fall in love with at first sight. That you let kiss you in the rain on a cold November night. That you cried over in bed because you couldn’t sleep at night.

James Potter was a man that love touched and didn’t let go.

It took Lily much longer to realize that she should’ve.

He broke her heart with a kind smile, his hazel eyes bright with laughter, his hair a frizzy halo around his head. He was tall and tan and so beautiful that it hurt to look at him, it hurt to try and smile and pretend that her heart didn’t want him.

James Potter was a man that didn’t deserve rejection.

It would take another month for her to pluck up the courage to tell him. To whisper her love for him on the last warm day of the year. It would take her time for her heart to mend itself, for her brain to forgive the pain in not allowing herself to love him. It would take Lily the rest of her short life to forgive him.

It would only take a moment to kiss him though. She would remember the fire in her veins, the aching in her chest, the fuzziness in her head. She would remember the warmth of his hands, the soft feel of his lips, the small moan that he made when she touched his throat.

She would remember the feeling of her heart knitting itself back together, slowly and carefully, but enough to feel whole again.

5. Peter Pettigrew, 1980

It would be much too late when Lily realized that Peter Pettigrew was the reason for her biggest heartbreak.

It would be long after her son was born, with soft spikey black hair and tan skin and her green eyes. He would be talking and walking and laughing when Lily realized that the tiny little man with sad blue eyes and anger in his heart betrayed her.

Betrayed James, betrayed Harry.

He would cause her death, so young, so prematurely, so unnecessary.

He had made her son be marked as an equal, a baby boy with a toothy grin and bright eyes, a baby boy who smiled and found laughter in everything. A baby boy who called him wo-my and giggled when Peter threw him in the air and always fell asleep in his arms.

Peter had broken her heart when she heard the door blast open, when she heard James fall to the floor, when a man who hated her because of her birth killed her.

But she felt the sadness much earlier. Looking at Peter hurt, not in the way it once had with James, no, it hurt because he was growing smaller, thinner, paler. He was no longer happy, he shied away at smiles and laughter, he grew unfamiliar.

He broke her heart long before the mark appeared on his arm, his greatest shame.

He broke her heart, and somehow, it was like he knew before it all came to an end.

1. Harry Potter, 1981

“Mama loves you.”

Lily stared at her son, his chubby cheeks and dark hair, his tan skin and toothy smile, she stared at her own eyes and tried to find the strength to say something else. Her baby boy was going to die and it was her fault.

“Mama loves you Harry,” she whispered, hoping and wishing that he would know that she never wanted this for him. Her baby boy, her only child, she would never have another, she would never live pass this next moment.

Harry would never know her, never know James, he would never know the love she had for him.

One more man to break her heart.

Go ahead, break my heart. You can break it a thousand times if you so desire. It’s been yours break since the day we met.

She had once stood in front of James and told him that he could end her, break her heart over and over and over again. But even then the words hadn’t been meant for him, they were for Harry, they were for their son.

“Mama has had her heart broken so many times, Harry,” whispered Lily, desperate to get the words out, to let her baby boy know how much she loved him. “But you are the one that I’ll never be angry about, you are the one that I loved most.”

She wished that she could kiss James one last time; that she could hug Remus and tell him how much he meant to her; that she could cry into Sirius’ shoulder and hold his hand; that she could say goodbye to her father once again; that she could be the one to murder Peter.

She wished that her son could grow up loved and safe and protected.

She wished that she could hold him and never let him go, never put him down again.

She wished that the green light wasn’t the same shade as her eyes.

“Mama loves you Harry, forever and ever Heartbreaker.”

#lily evans #james potter #sirius black #harry potter #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #marauders #training prompt tuesday #angst #my fics #lily has trust issues #lily has family issues #I had to bring the angst #I wrote this instead of sleeping

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captainsimagines · 3 years

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To Topple A Giant || Finale

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate.

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 10 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Warnings in this Chapter: strong language; slight reference to past sexual abuse; fluff

Word Count: 6,700+

Author’s Note: Guys... the finale! I’m crying actual tears lmao. Thank you for reading my words. It means the world.

The New Compound, July 2025, 7:09pm

The extra hour of sunlight this time of year was the easiest excuse to use for lounging on the roof to watch the sun set slowly. The compound no longer touches the clouds, but it still provides a rich view of the landscape across. There is no blowing of horns or shouts of the road hecklers; it’s a simple hour of solace to rest your chin against your arms, eat your snacks, and watch the sky change colors until nothing remains but the possibility of counting the stars.

“Hey… can I sit here?”

Your heart does a little jump at the sound of his voice. Traitor, you want to say to the pesky organ, but remain quiet as Steve wanders over to stand by you. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Do what you will, Captain.” It’s simple enough of a response, you figure. You look down at the granola bar in your hand, turning it over a few times before rolling your eyes at the silly gesture. “Granola bar?”

He nods, watching as you snap it in half, and grabs the piece. “Thanks.”

You eat in cooperative silence. You take small bites, saving the granola bar so you have something to focus on during the length of time Steve decides to stay up here. He seems to be doing the same. “So what brings you out here? Another depressive episode?”

“I happen to have the perfect amount of depressive episodes, thank you very much.”

You snort, “Ditto.”

He takes a small bite and rolls the granola over his tongue. “No, I uh… I actually came out here to watch the sunset.”

“That’s sweet.” You shrug and admit your reason to him without a second thought. “I came out here to be sad, so.”

“Thor’s visit isn’t doing you any good?”

Thor is genuinely looking better. He’s started braiding his hair again, exercising with the help of Quill and Bruce, and participating in conversation without being addressed first. Seeing him makes you happy, but there’s still a glint in his eyes that reminds you of the lowest point of his life. And his lowest point was also yours. Sometimes you just want to forget. “He looks better. Healthier, got some light back in his eyes. It’s just whenever we look at each other we think of the same thing, I guess.”

Steve hums low and his shoulder brushes yours. “Loki.”

“It’s good to reminisce and all but I’ve got my limits,” you say.

“What was the special connection between you and Loki anyway?”

You grin at such an innocent question. Steve had never been close to Loki, didn’t really like him much, but he tolerated the God wandering about. You figure he genuinely wants to know. “I met him a little bit before I was assaulted. Everyone in the compound had their suspicions but no one asked. It was like they were avoiding me but also trying to help, I don’t really know. It was a weird time. And Loki, after we caught that dragon thing and really, really properly met, just straight up asked me why I was so distant all of a sudden.” Your chest warms at the memory. “I told him. And you know what the first thing he said to me was?”

Steve shakes his head a little and his eyes follow the tilt of your mouth. “‘What a cunt’.”

He startles himself into a laugh, the rough word not expected. You continue, “It was the first time I laughed in four months.”

Steve follows your gaze out to the sunset. He suddenly feels guilty, out of the loop, sad. You had only mentioned your assault to him once when you discovered Tony’s afterlife gifts, and he never brought it up again. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were-”

“Bucky had just moved into the tower and all of your attention was on him. I don’t blame you for not seeing me.”

It’s true, but Steve doesn’t forgive himself. He’s had two years to check up on you and because of his own selfish choice, he’s let you slip from his fingers. A question bubbles from the back of his mind — one that he doesn’t think twice about finally asking. If he does, he won’t ask. “Do you miss… me?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“Sam put the idea in my head and—”

You sigh, “Steve, it’s the fact that he had to put the idea in your head. I can lie and say I’ve been all fine and dandy, or I can tell the truth and say I’ve been all fine and dandy. Take your pick.”

Steve stares at you for a long moment, mouth parting around invisible words. You’re staring at the sunset, avoiding his gaze but aware of his eyes on you, and he misses you. He truly, terribly, misses you. He decides he’s got nothing more to lose — he’s already lost you. “Well, I miss you. Do with that what you will.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes: wind in your ears, legs shifting when too much weight has been applied, tiny sniffs of the nose. You don’t really know what to do with that information. Steve misses you. And you miss him. But he doesn’t deserve to know that. There’s been no apology from him, just things he’ll do to appease Sam.

At the three minute mark, you groan quietly and turn to him. “Are you seriously still going to watch the sunset up here?”

Steve smirks and watches you from his peripheral. He really has missed being on the receiving end of your various tones of voices. “I have been told that I’m impossible to get rid of, so yeah.”

His company isn’t all that bad.

Present Day, 2025, 9:07am

Perhaps there were good things that came from being locked up for over two weeks, alone. Last time you were locked up with the team and there was absolutely no special treatment after that. Now you’re resisting the urge to burst out laughing as Steve piles on the seventh massive pancake on your plate; or rolling your eyes as Sam keeps asking if you want more maple syrup — ‘What flavor? We’ve got six!’ — and Peter’s drowning Bucky with questions about who he encountered at the wedding.

“Is it the same as Netflix Narcos?”

“No,” you say bluntly.

“Is the Amazon series legit? Like, did Omar really kill the DEA agent?”

“No.”

“Is Omar as evil as they say?”

“No.”

“Damn,” Peter groans, piling a forkful of pancakes into his mouth. “Nothing’s as exciting as it seems, huh?”

Everyone looks to him, then to each other.

Steve clears his throat, “I was literally shot.”

Mouth full, you follow. “And I was abused for years.”

“And I had to deal with them while with HYDRA,” Bucky says with his mouth full too.

“Man, they shot at me. That counts,” Sam adds.

“And I finally got to use the shield. While being shot at,” Scott says.

You interject, “Technically I was being shot at.”

Even with such a cloud of violence, with gruesome memories — memories that would just be shoveled into the pile of things that no one is ever going to talk about again — you all begin laughing. Poor Peter missed out on a lot, but he can put two and two together. He knows this is his only chance to ask before you all lock it away and call it just another mission. It doesn’t hurt to humor him.

And even though you won’t mention it to any one else unless they ask — this wasn’t just another mission for you or Steve. Things have changed and the both of you know it. The aches within your chest are no longer negative or a bother, but instead are blooming flowers that have laid dormant for years. You’ve been plucking petals for as long as the two of you can remember, and it’s about damn time you both end up on the same page.

Everything has been quiet. Sure, there are bounties on everyone’s head but when is there not? You’ve pissed off more cartel leaders and gang leaders and political enemies than you can count on two hands, so this enemy territory is not all that foreign. You recognize the high trees, the gray skies, the mud beneath your boots. But you’ve got friends on your team that know how to climb those trees; friends on your team that know how to move the clouds and make the sky the talk; friends on your team that would hump through mud and snow watching your six.

You can’t believe you even thought about leaving after the mission in the first place. This is where you belong, where all of you belong, because you’re the only ones with good hearts who qualify for the job.

As breakfast winds down, Steve takes the opportunity to sprinkle in moments of long-awaited public displays of affection. When you go to refill your orange juice, he sneaks a kiss on your cheek. When you go to wash your plate, he makes sure Peter is looking the other way before patting your ass. And when you’re the one to envelope his slim waist from behind, he melts in your combined warmth.

“So, about our date,” Steve inquires, cheeks turning pink but voice unwavering. He looks brand new, refreshed, and there’s a shine in his eyes that you haven’t seen since forever. You can’t remember the last time you have, but you figure it must have been back when the world hadn’t yet swallowed him whole. Now, he’s burning bright with the youth his soul has missed.

You jump up and down, “Ooo, exciting!”

Steve takes you by the waist, swinging you in every direction. It’s uncoordinated, messy, and not exactly dancing but it’s pure. “Chinese? Pizza? Just fries?”

“¿Por qué no los tres?” Pursing your lips, you wait for his answer.

“That can be arranged.”

You gasp dramatically, “You’re spoiling me.”

“Well I have two years to make up for it.”

That startles a laugh from deep inside your chest. “That’s gonna be our inside joke now, huh? Two of the worst years of our lives and we’re joking about it.”

He blushes along with you. “I think that describes our relationship perfectly.”

“Our relationship…” Your voice comes out like a melodic whisper and Steve feels it in his bones.

He grins down at you but before he can respond, someone enters the common room rather cautiously.

“Oh, now what the hell are you doing here?” Steve demands, pushing you to stand behind him. The gesture is nice, but completely unnecessary. Friday would have alerted the team if someone entered the grounds armed.

Agent Kavert raises his hands, “Relax. I’m not here to arrest you or anything.”

Steve tries to move his shoulders in a way where Agent Kavert can’t see your head. But you maneuver around him, somehow ending up peeking your head through Steve’s underarm. “If I know the law, and I think I do, you can’t really arrest someone in their own house anyway, right?” You pat Steve repeatedly on his side. “Right?”

Before Steve can respond, Agent Kavert speaks. With Steve guarding you, it seems the only thing Agent Kavert wants to do is get in and get out as fast as he can. “I just came to apologize. Ballistics came back and the evidence does show that you didn’t kill Ernesto Vega. It was Ramirez’s issued gun.”

Yeah, you think. The gun Seda stole.

“Oh, what a breath of relief! I almost forgot I was there.”

He sighs and his lips pull into a small smile. “You’re not gonna tell me where Ramirez is, huh?”

Steve takes this as his cue to leave you two alone, but not before squeezing your hand on his way out. He nods over to Peter, who’s still crouching in the kitchen, unseen by Kavert. Peter gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up, happy to spy for his Captain. But you know he’s really asking Peter to take care of you while he’s gone.

You let out a heavy sigh. Omar has been wanted for years for another murder he didn’t even commit. And now, he’s wanted for another. He may be a giant with morals, but even he can’t escape the gruesome reality that plagues the wicked.

“I don’t even know where he is. If you came looking for answers—”

“No, I just… Everything’s been so fucked up since half the universe came back. And the possibility of an Avenger being bad, having played us for years — I think it just scared a lot of people.” Agent Kavert actually looks sincere. He adjusts his footing and chuckles a little under his breath. There’s a fine line creasing his forehead, but it isn’t formed from stress. He’s smiling, an honest look, and his eyebrows pull inward. “And Shakespeare? Really?”

Rolling your eyes, you shrug and lean back against the counter. “When half the world disappears and takes your family and friends with it, there’s really not much else to do.”

And besides, Loki was really into Shakespeare.

You continue, deciding at the last second to throw Agent Kavert a bone about your past. “Shield didn’t know but Nick Fury did. So did Pierce. And when Shield fell, Fury just hid it even more.” You give him a half smile. “We weren’t helping the cartel. We were slowly taking it apart.”

Agent Kavert nods, thinking it over. “The deal Jackeline made with us was pretty simple. She’d tell us all the inside secrets that she knew and in exchange, no charges against her and none so serious for you.”

Your shoulders slump and you shoot him a blank stare. “Was it really that simple? Like, I could have just used her as my one free call?”

“Joke all you want. You should have called us when Shield fell. The double agent thing was risky and everyone needs help taking down a giant like that.”

“I did have help. Involving more people was never planned.”

“He was just as much our mission as he was yours.”

Agent Kavert, as sorry as he looks, still doesn’t seem to get it. But that’s fine, you think. Not everyone can. And you’re not in the mood to argue anymore. “No… he wasn’t.”

He seems to read your mind because he simply accepts your answer. “I really am sorry for accusing you. And for the government arresting you alone and letting the white man go free.”

A tiny snort tickles your nostrils. Agent Kavert is white, and it’s even more amusing considering he’s being serious. “Thanks… I guess.”

He turns to leave, seemingly normal, until he spins on his heel and claps his hands. “Oh! And by the way — don’t leave the country. The charges of conspiracy and murder have all been dropped. But there’s evidence of drug smuggling. So, you’re on house arrest.”

Your eyes widen and you reply with a sarcastic yell. “Thanks!” He turns to leave again. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

He glances over his shoulder, “Could not have let you just get away with it. Some of that smuggling was under no order from Shield at all.”

“You know I can easily disable that ugly ass ankle bracelet you’re about to give me?”

He chuckles low, and finally waves goodbye. “Goodbye, Agent Y/LN.”

You stand dumbfounded, slightly annoyed, but you figure it’s better than actual jail time. Peter rises from his hiding spot and walks over to you, blowing air from his mouth. “Friend of yours?”

You whip around to point a finger, scream and laugh mixing into one. “No friend!”

Peter finally hears that accent Steve can’t stop talking about.

It’s a tiny portrait, sealed in a tiny frame and hidden in a tiny room. The frame is black with professional wooden carvings that make the sides look like perfectly detailed tree trunks. It’s in between the portrait of Tony and Natasha’s bracelet. Tony wears the same AC/DC shirt Steve has somehow stolen and claimed as his own. He’s got this sarcastic grin, some type of wrench in one hand while his other rests on his hip. He stands in his lab, glasses pushed up onto his head and black soot smudged on his cheek. You think Peter snapped the photo back in 2017.

But the middle portrait is your favorite. It’s the only photo he ever allowed to be taken of him. Brushing your index finger against the glass, you trace the small outlines of Loki’s jawline, to his thin pink lips, to the bulb of his nose, to the waves of his hair. He sits caught off guard, book in his hand and in regular human clothing. He shoots a rather annoyed but joyful look over his shoulder as the camera was shoved in his face. You know for sure Wanda took that photo.

“You’re not dead,” you say as you study the blue of his frozen eyes. A God doesn’t die, you remember him saying. Loki was wrong about a lot of things, but you pray he wasn’t wrong about this. There’s a small part of you that wants to speak the same words to Tony and Natasha, but there’s only so many times the world’s axis can shift for a miracle. You tap the glass, sighing a breath of acceptance, and finally let go. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Smiling up at the ceiling, you think you’re right about this one.

It’s quiet. The only sounds are the mild ripping of wrapping paper and small ‘thank you’s’ from the team. Everyone got each other something — granted, everyone got something small for everyone. No matter how much Tony joked about still splurging on Christmas shopping, his promises weren’t exactly kept. He’s gotten everyone things they actually need or wanted. Steve, a new drawing pad; Natasha, a bright pink knit sweater; Rhodey, a new watch; Bruce, a pair of sunglasses; Nebula, a dark blue knitted sweater that she immediately presses against her cheek, eyes focused on the ground as she savors the soft brush; you, the full collection of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets. And he finally presents the baby’s crib to Pepper, constructed three weeks after she originally asked him to.

“I know how much you like to reenact A Midsummer Night’s Dream in your room,” Tony grins at you. Biting your bottom lip, you throw yourself at him and hug him tight. He returns the hug with just as much strength, if not more.

As the night goes on and midnight rings, your small group exchanges tight-lipped merry Christmas’s and happy holidays. Natasha retires to her room, a distant look in her eyes as she says goodnight. No one knows where Clint is.

Steve nudges your elbow with his once the room empties. He holds out a box with festive wrapping — snowmen with carrots for noses and a variety of pebbled smiles. “From me and Okoye.”

“You got me a gift?”

Steve’s brow furrows as he nods like it’s obvious. “Of course. You’re my friend.”

“Well, now I feel inadequate,” you laugh. It comes out wet and it’s then that you realize you’re tearing up. “I promise to reenact Midsummer for you, okay?”

Steve chuckles, “You got it.”

You unwrap it slowly, half wondering why Steve and Okoye teamed up to get you a present. You. Your stomach churns an innocent whirl.

It’s a long sleeved vest… or sweater. You can’t really tell until you pull it from the box. It’s intricately designed and it takes a moment for you to finally see it, to finally understand, and the moment you do you exhale a wracked breath.

It’s not Wakandan fashion. It’s threaded with the colors and swirls of a place you haven’t called home in years. It has red flowers down the vest portion and multicolored rows down the sleeves and back. It’s made from a thick fabric that’s rarely used this century. Vintage — home.

“Steve…”

Steve clears his throat, “Now, I only did the flower parts. Okoye found it unfinished in… um…”

And there, where tags from brands would usually be, is a small threaded engraving.

‘From Bucky, To our muñeca.’

“He didn’t get to finish it so I thought I would — you know, help? — so it’s really from Buck. Probably an apology for not letting you visit him in Wakanda.”

Steve tries to push out a laugh at his poor joke, but you can see how he’s faltering. You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, dragging him down so his knees bend, and pour as much nonverbal thank you’s into the hug. He hesitates at first, arms floating awkwardly, until he swallows his fear and wraps his arms around your waist. He holds you to him tightly and breathes in the sweet scent of your vanilla shampoo.

“Thank you.” Your voice is small, but Steve regards the delivery as powerful.

You wear it once, that Christmas night, enveloped in its warmth as you slept. In the morning, you hang it in the back of your closet.

A knock on your bedroom door sounds through your headphones. Bucky peeks his head in, “Is now a bad time?”

Sitting up, you pull the headphones from your ears. “Nope. Just thinking about how I’ve lived several years in the span of one week.”

Bucky lugs in a sports bag in one hand and a manila file in the other. He places them at the edge of your bed and proceeds to bounce in the available space near you. “Yeah, that can be annoying.”

You attempt to shove him away as he tries to steal your blanket. “Did you need anything?”

“Yeah.” He lets you take it, and simply turns on his side to face you. “What’s gonna happen between you and Steve?”

It’s an innocent question, but you know Bucky well enough to notice when he’s stressed. Steve probably told him to mind his business. “We’re good.”

He inspects your face with squinted eyes, “I know what you’re thinking so cut that shit out. This isn’t one of those missions where the feelings will just go away.”

“Funny thing is, I believe you,” you admit, watching as his face does something unexpected. His smile drops suddenly, like he didn’t expect you to agree with him, and then it’s immediately back full force.

“Peggy and Steve - right person, wrong time. You and Loki - right person, wrong time. You and Steve, all those years ago — right person, wrong time.” A weird thing happens: you agree with him again. “But now, after everything — right person, right time.”

“It’s just weird feeling like it’ll actually work.”

“That makes us seem like we’re all broken, doll. We’re not.”

You turn so you’re facing him; two mismatched parentheses. “We’re just tired.”

“We’re just tired,” Bucky agrees, smiling. “I’m not saying don’t look over your shoulder whenever you feel like it. Hell, I still look over mine.”

Snorting, you roll closer to hug him. He pulls you into his chest. “You give amazing pep talks.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why they gave that trophy to Steve.” Bucky shares the intimate moment for as long as it takes before the blanket starts overheating. He groans as he sits up to retrieve the things he brought with him. “By the way, our mutual friend sends one last warm regards.”

Bucky throws the sports bag onto your lap. “What’s this?”

“Your shit.”

You don’t even want to ask him how he packed your things without your knowledge. “Kicking me out, Barnes?”

“Clothes, toothbrush, shampoo and conditioner, pads, the quilt I just finished knitting thank you very much,” Bucky lists and hands you the file. “Maribel found him.”

“Ramirez?”

“Your dad.”

You snap your head up to look at him. Bucky expects to see anger, hurt, maybe even betrayal. He was prepared for it. But you just look confused, lost for words, maybe even scared. “Goes by Richard these days. Lives with his wife in Wisconsin, no kids, keeps to himself.”

You flip through the files, holding your breath. The file is small, Richard’s information only covering the first page, the rest just drabble. He seems relatively normal, looks normal even; normal job, normal credit score, normal upbringing. It doesn’t even seem real. You close the file and set it aside. “So you are sending me away?”

Bucky smirks, “It’s a suggestion. But I took the liberty of doing the hard part for you.”

“Yeah, because packing my lady products is the climax of this story.”

It didn’t go unnoticed that Bucky called Richard your ‘dad’. Everyone either referred to Ernesto as ‘your father’ or by his name. Steve had said ‘dad’ a few times before he met him, then he never said it again. Hell, even you did sometimes.

It’s a sweet distinction and you’re certain Bucky said it on purpose. Bucky takes your hands in his, “It’s been a long time coming. But at least we can both say that the people who hurt us can’t hurt us any longer.”

You can. You really can.

Bucky’s already packed Steve’s shit as well. Steve’s just shoving extra socks into his bag when someone knocks on the door. He expects Bucky or Sam, final words of encouragement, but it’s Scott. And he’s standing there grinning like a mad man.

“So, what’s the verdict, Rogers? You going after her or not?”

Steve huffs a laugh, “Think you already know the answer to that, Lang.”

Scott closes the door behind him and leans back against it. He shoves his hands in his sweater pockets, “Not that it should matter, shut me up if I cross any line, but everyone supports this.”

“Weirdly, I think it does matter. We’ve had you guys picking sides for two years. Selfishly. Like we were having a fucking civil war after everything.”

“Yeah, well.”

Steve huffs a laugh. It’s always going to surprise him just how comfortable Scott is around him now. Not afraid to tease him or call him out on something he doesn’t agree with. It’s refreshing.

“I’m not giving up on her, Scott. Not again.”

Scott nods. Perhaps breaking the mission ethic code wasn’t a bad thing after all, Scott thinks. He gives Steve a proud smile, genuine. “Then I hereby declare our hanging conversation officially closed.”

Steve wanders from his bedroom, to the conference room, to the main living room without an end destination in mind, seeming to just follow his quick feet as they lead him around the halls of the compound. He’s proud of himself, really, because he truly believes he’s learned to swallow his pride, has opened himself up to the possibility of being happy, and accepted that the world has changed and will continue to alter whether he likes it or not. He was, is, and will always be a man out of time — he’ll never fit but goddamn does he feel settled. He hasn’t felt this sane since before the war — which one? — so he relishes in the feeling for a few calm seconds.

He feels tears well-up on his water line and feels the pressure in his temples. He’s at a crossroads — both proud of himself for finally choosing the path he wants and relieved that this week, this mission he has dreaded for almost ten years, is over. He doesn’t know if he should sleep for a month or occupy his time with other things awaiting repair. A build up of five years, grief and loss and happiness all weirdly mixed into one pot, and Steve simply hasn’t noticed the improper portions of each ingredient.

It’s too much.

He thinks about his mental health. Shot to Hell, he jokes with himself. He’s already got the virtual therapy appointments scheduled. He figures he’ll get better with time and if Steve knows one thing for sure, it’s that he’s got a whole lot of that.

He thinks about Sam and Bucky and Scott — his three best friends that have gone to the ends of the Earth and back for him, and who would proudly do it all over again. He thinks about their kind words, their gentle touch, their devotion that Steve still sometimes feels he doesn’t deserve.

And he thinks about you. To anyone else, this was written in the damn stars. No, there wasn’t anything extremely obvious in the first few years. You were friends. Friends that grew to consider each other teammates. Teammates that drew a drop of blood while fighting on opposite sides. Teammates that recognized the true endgame, teammates that helped each other escape, teammates that went silent for two years. Two years of no contact, no signal of survival. Then again, teammates who stood by as their world crumbled around them. Teammates who grew to be friends again, leaning on free shoulders and seeking help through happy conversations and long nights. Friends that brought the world together again, only to rip each other from their own. Friends into the most bizarre of enemies. And enemies back to teammates.

Steve wipes a hand down his face as he fixes the strap over his shoulder. The common room is empty — he likes it this way. That means everyone is either napping, getting food, visiting friends or family, simply living life. The silence is therapeutic.

His eyes fall on a crooked picture frame near the television. He tries to ignore it, almost to the door and ready for another road trip, but he steps back. Then forward, then back again. He groans in frustration of himself and moves to turn the frame back in place, holding it for a few seconds until it stays. But as he lets go, it tilts once more. He tries again — it tilts back.

He pulls the frame from the hook and turns it over. He rightly freezes, the presence of a small pink paper airplane taped near the edge knocking the wind from his constricting lungs. He pulls it off, careful to not tear the delicate post-it.

He never found it. Natasha probably placed it behind this very picture frame in the other compound for him to find. Surely the explosion should have destroyed it — but it didn’t. It’s right here, perfectly intact, just a smudge of dirt on one of its wings. The frame hadn’t been damaged either. It’s real.

He holds the thin piece of paper like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Steve turns it over between his fingers a few more times, before he carefully folds it back in half and puts it in his wallet. “You’ve got some nerve, Nat. But I hear ya.”

Steve decides to write you back. He hides the letter in that sweater he knows you don’t wear anymore, in the far back of your closet, and marvels at the intricate stitching while he can. He poured his heart out, even if it’s not guaranteed you’ll ever see it.

‘Yes, I found your letter. I found it when I was looking for perfume in your suitcase. The tape was loose and I violated your privacy. I’m truly sorry for that.

But I felt compelled to write you back, in case the reverse happened and I died instead of you. I didn’t write it then, when you were drying your hair in front of that impossibly small mirror you so weirdly called ‘a stupid little bitch’. And you looked so beautiful. But I’m writing it now and maybe I’ll share it with you in person when we’re both ready.

When the world turned to dust, I held on to you. I know exactly why. Natasha bugged me about it also, teasing me whenever I would glance at you too long, or give you the last remaining Oreos I was planning on eating, or whenever I would leave your room in the mornings after a nightmare. She knew nothing was happening between us, but she had this smile whenever she caught me. Like she was happy I was comforting you, and in turn seeking comfort for myself.

You remember how her smile would tilt up more on the left side?

There isn’t a proper way to truly apologize for hurting you. But I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it. You at least deserve that.

I returned a different man. And I think that was for the better.

Yes, I wanted the quiet life. I still think I do. And I think you know this — you have always seen right through me.

I now know what Natasha saw. You irritate me, you damn near make me want to choke myself out, but I care for you. We hold each other up, and I’m always rooting for you, and I’m always by your side. No matter how annoying and smart-mouthed you may be.

You’re my best friend — I hope I’m one of yours.

Steve.’

There’s no one currently in the compound who really knows how to change the battery in your car. Bucky tries, does a rather good job too, but he claims he’s winging it and that you should call a mechanic just in case. He leaves you there with two random batteries on the ground, hood of your car open, and without any idea of what to do next. So you chill and wait for the mechanic you hope isn’t going to jack up the price just because he knows who you are.

But he doesn’t seem fazed by you at all — or at the fact he just had to drive through countless checkpoints and security checks just to get on Avengers property. He changes the battery and changes the oil, hooking you up with as many upgrades he can. He even offers to wash it until you thank him repeatedly and that Really, really, you don’t have to do that. Thank you so much!

“Quite a garage you got here.”

There are unfinished projects and random wires falling from the ceiling and enough tools to supply five garages. It’s messy, but it was Tony’s. You accept the compliment and see him out.

“Eh, make sure those windshield wipers work. I hear it’s gonna rain tomorrow.”

You thank him again. The clouds to the west are gray, getting darker as the expanse stretches, but from where you’re standing everything’s blue. You figure the mechanic was right: it’s gonna rain, and it’s gonna rain hard.

The mechanic did good, all things considered. You never thought your old, beat-up Honda could look a few years younger. You flick one of the wipers lightly, testing its strength. It holds, as does the other, but when you go to lift it up it stops halfway. Without wanting to break it, you don’t force it. There’s something blocking the switch.

You grab it before it can accidentally fall into a deep slot; the figurehead of a man, curly hair and beard that matches Steve’s, who also has a prominent and strong nose. You turn the coin over a few times before looking around the garage, down the street, at the remote area where the mechanic has just left. Standing there, mouth agape, you wonder just how in the world you missed the mechanic placing it there.

You were lacking in the spy department nowadays. Oops.

You know you’re not going to find Ramirez. But him giving this back to you? It was his way of saying he’s alright and that he owes you many thanks.

You pocket the coin and accept the fact you just got bested.

It should take a few hours before you hit the first motel. Wisconsin isn’t that far, but you do have to pass through about hundred “middle of nowhere’s”. You pull out of the garage and check your mirrors — completely unaware of the super soldier running full speed to the passenger door. Steve carefully throws it open, somewhat aware of his strength, and lands into the seat beside you.

You hit the brakes hard. “Oh my! Rogers!”

Steve sucks in a few heavy breaths, like he literally ran across the compound to make it. “What? I startle you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing? Aren’t you on house arrest?”

You squint at him, “Touche.” Putting the car in park, you turn your whole body to face him. “Answer my question.”

“Thought you were just gonna leave without saying goodbye?” Steve asks, expression much more teasing than serious.

“I’ll be gone for three days tops,” you say, waving your hand in the air. Steve smiles at you, seemingly waiting for you to speak again. You roll your eyes, “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

Steve lifts up the small duffel bag you hadn’t seen when he first got into the car. He throws it into the backseat and smiles lovingly at you. “I’ve been told that I’m impossible to get rid of, so yeah.”

“Rhodey said that the ankle bracelet they gave me wasn’t a trusted model. Easy to break off, like they did it on purpose.” You lean toward him, holding your chin up with the palm of your hand. “Should be able to drive free for a few weeks before they suspect anything.”

“Already booked us a cabin for Thanksgiving.”

“What makes you think that I even want you to accompany me on this road trip? Did you like the first one?”

Steve clears his throat and mimes like he’s writing on paper. The next words out of his mouth make your legs turn cold. “No matter how annoying and smart-mouthed you may be, there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than here, there, and everywhere with you.”

You blink multiple times, as if that would fix your ears. “...You. Fucking. Didn’t.” Steve reaches over to try and hug you. “No, don’t.” He squeezes harder, smooshing your face in his chest. “Steeeeve!”

“It fell out of your suitcase during the mission and I just… looked,” Steve reasons. He allows you to escape his grip.

“You just looked?”

Steve sighs. He really does look guilty. He pushes a strand of your hair behind your ear, letting his fingers tickle your skin. “I’m sorry I read it. I’ll get out of this car for real if you want me to.”

You arch an eyebrow, “You’re a little shit, but I’m not mad. No one understands privacy these days.”

Steve smiles wide enough for his dimples to pop and his eyes to crinkle. “I’d follow you anywhere, doll.”

“Anywhere?”

“Just name it.”

Humming low, you lean forward. He follows your direction like you’re a lighthouse beaming with light, capturing your lips with his in a sweet kiss. He hooks a large hand behind your head to press you to him harder. You smell like that vanilla scented shampoo he loves so much and feels his heart constrict with a pleasant pulse.

You pull back for air and smile against Steve’s soft lips.

“Well, I’m headed for the middle of buttfuck Wisconsin—”

“Just drive!”

Bursts of laughter fill the car until you’re past the checkpoints and well onto the long roads. The clouds continue to turn darker but they’re inviting, alluring, and it’s not insane that both of you desire thunderstorms because they remind you of family.

Steve watches you from the passenger seat, memorizing the contours and edges of your profile. The roots in his heart begin spreading again; the meat of his heart filling with a soothing promise that his time on earth is no longer rootless. He’s dug his feet in, he’s watered all he’s needed to water, and he feels it spreading within him like newly blossomed flowers in the spring. He has a sudden urge to take out his drawing pad to immortalize the way your mouth tilts higher up on the right side when you smile, to record it forever.

But he’ll remember it. He’ll remember well into this timeline, several years down the road, and even when he’s resting in his grave. So he leans his head back against the seat and chooses to watch the curves of every expression you grace him with. He immortalizes the sound of your voice, the taps of your fingers against the steering wheel, and the accented way you say his name.

There’s a long drive ahead, but he’s excited for it. He’s excited for you. Steve promises himself that he’ll ask you a million questions, and give you a million answers, and share a million more stories.

Right now, he just needs to sleep.

THE END.

Taglist: @dumb-ass-3 @justab-eautifulmess @supraveng @mycosmicparadise @missnighttigress

#captainsimagines #Steve Rogers #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #reader x steve rogers #avengers fanfic #avengers x reader #marvel fanfiction #chapter ten #to topple a giant #to topple a giant finale #avengers mob fanfic #by Moni

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years

Text

Damsels, Chapter Twelve: You Deserve to Enjoy Your Body

By SisterSpooky1013 / Rated E

Read previous chapters here / Tagging @today-in-fic

He follows her up the stairwell that leads to her apartment. The complex has seen better days, but when she unlocks the front door he’s surprised to see that the inside is relatively nice. It’s small but tidy, which is no surprise for any place Scully inhabits, and the decor is decidedly young.

“I’m going to take a quick shower, make yourself at home,” she says, then disappears into the bathroom.

He looks around and has an odd feeling that he’s invading someone’s space. There are little trinkets on the shelves, magazines on the table, a stack of bills on the counter, but none of it is Scully. He sits down on the couch but it’s impossibly narrow and low to the ground, as though it were designed for a child. Or a child-sized woman, he supposes. The only other seating options are the table or the bed. The kind of conversation he wants to have with Scully shouldn’t take place at a dinner table, so he sits on the end of her bed, listening to the running shower. He wants to rummage through the drawers, to see the private details of her fabricated life, but he doesn’t. When the water stops running, his heart starts to race.

She steps out of the shower, wiping steam off the mirror with her forearm. Desi has gone down the drain and Scully looks back at her. She frowns, feeling a sense of loss. She’s going to go back out there as Scully, and Scully is going to sidestep her way right out of having an actual conversation with Mulder, just like she always does. Tears prick at her eyes, and she remembers how it felt to be Desi, to be free. She wants to keep that part of her, but she doesn’t know how.

Just ask yourself, ‘what would Desi do?’ and then do that.

Magenta’s words echo in her head. She’s not going to let Desi go just yet.

She suddenly realizes that she hasn’t brought a change of clothes into the bathroom with her, and because it’s a studio apartment, Mulder will be just outside the door. She puts on the short black bathrobe that’s hanging on the back of the door and it hits her thighs just below her ass. She needs to at least have underwear on beneath this; it’s too revealing. Scully would go out, grab a change of clothes, and then come back in here to put them on. But what would Desi do?

She opens the door and is surprised to see Mulder sitting on the bed. His head snaps over to her and a grin blossoms on his face.

“What?” she asks self-consciously.

He shakes his head, but the smile stays. “It’s just good to see you.”

She gives him the eyebrow. “I’ve been gone for ten minutes, Mulder,” she replies dryly.

“Right, um, it’s good to see Scully is what I meant to say. You. Really you.”

Is this really her? She doesn’t want it to be. She walks over to her dresser and opens the top drawer, plucking out a pair of red panties. Her back to him, she steps into them and pulls them up under the robe. He doesn’t make a sound, but she can feel his reaction.

Staying casual so as not to betray her pounding heart, she walks over and turns on the lamp beside the bed, then flicks off the overhead light and lays down. He turns to look at her from his spot at the foot, the amber light casting him in a warm glow.

“Your couch is tiny; for a second there I thought I had fallen into Gulliver’s Travels,” he says by way of explanation.

She has the thought that it had sat her and Angel just fine, but she doesn’t tell him that. She shifts to get more comfortable and winces at her sore ribs.

“He get you pretty good?” Mulder asks, crawling up to lie on his side next to her.

Scully would tell him, but Desi would show him. Pulling her robe open beneath her breasts, she exposes the developing bruise on her belly, just below and to the left of her sternum. Mulder sucks in a little breath that she assumes is in response to how bad it looks, but when she looks at his face his eyes are trained much lower, maybe on her scar. It seems as though he’ll never be able to stop blaming himself for that.

“No broken ribs or any internal injury, thankfully,” she says, watching him look at her. “I rolled away right as he kicked me, so it wasn’t as much impact as he was shooting for.”

“How long have you had that?” he asks, and her eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Um...a few hours?” she offers.

“No, this,” he replies, reaching out and touching her belly ring with an index finger. She blushes.

“Um, a couple years or so. I got it after my cancer went into remission.”

“Why?” he asks, all curiosity, no judgement. He’s still fingering the ring gently and she stifles a shiver.

“I guess...I guess I wanted to decide what happened to my body for once,” she answers, and he looks at her face with some mix of pain and admiration.

“This assignment,” he says with a regretful voice, “it took that away from you again.” His hand has come to rest on her belly, his palm covering the gold hoop.

She shakes her head gently. “In some ways yes, but in other ways it was actually...kind of empowering.”

They look at each other for a beat.

“How many times did you come to see me, Mulder?”

He averts his eyes sheepishly. “Too many,” he says. “I’m sorry.” It’s clear that he counts himself among those who violated her autonomy.

“Why?” she inquires further. “Why did you come?” Her tone is all curiosity, no judgement.

He meets her eye again. “Do you want to hear the lie I told myself, or the truth?” he asks, and she knows he’ll be honest if she asks him to.

“Tell me the lie first.”

“I knew you didn’t have your weapon, because I went to your apartment and checked your gun safe. So I needed to be there to protect you, in case something happened.” He says it flatly. He’s not even trying to convince himself of that anymore.

“And what’s the truth?” She knows her voice is on the verge of trembling.

His thumb is now gently stroking the flesh of her belly, his fingers mere inches from the hem of her panties. Now seems like a good time for honesty.

“At first, I just needed to know where you were. I couldn’t stand the idea of not knowing. And then once I found you, I just…” he stops and swallows, letting his eyes drift down, skirting over her chest to where his hand lies.

“What?” she encourages him, needing to know. Needing to hear it.

He turns his head abruptly, facing her again. “You looked so fucking good up there, Scully.” His pupils are huge and his breathing is quickening.

She smiles demurely. “Yeah?”

He huffs a big breath. “Yeah.”

She screws up her mouth, embarrassed by the compliment. “Thanks,” she finally says, and then they are quiet.

His hand still rests on her stomach, and he looks around the room, rather than stare at her awkwardly. She can hear the clock ticking in the living room and a horn honking somewhere nearby. This is the point where she will say how late it is, how tired she is, how early they will have to be up in the morning to continue the investigation. This is the point where she pulls open the escape catch and slips through.

What would Desi do?

She reaches up to his face, slipping her cool palms onto his stubbled cheeks. He turns to look at her, and she blinks slowly, letting her lips fall open slightly. She remembers the VIP room, and how desperate he’d been to touch her.

You deserve to enjoy your body, Angel had told her. She wants it to be true.

She pulls gently, bringing him to her. He closes the distance between them slowly, pressing his lips to hers. This is not a searing kiss, not frantic or desperate or unbridled. This is her and this is Mulder, and this is real. His kiss is tender and sweet, and he sighs deeply against her mouth with a little hum. Relief, release, finally finally finally.

She slides her tongue along his bottom lip and his body jerks a little in response, electrified and activated. A swell of confidence courses through her. Bringing one hand down from his face, she pushes the top of her robe open to reveal her bare chest, her nipples already tight with anticipation. His hand snakes up her ribcage, fluttering over the bruise and coming to rest at the spot where her underwire lies each day they work together in the office. Where sweat collects when the air conditioning in their rental car is out. Where her body becomes Her Body, and they are crossing this boundary together. Even though they already crossed it, obliterated it, when he took her into that VIP room. This feels more significant. This is real. This is them.

He trails kisses along her jaw and down the side of her neck, slow and delicious. His tongue dances across her clavicle and his lips brush the skin of her chest. When he takes her nipple in his mouth, she feels it so deeply, in a place she’d forgotten existed. A place that she’d so rarely let herself go. The rough of his tongue drags across the sensitive bud and she arches into him, letting her head fall back and her eyes close.

You deserve to enjoy your body.

His mouth is back on her neck and he kisses his way up to her ear. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers huskily, and she feels a surge of arousal dampening her panties.

He gently covers her bruise with his hand, kissing her lips whisper soft, so soft it makes her ache. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, and at first she thinks he means emotionally.

“You won’t, Mulder.” It would have been the same answer either way.

She laps at his mouth and he reciprocates, deepening the kiss. As with all things, he’s exploratory; tasting each corner of her mouth, changing speed and pressure, discovering what she likes. Their slow, liquid kisses are the type she hasn’t experienced since she was a teenager and kissing was all that was permissible. She’d forgotten how erotic kissing could be. But she definitely wants to do more than just kiss.

“You can touch me,” she says. Even though he already is, already has. It’s as close to a request as she can manage.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he returns, and she remembers the way his hands had flexed and his body arched, seeking contact with her.

“Yes,” she breathes, “please.”

A low moan rumbles in his chest and his hand leaves her bruise, brushing over the skin of her belly as he continues to kiss her, the featherlight touch tickling her and making her jump.

“Sorry,” he says, and she can feel his smile against her mouth.

He plays at the hem of her panties, tracing the border across her stomach, the edge at her leg until it disappears under her ass. He follows it the other direction up and over the front of her leg until it takes him between her thighs. She moves one leg aside, resting it against him, and he continues to trace the trail along the seam of her thigh and vulva, so close she’s sure he can feel the heat coming off her. Maybe even feel how wet she is. He lifts his finger and places it low, on top of her panties near her opening, and drags it up over her cotton-covered slit. When he bumps up over her clit, she makes a little sound. He does it again.

“Can I…” he grumbles into her ear, “...I want to taste you. Please.”

A throb. Whatever she had previously thought to be the sexiest sound in the world is obsolete. Fox Mulder begging to eat her pussy is it, hands down, no debate. She wants to hear him say it again.

“You want to?” she asks rhetorically, baiting him. Her breath is ragged. If she somehow talks him out of this by accident she will die.

“So bad,” he drags his teeth over her earlobe. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about it.”

A throb. She might come just from talking about it. “Okay,” she says, as though acquiescing.

He moves to hover over her, kissing her several more times as though he can hardly tear himself away from one area to kiss another. If only he had a second set of lips to kiss her with. He makes brief stops at her breasts and belly along his journey, sucking the gold hoop between his lips, which produces an oddly pleasurable sensation. When he’s on his knees between her thighs, he hooks his fingers into the fabric at her hips and tugs, peeling them slowly down her legs. She lifts one leg and crosses it over his body so that he can pull her panties free and toss them on the floor. When that last scrap of fabric is gone, he gently pulls her leg back over and his eyes come to rest on the one part of her body he has not yet seen. She watches him intently, the mesmerized look in his eye as he commits her pink, swollen vulva to memory. He’s looking between her legs as though the answers he’s always been searching for are right here, and he can’t believe he’s only finding them now. He licks his lips.

When he lowers his body, laying on his belly and placing his palms on the outsides of her thighs, she feels the anticipation throbbing so hard she wonders if he can actually see how much she wants him. He dips his head and she is trembling, desperate, now now now.

The sweet slip of his tongue through her folds simultaneously ignites and extinguishes her. Release on top of heightened desire. Scratching the itch while tickling forth a new one. He is tentative, trying different levels of pressure and length of strokes, licking her long from bow to stern then short just across her clit. Every single point of contact is an entire fireworks show in a millisecond, one on top of the other, and she doesn’t even realize at first that she is crying out. Moaning and panting, making so much more noise than she ever would have permitted herself to make in the past. He slips a finger inside and she feels the beginnings of an orgasm begin to take shape. He laps her in short strokes, flicking up and over her clit over and over, and every synapse in her brain is firing. He slips a second finger in and she’s there, right on the edge, ready to fall over.

“I’m gonna come,” she whines, and he groans, keeping pace and pressure, not changing a single thing.

It’s slow, so slow the way it overtakes her. Her toes curl as it creeps up her legs, wrapping around her hips and pulling her under. She reaches the crest and hangs there, clamped tight around him at the peak of pleasure for so deliciously long. Then the waves hit her, pulsing and pushing and expanding and contracting, and he keeps going. It’s so good, so fucking good that she thinks she might cry, or maybe she already is, she doesn’t know. She’s still going, still pulsing around his fingers, but now that the most intense point has passed she wants him close, she wants more.

“Mulder,” she says with a thick, dry-mouthed voice, “come here.”

He crawls up over her body, still fully clothed, and she pushes his shirt up quickly, tossing it aside before her hands go to the fly of his jeans. She can see a question pass over his eyes, a worry that it’s too much too fast. Not for him, but for her.

“I want you,” she assures him, and he helps her push his jeans and boxers off, discarding her robe when he briefly stands. Then they are both fully nude, his stiff cock nestled between her thighs.

“Please,” she begs, because she means NOW she wants him now, right now, while she’s still riding the coattails of her orgasm.

He grips his cock and slides it over her, collecting her wetness, and then slowly pushes inside. He’s perfect, big enough but not too big for her petite frame, and she hooks her legs around his buttocks, pulling him deeper.

“Fuck,” he moans, but takes the cue and begins long, firm strokes.

The new sensation of the head of his cock sliding against her insides sets off another series of little waves of pleasure and she’s not sure if she’s still coming or coming again, but it’s so damn good she doesn’t care.

“You feel so good,” she moans against his neck, and he can feel him stiffen and grow even harder in response.

“Oh my god, Scully, oh my god.” He can’t find more eloquent words than that, but she doesn’t need them. She knows.

He kisses her while he slides in and out, groaning and growing more frantic. He’s close.

“Fuck, should I...pull out or something?” he asks breathlessly, a bit late in the game but she can appreciate that he thought of it at all. She remembers the box of condoms in the bathroom, but this is Mulder. She knows he hasn’t been with anyone else, and she can’t get pregnant anyway.

“Come inside me,” she commands, and that does it. His eyes clamp shut and his breath catches. He continues thrusting into her in stony silence, a living statue until he falls apart.

Words tumble from his lips as he pours himself inside her, a stream of consciousness he isn’t even aware of while dopamine is flooding every cell of his body. “Oh my fucking god, Scully, oh my fucking god, I love you so much.” She watches his face raptly, marveling at the blissful way his eyebrows stitch and his mouth hangs as he lets go, lets himself feel good for once. He collapses, falling to the side and taking her with him so he can remain inside her, nuzzling her neck as he rides out the final dredges of pleasure.

She traces her fingers over the sweat-dampened skin of his back, feeling whatever the opposite of regret would be. She’s never been so sure that a decision she’s made was the right one as she is now. He sighs deeply and then tips his head up to look at her, a sated smile on his lips that she returns.

“Hi,” she says in her very own voice, and he gives her a squeeze at the familiar greeting.

“Hey,” he replies, and her heart swells with affection that she cannot rightfully ignore.

“I love you too,” she says, and a flash of surprise disappears from his expression as quickly as it arrived. Maybe he doesn’t realize he said it, but he knows he feels it.

“Does that mean you’re not gonna kick me out?” he asks, and she can’t be mad that he’s ruining the moment with humor. He wouldn’t be Mulder if he didn’t.

“Stay,” she replies, and reaches up to switch off the lamp. They fall asleep just like that, his sticky cum on the insides of her thighs something she’s not ready to let go of just yet.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files #x files fanfic #case file #case fic

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bigkyloenergy · 4 years

Text

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙔𝙀𝘿 𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙈

a witcher!kylo x reader fic. dark themes, smut ahead, my first fic so please leave me alone.

summary: you are a barmaid / stablewoman at an inn in toussaint, kylo ren, one of the last of the witchers from the school of the viper regularly stays at the establishment. you wonder what keeps him coming back.

read on ao3.

For some reason, you found yourself waiting for him.

You’d noticed a routine in his travels, the Viper routinely found rest at the inn you worked at every 3 weeks. Nearly on the dot, which was odd to you. Most of the stories you’d heard of witchers told of contracts in kingdoms you didn’t even know how to pronounce, and The Phesantry wasn’t the most comfy place in Beaumont. Maybe it was because it was close to the palace, maybe he had someone there. You wondered so many things about a man whose eyes were the only thing you’d ever seen of his face. Deep yellow, piercing as the blades he kept, ones to match his title.

The wind warned of a storm as you kneeled at the stables, changing the water that one of the helper boys promised he did. Of course you couldn’t count on them, no one in the damned inn seemed to know any responsibility beyond serving ale.

“Room for one more?” You nearly dropped the rag onto your shoes, not that they weren’t dirty enough. There the Viper stood, holding the reigns of his steed that was as dark as the cloaks he wore, one of the most beautiful you’d ever laid your eyes on.

“For Luxe? Always, she’s the sweetest girl I ever took care of,” first, your eyes went to the mask he donned — one that you swore was carved intricately by a blacksmith, but you’d never gotten close enough to be sure. He didn’t answer you, leading her into the remaining stall you’d just cleaned. His head nearly hit the top of it, and you had to stifle a grin as you looked back to the bucket. Speak, figure out something to say. Anything to say. Keep him out here with you.

“The storm bring you this way?”

Turning to you, he ducked under the archway this time, a raven lock escaping his hood in the process. You forgot how your lungs worked for a moment.

“No. Monster’s nest nearby causing trouble.”

You stood now, still feeling dwarfed in his presence, having to tilt your chin slightly in order to meet his awaiting gaze. Nodding, as if it was a normal day in the neighborhood. “Lucky me then,” shit, you did not just say that, shifting on your boots, you cleared your throat, “more business.”

It wasn’t just how big he was, that you had gotten past — or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Men, normal men, weren’t nearly as tall as your mutant guest, they all still barely met his shoulders in comparison. But the energy, the way the air got thick made you feel aware of each nerve under touch starved skin.

“Business? Ah, for my coin, hm? Not the gwent players I’ve brought you?” You grinned this time, genuinely, circling him only to meet the horse with the cloth you’d been wringing out. Slowly you brushed the journey’s dirt from her eyes, it being much easier to speak with the witcher when you weren’t making eye contact.

“You may as well be some use to me, haven’t you noticed that you have a room now specifically made for you? Do you know why that is, Mr. Viper?” You waited for his response, turning back to him when you didn’t receive one only to find a curious, orange eyed man doing the same, so you continued, “Imprints on the mattress, only a man at a stocking six foot giant can be comfortable in that bed. And do you know how many of those I get here?”

His eye twitched.

“One. Who doesn’t come nearly enough to have a special bed of his own.” He stepped closer, one step, but enough to feel like your vision had suddenly been suffocated by nothing but him.

“And what would I have to do to earn my place?” Fuck. What? Why did his voice sound so damn enticing. You swallowed the saliva collecting in your mouth, trying to grasp a response. A gloved hand reached up, leather skating over your lower lip, edging you further.

“Uh — I’m sure I can find... some work... something,” as your mouth parted with your words, he forced his thumb in, and you gladly took it. Your tongue curled as he pressed down, heat siphoning between your legs while he watched you. Awaiting. A serpent with his prey.

“I’m sure you can,” You wanted him to touch you more, so badly. and if you knew more about his kind you’d know that he could hear every single pump of your heart — note every restriction of breath, “I think we’ve figured it out, haven’t we?”

You sucked in a lungful, the brisk air not the only thing to blame for the gooseflesh that riddled your body. Nodding, this time not being hesitant in your determination to study his eyes — ones carved with violence, promises of death. He collected your skirts in one hand, enough have your legs completely exposed. “Dirty thing. You want this, don’t you? You want me to touch you out here, make you cum in these stables?

Nodding so fast you could of kinked your neck, your supple thighs parted in invitation. Which wasn’t enough for him.

“Say it.”

God damn it. This had to be something out of your dreams. A fantasy you conjured submerged in slumber.

“Yes,” you purred, heavy eyelids fluttering shut, his thumb still hindering your speech, “I want you to touch me, right now, please.”

“Good girl.”

Within a literal blink of an eye, your bodice was torn directly from your chest. Greedy hands found your breasts, leaving your mouth empty and gasping while the harsh leather rolled your nipple between the pads of his digits, earning a soft moan. This only seemed to enable the Viper, hitching one of your legs onto his waist, forcing you onto your toes while your back hit the angled wood that made up the horse-keep. Even in the dark, his hues shone like the sun itself, refusing to break under the moon’s pressure.

Curling into his body, your ankle made like an anchor at the back of his solid thigh, wishing you weren’t wearing shoes so that you may be able to wiggle your toes and feel his length. He gave too much restriction to allow you to push yourself against him, leaving you aching to know if he was hard under the light armor he dressed in.

A finger dipped into your underwear, peeling them from your cunt, hearing a hiss from under his mask when he finally met the saturated folds under them. Swallowing thick, you didn’t even bother to attempt to look behind him — let the boats on the dock have a show, not that they could see anything but your leg past his broad frame. You never thought leather could feel so good, the seam of it meeting your clit in the most delicious way.

“Fuck. You’re so wet. Filthy whore, have you just been waiting for someone to come lift your skirts back here?” His chest pushed you harder against the pillar, your jaw slack with carnal pleasure while he began to circle, tight motions, listening to your body through it. His other palm was secured against your hip, keeping you where he wanted you, now noticing that this was just leaving a better view for him. Your thigh hit the hilt of the dagger at his side when you writhed, hissing through your teeth at the contrast from the warmth radiating from your body.

“Hm.” Your eyes jerked opened the moment he stopped, then his fingers were plunging into you — sending speckles into your hindered vision. His thumb kept within the territory of absolute euphoria, finding a rhythm with the tiny bundle of nerves that had you babbling nonsense, please and yesyesyes wondering how someone could even feel this good. By just using their hand.

The one that kept you still promised bruises into your soft curves, the strand of hair you cherished earlier being met with more as he craned over you, discovering a braid in the mix of tendrils that somehow turned you on further.

“I’m close,” you warned the moment he curled his fingers into you, sweat beading on your bare chest, eye contact much easier when the Viper was lulling you over the edge of an orgasm. Again, your nipple was being stretched, pulled, twisted as an act of further drowning you in this primal delight, this personal gratification right outside of the place you worked.

And it worked, you were plucked at the center, coming completely undone under the stranger’s will. “Fuck, so tight, slut.” He shoved another finger into you for good measure as your ribbed walls clenched around him, a frenzy of motions from your climax descending you into another reality, your moans enough to alert the guests inside of exactly what was being done to you.

Removing himself, you watched him under thick lashes while he mapped out your body, as if he needed one last image for memory before he continued on with his business. But not before his fingers were returning to your mouth, forcing you to taste what he’d just conjured from you, and you sucked every bit off of the rough material as a reward.

“Kylo.” He finally spoke, taking a step to free you from your position against the stables.

“What?” You hadn’t even had time to collect yourself, the skirts falling back over your legs as you attempted to close your bodice in a way that was modest enough to get back to your room.

“My name,” the Viper explained, “I want to hear it next time I make you cum.”

And with that, he was off, leaving you with a muddled mind and swollen cunt.

#i have so many dumb hcs for this #just wanted to get it out #and do it #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren smut #kylo ren x y/n

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iamakiller · 3 years

Text

the anatomy of a killer (5/7)

This isn’t about me, it’s about you.

How I made you ...

The great Greek storytellers lied, when they told the tale of Hades and Persephone.

It is true that Persephone was a child of the springtime. Everywhere she went, flowers bloomed, harvests thrived, and people rejoiced.

But in her heart, she longed for winter.

And Hades?

He longed for something he couldn’t even begin to describe ...

The long, sun-drenched days of summer have finally come to an end. The lush, verdant leaves on the trees that line the avenues of the city have grown dry, withering to dust even as they transform to vivid shades of gold, orange and brown.

Autumn has arrived, and winter is just around the corner.

I can smell it in the evening air. I can feel it in the marrow of my bones.

The nights are turning so bitterly cold now.

But together, we are warm.

Persephone had grown weary of late, but nobody else seemed to notice. They cared only for matters which were light-hearted and easy to comprehend.

Her friends sang and danced in the fields as gaily as ever, so Persephone tried to ignore her dry throat and leaden limbs to join them, because she had never done anything else.

But the glib lyrics tasted like bile in her mouth, her once-radiant smile felt like it had been painted on, and poor Persephone suffered in silence as everyone around her made merry.

But someone noticed …

The world around us is shriveling, dying.

But you, my love?

You have begun to bloom.

As the shadows encroach, and the days grow colder, I have been tending you with great care. Soon, you will reach your full potential. Soon, your true beauty will be unveiled. And I, your humble gardener, will be there to appreciate you in all your glory.

When I beckon, you come to me.

With a gentle sigh, you sink down onto me. Your walls twitch and flutter around me for a moment, and then all is still.

Softly, gently, in perfect unison …

We breathe together.

The world is so quiet. It feels so peaceful, when I’m with you.

Persephone didn’t even think to ask her friends to come with her, when she walked into the field of flowers she had never seen before. Somehow, she knew that she must go alone.

But did she know what she was doing when she grasped the stem of the biggest, brightest flower?

If she did, perhaps she simply dreaded the unknown far less than her current, miserable existence.

Regardless, as she began to pull up the flower, she smiled her first real smile in a hundred years.

My sharp edges have become blurred, but not softened. I can no longer recognize where I end, and you begin. Our bodies are joined, and our hearts beat as one. I understand your mind, because you think just as I do. I know your soul, because it is the same as mine, isn’t it?

And I have wanted ...

I have wanted ....

I want you to know me.

I want to show you ...

Slowly, I reach for the blade where it rests atop the nightstand, and place it in your hand.

When the earth began to split, and Persephone saw what was inside, she didn’t make a sound, or try to run away.

Instead, she stared into the darkness, and the darkness stared back at her. Persephone felt seen for the first time in her life, and she smiled once more.

When Hades held out his hand, she took it. Gladly.

The blade feels right in your palm, doesn’t it?

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

Do you see how it seems to glow in the lamplight, as if lit from within by the stories it remembers? It contains multitudes, just like me. It is filled with pain … pleasure … history … potential.

My love, I see your potential. From almost the first moment I met you, I knew what you could become, if only you knew what I knew.

I want you to know.

I want you to know me.

The flame within you has guttered for so long. You have struggled for so long, and my heart aches for you, as it aches for myself ...

My love, I want to ignite that flame, and watch it rise.

I want to see you burn like me.

“Hold the blade to my throat,” I tell you.

Without a moment of hesitation, you obey.

Hades’ hand wasn’t warm like the sunshine Persephone knew so well. Instead, it was hot like the surface of the sun. But it didn’t hurt her, because Hades did not want it to. Somehow Persephone understood that fact, even though he had not yet spoken a single word to her.

Stern, silent Hades led her down, down, down into the darkness.

Persephone had never been so far from home before, but she was not afraid.

You feel it, don’t you?

My pulse beating against the point of the blade. The blood, coursing through my veins. My life, balanced on a knife edge.

It’s like a drug, isn’t it? Intoxicating. Exhilarating.

The flame inside you has stopped guttering, hasn’t it? Instead, it is beginning to grow. Brighter, hotter ...

You are going to burn so beautifully, my love.

I feel myself harden inside you. Your eyelids flutter closed, but only for a split second When you open them again, I find myself dazzled.

With careless benevolence, I have tended you for months. And now you have finally burst into flower. You have burst into flames.

With the blade still pressed firmly against my throat, you begin to rock against me.

They walked for a long time, in almost total darkness. The space felt narrow, the walls felt at times as though they were closing in, and the ground was rocky and uneven. But Hades knew the way, and he made sure that Persephone did not slip or stumble.

Eventually, they reached the end of their journey, and she found herself in the depths of his lair. Wide-eyed, she stared around her, and felt confused.

She had often been told of the horrors that lurked in the underworld, but looking around her now, she discovered that not a single word had been true.

This place was dark and hot, but it was beautifully furnished, and so different to anything she had seen before. Flames roared, and shadows danced on the ceiling.

Persephone had never seen anything so wonderful in all her life.

I hold you.

I guide you, as I have guided you since the moment we met.

My fingertips dig into your sides hard enough to bruise, as I look upon the beauty of your form, and I take my pleasure as you take yours.

The hand which is not holding the blade flexes and grasps at thin air until I bring it to rest against my torso. You hold your palm over my heart for a second, and then your nails rake stinging furrows down my chest, and you rock rock rock against me.

When the blade nicks my skin, you do not stop, but your eyes widen.

I smile at you, with blood trickling down my neck.

I am so proud of you. Of us. Of what we will become, you and I.

You smile back at me, reassured. Your smile is brighter than the sun. Brighter than all the suns in all the galaxies.

Brighter than the fires of hell.

“There were others, you know,” Hades said, quite conversationally, as he led the beautiful Persephone further into the depths of his retreat. “But they did not come willingly. They did not understand.”

Their corpses littered the floor now. Some of them still lovely, some of them just fragments of bone, but all of them so empty now. They had served a purpose once, but Hades couldn’t remember what it was anymore.

Persephone held his hand as he helped her to step over them, and did not say a word.

“Will you dine with me?” Hades asked. He had never requested before, only commanded, and none of them had ever assented.

Imagine his surprise when Persephone nodded, and followed him to the table, where a sumptuous feast had been laid out for them.

It’s strange ...

My mouth is moving. I can feel the rumble of my voice in my chest, and in my throat ...

But all I can hear is the roar of blood in my veins, the thunderclap of my heart, as the flame within you, me, us continues to spread far beyond what I could ever have imagined.

You have probably already realized that I am no wordsmith when I speak, but even though I cannot hear what I am saying, I feel the same sense of clarity, of rightness, that I feel when I commit my thoughts to paper or screen. If the unknown syllables spilling from my lips are even half as elegant as the ones which adorn the decadent halls and galleries of my mind, then perhaps you understand me better now.

Perhaps you know me …

And then, my voice catches in my throat, and I can speak no more.

Your hand is steady, the blade stays in place, piercing my skin again even as we begin our final descent.

And you lean in ...

You whisper something to me ...

But I do not understand it in this moment.

We are lost.

We are found.

We are burning.

We are burning, together ...

Hades sat down at the table. There were a great many chairs to choose from, but Persephone climbed into his lap, and tucked her head under his chin, as though she had always belonged there. “I’m starving,” she declared.

It was the first time she had ever spoken to him directly, and her words felt like music to his ears. If anyone knew hunger, it was Hades. He had been starving for a thousand years ...

His laugh was rich and deep as he reached out to pluck a pomegranate from an ornate serving dish right in front of where they sat. “Then eat,” he told her, offering her one single seed.

Surely she knew ...

Surely she understood there was a price to pay ...

But Persephone just smiled, and reached for his other hand, which was holding the rest of the fruit. When she wrapped her little fingers around his wrist, his skin should have been hot enough to sear her to the bone, but she didn’t feel a thing.

Hades’ gaze was fixed on her face as she leaned down to take a great bite of the fruit. As she chewed with great gusto, juice dripped down her chin, until he wiped it away with his thumb. “How was it?” he asked, when he could find his voice again.

“Delicious,” she replied, reaching for the fruit once more.

Still smiling, she offered him a bite, but Hades shook his head.

He had been starving for a thousand years, but he wasn’t hungry anymore ...

You sleep so soundly next to me. Your hair feels like spun silk against my fingertips. You are soft and warm, your jagged edges quelled by your slumber.

As I fold my limbs around you, preparing for another long night of watching over you, the words you whispered earlier come back to me quite suddenly, as clearly as if you had just spoken them again.

I can almost feel the trace of your breath against my neck, your lips ghosting over the shell of my ear, as you speak so sweetly to me from the depths of your heart …

“I love you, Charlie.”

In the darkness, my eyes snap open.

I want to hold you closer.

(I want to push you away.)

My love ...

Oh, my love ...

What have I done?

#the anatomy of a killer #B+C #me x kitten #hades x persephone #be careful what you wish for #the beginning of the end #tw: blood #tw: bloodplay #tw: knife #tw: knifeplay

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themagicmistress · 3 years

Text

Heere’s an excerpt from the first draft of ‘Flowers, Soft Beneath My Heels.’ Scrapped most of it, but I liked this scene! Soo, here it is

Rumblecusp is a nice place. The sky is clear and has been most of the days they’ve been here. The air is still and windless save the light breezes that simply ruffle the tree leaves.

Despite the relative peace of the environment, which on any other day would be idyllic, her view of the town is one of slight chaos, and in a different way than it had been last night. People are angry, stone-faced and yelling at each other, faces darkened with rage. Yelling is fine. She has a feeling they’re just doing it to do something instead of nothing in their situation. Some, however, wander through the village with lost faces, looking pleadingly up at the sky as if for answers. It has none to give them, she knows. The Moonweaver has said her piece.

But Yasha’s not looking for trouble, or any of the previous followers of the not-god. She peers curiously around the village, trying to call back to mind the location Anola had told her to go looking for.

She has to knock on a few doors and then awkwardly backtrack as she’s met with more than one tear-streaked face until Yasha finds an older man with a long wispy beard and weary black eyes.

“No alcohol here,” he says roughly and goes to slam the door. She wedges her toe between it and the frame before he can. His eyebrows fly nearly to his hairline. “Of course,” says the man she really hopes is Kresh, “I could always reconsider.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Yasha reassures and he leans back from her a bit. “I’m not going to hurt you,” She says more insistently and Kresh nods quickly. She stifles a sigh. “Look, I’m just looking to buy something nice for a friend and Anola said you were the person to go to.”

The pressure on her foot lessens and the door swings open. “Oh,” his face is sheepish, “Something sweet, right?”

“Yes,” Yasha tells him. Her heels ache and her heart’s still hopping a half-beat too fast from the earlier scare. She wants to be safe beneath the protection of the dome, her friends breathing warm beside her.

The candies are twenty-five gold, a bit more than mainland prices, but well worth it.

She sticks her head into the dome and there’s a second of relief as she sees them all sitting next to each other, not having moved an inch.

“Jester?” Yasha makes sure her voice is quiet with Beau leaning against Caleb’s shoulder, the two of them having dozed off. “Can I talk to you?”

Jester looks up from underneath Fjord’s arm, who doesn��t appear to notice his own slow attempts to pull her closer. “Sure, what do you want?”

She hesitates. “Just about stuff. Stuff that happened today.” The cleric’s face falls and for a second Yasha feels bad but she didn’t want Nott or the others to bug the tiefling about the candies.

“Oh. Coming.”

They don’t go far from the dome, Jester’s steps short and hurried. She’s also reluctant to go far, to stray more than she needs to.

Yasha pulls out the small sack out and hands it to her. “Here. I thought you’d like these and I also thought you’d prefer to not share, so… here I am giving them to you away from the others.”

The moment Jester figures out what the rock-like amber stones are, her face lights up. “Yasha!” she gasps, and her face breaks into a grin, “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Well, I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, and tonight was a lot. So.” She rubs the back of her neck. “You deserve it.”

Jester pops one into her mouth and groans and her stomach does a split-second drop as she thinks oh-no-I-messed-up before she realizes it’s a happy noise.

“These are so good!” Jester shoves the bag back into her hands, “They’re really sweet and sorta crunchy at the same time. Holy cow, I can’t believe you got these here, Yasha, because when we leave I’m never gonna be able to get them again.” Her words are a little garbled with the candy in her mouth, but then she gives a pointed look to the bag. “What are you waiting for, are you going to eat one already or not?”

“They’re for you,” she refutes.

“Yeah, but I want you to have one, so eat it,” she tells her flatly. Yasha eats the candy.

It’s a little caramelly and it melts in her mouth, with tiny hints of vanilla, all flavours she only knows because of Jester. It spreads in her teeth, sticky but pleasing, and in the center is a hard middle she discovers is a nut as she grinds it between her molars.

The tiefling’s fingers are deft, plucking candy after candy from the bag. They don’t shake and her friend’s demeanor remains unbothered by the night’s events.

What had her face looked like, fingers clenched around green robes, eyes teary toward liquid moonlight? She can only see what Jester shows her now. Someone delighted, maybe a little too delighted, by a simple gift of confectionery. Yasha only knows how she felt, watching a friend drift into the sky, glittering with chains like early morning dew on spiderwebs. Her pulse drumming in her ears, a war drum, teeth clenched, sword clenched, and useless.

Would that she could fell a god for her friend, but Yasha has never been able to claim herself saviour.

“Wanna ‘nother?” Jester offers, face curious now. She swallows. “How are you, Yasha?”

She blinks, taken aback. “I’m fine. Jester, are you okay? That’s— that was a lot up there.”

The answer is immediate. “I’m—” Jester stops. Frowns. “I’m fine too. You don’t need to worry about me, Yasha. I got what I wanted, didn’t I?”

That’s one way of looking at it. She got what she wanted, so all the other stuff, herself gone forever, separated from her friends, the Traveler, didn’t matter. A rationalization, driven by necessity, like the kind Yasha made in battle. Help Beau before she’s impaled on those spikes below her instead of helping Fjord, it’s fine Caduceus is right there next to him, and don’t waste any effort on that last guy Caleb’s about to torch. A different kind of survival, the kind where you swath your hurts in anything that makes it stop just so that the raw and aching parts of you can shrivel and die inside your chest. Whether that means smiles or bloody fists.

“I don’t think you wanted this,” she says softly. “Things suck. And they’re going to keep being like that.”

Jester’s lips press together very tightly. She doesn’t look at her. Yasha has never thought of any of her friends as delicate, but now, she thinks that’s the problem. They’re strong. All of them. Strong enough to fight false gods and save villages and reverse death. Strong enough to face horrors most would never dream, and then lose. Someday, she fears they’ll go charging in somewhere they shouldn’t, into a chamber of laughing mouths, swallowing her whole. A clouded night and a clear moon leaving them devastated beneath it, one less to their number.

Not tonight. But it was close enough that her mind instinctively shies away from it.

“You ever think that maybe you put too-high expectations on someone without knowing it,” Jester says, breaking the silence. She tugs at the sleeves of her high-priestess outfit, “And then they try to live up to what you want them to be, but they can’t and then it goes wrong and you know that when it does it’s because of you and kind of really your fault? Like you were the one to set them up for failure in the first place?” It all comes out in a rush, her voice wobbling on the edge of tears as she rambles. “D’you ever feel like that, Yasha?”

There’s a tumultuous set to the lines of her mouth, pulled back into a grimace, too stiff for smiling, too desperate for frowning. What do you say to something like that and how can she say it with Jester looking at her like she knows the answer to her question, the plea she’s making. How do I make it right?

She licks her lips, still sticky-sweet.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

“I know,” she whispers. And then, softly, an admission of guilt, “but I would have left you guys. I would have.” Jester chuckles. “How did this happen? I didn’t mean— I mean, how did I even make him a god?”

Yasha doesn’t know anymore than she does how to make Jester feel better now. To reassure her this wasn’t her fault, at its core, none of it. “I don’t know.”

“No. That’s alright.” No words have ever sounded so small.

She thinks of Zuala. She’s always thinking, at least a little, about Zuala, but right now she thinks of her pulling them up the side of a hill, a little ways away from the tribe, about the way her fingers had fit neatly between Yasha’s own and how the last thing she remembers before leaving Xhorhas is the sound of thunder.

“You ever think,” Yasha repeats slowly, “people choose to leave because of you? Or not you personally, but because of your decisions, the choices you make. And when you think back, you realize if you had done something different, they might not have chosen to leave at all?” Jester listens in rapt silence and then her mouth opens into a horrified little ‘o’ and Yasha forges on. “And then, if they’re going to leave, should I just go first so I don’t have to watch them do it?”

“Yasha, we’re not going to leave you,” Jester says, almost demanding, voice cracking with the remnants of tears swallowed back.

“No, I know. But I’ve always left you guys,” She says, the night cold against the back of her throat. “And today, you almost left us. You weren’t going to come back from that. We would have gone to get you, but would you have tried to come back to us?”

“Of course!”

“Even if it meant leaving behind the Traveler?” Yasha asks, “Even if it meant letting him take his punishment?”

Jester bites her lower lip and Yasha watches as a brief conflict plays out across her body, fists clenching and unclenching. “That’s not a fair question. I can’t answer that.” She says it like an apology.

Yasha takes a breath and accepts it. She expects nothing less from her, the girl who painted flowers in her room, who stakes her whole self on what she would do for her friends.

She can taste iron and bitter wind like dread in her mouth. “That’s okay. Just— just don’t leave in the first place. We would be sad without you. I’m not even sure what we would do. Probably just mope around all day. Get nothing done.” There’s a ring of truth to the words that hit too close to home to be even remotely funny.

Then, there are arms around her, enveloping and warm. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words are muffled against her chest, likely to hide the quiet sound of rasping around more tears.

“Don’t leave,” Yasha says.

“Do you think,” Jester asks, “ having to ask all these questions is worth it because at least now I have more family to keep worrying about?”

There used to be a hollow in her heart, one that now purrs in some kind of satisfaction and she allows it it’s victory. “Yeah. In a weird way, I’m kind of glad to have someone to leave.” The arms grow tighter around her and Yasha squeezes back comfortingly. “I don’t want to, don’t get me wrong, but if I didn’t have anyone to leave,” She hesitates, “I’d just be running away. If I leave, I know someone will miss me. I would exist in my absence.”

“I would miss you. Beau would definitely.” Jester pulls back, the rim of her eyes a little darker than before.

Her lips curve into a smile without her prompting, though she can’t quite bring herself to care. ““I have no plans to go anywhere unless it’s where the rest of you are all headed.”

“Good.”

The cleric is stiller, and though she hadn’t seemed outright distraught in the dome earlier, now she seems steadier. A port in the storm rather than the raging waves themselves, standing firm instead crashing out and into herself over and over.

“Does asking these questions help you usually?”

Jester shows the nearly-empty velvet bag of candy to Yasha who notices she has to almost unclench her fingers from their stiff position around it. “Not nearly as much as the candies.”

“You think,” she echoes in a mimicry of their earlier conversation, “you’re ready to head back?”

“Yeah. Yasha?” Jester asks, tucking away the little bag.

“Thank you.”

“You’re important to me,” Yasha tells her and finds a little more joy in the soft smile that graces Jester’s mouth as she does. “Thank you for staying.”

She keeps her eyes on her friend’s back, her steps not quite the light skip they are usually, but lighter now. A part of her wishes she could take their group and bundle them away from the world, cruel and unfair to the best of them. Another part looks at the sea line, just barely visible over the tips of forest trees, and wonders how long into the night she would have to trek to make it there before the others wake. If Yasha squints, she can see a tiny light somewhere between the waves. A lighthouse on the shore, maybe, or a star touching down where the horizon meets the sea.

Ahead of her, Jester runs her fingers through the little velvet bag Yasha had given her over and over again like she can’t help but remind herself of the gift. A smile still rests on her lips.

#critical role #yasha nydoorin #jester lavorre #the mighty nein #fanfic #dialogue heavy #my fic #cr

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darkisrising · 3 years

Text

You are someone else, I am still right here, by DarkIsRising

Thanks to @treescape for the prompt: Vaderwan: “Kill my feelings, kill my soul. Kill everything I am.”

Mature themes, dark, a little violent... Oh, boy, it’s baby’s first Vaderwan y’all! Read here or on ao3

You are someone else, I am still right here

If ever there was a time for a well-executed escape, it would be right about now.

Now, when Obi-Wan is sitting on the cold, durasteel slab that serves as a cot, the kick of the regurgitated air supply coming through a vent too small to pass through and too high to attempt with his injuries (and maybe in his younger days he would have attempted it anyway, but he’s feeling too worn down by sands and suns to so much as make it an idle thought).

Now, when he can hear the echoing tread of regulation boots made heavier by body armor as troopers pass by his cell (and if he closes his eyes it’s almost like he’s back on the Negotiator, his men walking through the halls, and he tries not to think of how many could very well be his men because his heart can only ache with so much regret).

Now when he can feel the turbid miasma of darkness that chokes the Force with a fetid, acrid stink that is so near to the scent of sulphur that Obi-Wan can almost feel the heat of lava and the singe of a lightsaber as it bears down on him (and the screams sound in his ears, of a future denied them and a past that becomes blighted with every clash of their blades, as they do every night when sleep eludes him and every morning when meditation does, too).

But escaping is a dangerous game at present. And even were he to make it off this cruiser, where else is there to go but back to the same desert planet, the same skin-blistering heat, the same stretch of rolling, yellow dunes?

There’s sand on the floor. Even here it follows him and Obi-Wan stares at the grains of it, of where his boots and the boots of the stormtroopers that captured him have tracked this trace of Tatooine into his prison.

His eyes are still downcast as the door of his cell opens, as someone steps inside, and he can hear the grit of it as black boots—impeccably clean in a way he never could convince his restless apprentice to keep his as he grew—grind the sand underfoot.

“Hello, my dear,” Obi-Wan says. It’s been a while since he’s used this particular tone—insouciant in the face of certain death—yet it comes easily now. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand…” he gestures to his leg, the break of it plain in the strange angle of his knee.

“Oh, please, Master—” and that one word spoken in the mouth of this near-stranger does more to eviscerate him than any broken bone could hope to “—allow me.”

There’s no point in keeping his screams from ringing through the small room, no point in pretending that the agony he feels as his bones shift, and realign, and are made to grow together at an unnatural speed is anything less than absolute.

When it’s over Obi-Wan sags against the wall. A furious sweat dampens his forehead and his skin shivers with shock. Still, he digs deep into the teeth-clenched inner reserves of strength he’s had to cultivate over his life and in a thin, jaunty tone says: “Many thanks.”

Anakin snorts in dark amusement and then raises his hand. Obi-Wan is jerked forward, plucked into the air by an invisible grip until he is standing on his newly re-formed leg.

Tilting his head up, Obi-Wan forces himself to meet Anakin’s gaze: yellow where once a crystalline blue had been.

So much of him is still the same and that is it’s own cruelty.

“Two years, Obi-Wan,” he says, mouth flattened, and Obi-Wan could almost believe that it’s from disappointment. “That’s all it took me to find you.”

“You always were exceptionally efficient at anything you set your mind to, Anakin.”

“And you were always exceptionally arrogant, my master.” The door behind him closes and now Obi-Wan is alone in this cell with Anakin. He’s alone in this cell with Anakin and Anakin’s pressing darkness that winds through the empty spaces between them, doing more to burn away the breathable air than a fire ever could. “You know very well that is no longer my name.”

“You must forgive me. Where I’ve been living hasn’t afforded me the ability to stay current on galactic events,” he bluffs. “Tatooine is rather in the middle of nowhere, as I’m sure you remember. Is there something else you’d prefer I call you?”

“My name is Darth Vader.”

Obi-Wan lets the silence sit and then gives a careful, neutral: “Ah.” A muscle in Anakin’s jaw bulges as he his teeth grind together. “It’s lovely.”

The air turns more dense—more claustrophobic—as the weight of Anakin’s ire bears down on him. “You,” Anakin says, stepping closer and Obi-Wan holds his ground. “Are so—” Whatever he had been on the verge of saying is bitten away and then banished by a swift shake of his head. “What’s on Tatooine, old man?”

“Sand.” Obi-Wan says without thinking and he gets an invisible vise around his throat for it.

Anakin persists, stepping nearer, staring into his face and he’s close enough that Obi-Wan can see the industrial shuttle light cast a sheen on his eyelashes. “Why of all the planets in all the star systems did you choose that one?”

“The…” he pants through his swiftly closing airway. “Weather.”

“Try again.”

“Always...admired…” Flickers, like a gathering of gnats, are at the corner of his vision now and his lungs are burning for breath. “...Jawa culture…”

“Obi-Wan,” he chides, tightening his grip and this time Obi-Wan can only muster a sound—nothing like words and everything like the desperate last gasp of a dying body—as blackness eats away all that he sees.

He’s on the precipice of unconsciousness—a cliff’s edge that he is inching toward with every passing, choking second—when abruptly he’s released. He collapses in a heap, sputtering for air, and when his vision darkens again this time it’s because Anakin’s form is looming over him. Yellow eyes glint and gold flecked hair spills over his shoulder as he crouches over where Obi-Wan lays.

“Let’s try this again.”

“Must we?” Obi-Wan wheezes.

“Why were you on Tatooine?”

Any number of thoughts roll through his sluggish mind—obfuscations, goadings, taunts—but none of them will throw Anakin off his question for long. And, to his credit, it is an excellent question. It is the question that Obi-Wan most dreads he discovers the answer to. The reason he didn’t leave Mustafar to throw himself into the fray of battle once more. The reason for the hut in the dune sea and the quiet vigil he’s held on the Lars homestead and the yawning loneliness of desert nights beneath an impossible spill of stars. It's the reason, the one thing, that has kept him tethered to this mortal plane when so often the winds of Tatooine have beckoned for him to follow their howling call during a sandstorm and let them swallow him down.

But this.

This is what he was tasked with: the protection of a boy at any cost. At any cost, and his obfuscations and goadings and taunts might very well be the thing that strikes fire to the tinder of his former apprentice’s rage enough to kill him once and for all, but who will protect the boy, then?

He needs a distraction. One that will last.

He needs to enter the maw of the creature that Anakin has become and dwell there a while.

Anakin is kneeling now, coming ever closer, and there is one last gambit he can try. One last ploy that might very well break his spirit, his heart, his mind, even if it keeps him alive for years to come.

“Why were you on Tatooine, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan licks his chapped, split lips. He tastes the metal tang of blood and says, in a voice that is ruined by violence, “So that you could find me.”

Anakin recoils at that, jerking backwards as if he’s been slapped. “No,” he says. “No you were there for a reason. I know it. They must have sent you...”

The laugh that Obi-Wan huffs is real. “Who? Who is there left to send me anywhere?”

“The Council—”

“Is gone,” Obi-Wan says. “The Order is gone. I'm all that is left.” Obi-Wan grits his teeth against the bruises and bleeding, fights until he is on his knees. Anakin’s eyes widen as Obi-Wan pulls himself upright and now they are of a height. “Do with me what you will.”

Anakin’s mouth is soft when it finds him; warm when it falls open and he lets in a hungry, questing tongue as it seeks out the taste of Obi-Wan—shattered and battered and brought low—and Anakin savors them all with a moan. Obi-Wan wishes he were strong enough to keep his eyes open, but it’s easier to forget where he is—who he is—when there’s not so much light.

Arms wrap around Obi-Wan’s waist, holding fast and tight and he breaks away from their kiss to give a yell of agony at the pain Anakin’s questing hands mete. Anakin doesn’t notice, whispering instead into the vulnerable curve of Obi-Wan’s throat: “You know how much I’ve wanted this. For years and years I’ve wanted this.”

“I know.” Subtlety had never been a trait that Anakin had cared to nurture. There have been all the ‘fresher doors accidently left open as his padawan showered and all the cots claimed as Obi-Wan’s own inexplicably filled with the sleeping sprawl of a knight fresh from the field, and all the war zones where the only way to save Obi-Wan’s life was to shield him beneath the protective weight of General Skywalker’s body.

“You said it was forbidden.”

“It was.” And even though his cracked ribs sing and the places where blaster fire singed his flesh crack open to bleed again, Obi-Wan reaches up. He brings his arms around Anakin’s broad shoulders, and their bodies press together until there is only cloth and heat and dwindling time between them. “But who is left to stop us now?”

He lets himself be taken then, murmuring praises all the while because this is something Obi-Wan can do. He can become Anakin’s pet—his plaything—and maybe someday when the years have stripped Obi-Wan of his pride and his body has been broached by another so fiercely it is no longer his own to claim... maybe then he’ll look across a field of some new battle, some new planet, some new space station to see the blue eyes of another Skywalker, a new Skywalker, a Skywalker that has lived and grown and come into his own, and he’ll know it all will have been worth it.

#vaderwan #obi-wan kenobi #darth vader #fanfic #darkisrising fic #obikin

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leda-x · 4 years

Text

Ladybug has five minutes left with Chat Noir, and she isn't ready to give them up.

Ladybug woke in the cooking section of a library with the word “chance” tumbling from her lips. It was the ancient atrium of a newly modernized building. Like always, she was crouched down behind a bookshelf with Chat Noir at her side.

Far, far above her head, thin marble columns rose upwards, curving into graceful arches to meet in the middle. Early morning light shone through the enormous circular skylight positioned at the center of the atrium’s domed ceiling. It illuminated little specks of golden dust that had been disturbed by them seconds before. The room was empty, sound hushed.

Meeting her gaze, Chat tapped the screen on his baton and the numbers 04:58 began to flash. 04:57… 04:56... He reached down, flipping through a cookbook at his side, stopping at a random page. “Lobster tails meunière,” he read aloud to mark the attempt, green gaze flicking back up for her lead.

There were 2,000 recipes in The Escoffier Cookbook and Guide to the Fine Art of Cookery. That one was new. Ladybug took it as a good omen.

There was nothing but seriousness in Chat’s face right now. Seriousness and a rosy glow of determination and confidence.

Ladybug’s fingers drifted off her bracelet to cradle Chat’s cheek. Her gloved thumb followed the line along the bottom edge of his mask, right at the exposed part of his cheek. She watched the depth and vibrancy in his eyes. Could see a ring of eyelashes through the colored glass. Could feel the heat from his skin. He had a freckle on his upper lip. Not for the first time Ladybug realized her partner was beautiful. The first few times she had stopped to really notice she had cried. An ache started in her throat and grew until her entire chest was sore, until she was breathless with grief.

A blush colored his cheeks and his neck. She watched, with some fascination, the steady beat of his heart through the vein in his neck. It was throbbing quick. He was searching her face for answers now, lip pursing into worry. “Uh oh… It’s that bad?” Chat joked.

She wasn’t ready. It wasn’t the right time around. Ladybug got up from her crouch and held out her hand.

Chat took it without question and allowed her to lead them both out of the atrium into a modernized foyer, then into an elevator. She pressed floor four.

“What’s the plan?” he asked as the elevator doors shut. Ladybug could detect a thread of nervousness behind his grin. He was probably wondering why they were going up when the akuma was last spotted below.

Such faith. It cracked her heart a little further every time. Ladybug squeezed his hand, watching the elevator numbers tick so she didn’t have to look him in the eye as she admitted, “No plan.”

The doors opened to an art gallery absent of people.

She let go of Chat’s hand, even though she never really wanted to, and began walking through the exhibit. She could hear the soft sound of his footsteps following her. Extremely large images of sand flicked by in succession. Ladybug didn’t stop to marvel at them.

Chat always did. “Whoah,” he said and she glanced back, catching him craning his neck. “This isn’t a photo. Someone drew this.”

Ladybug used up a few of her seconds to watch her partner, feeling a wash of fondness as Chat placed his hands on his hips and tilted forward, nose scrunched, face inches from the canvas. “LB how long do you think this took to make?”

Years, Ladybug thought. Aloud, she said, “This way.”

Chat let out a low whistle as they passed by a total of ten drawings. Each one looked alike. There were slight variations, however, upon closer inspection. It was the variations in Chat Noir that Ladybug kept discovering that made it impossible for her to stop doing this. They had been here over a thousand times before. Each time was a little different, but always ended the same.

They wound a corner and ended up in a smaller room. Ladybug headed towards the back where a replica of the interior of an old-style french house had been built. There was a bed and a little TV where you could learn all about Château de Blois.

It was the best place she had found for this. She had tried a lot of places. She had already dragged Chat around the entire city of Paris looking for a solution. Not that this Chat Noir remembered any of that.

She gestured at the bed, ignoring the documentary that was playing softly behind her, “I have a lot to tell you and no time to do it. How are we, by the way?”

Chat Noir obeyed, sitting on the bed, cat ears perked straight up, eyes bright now and curious. His knee bounced with pent-up energy. He glanced at his baton. “Three minutes, forty-seven seconds. Why? What’s going to happen?”

“I need you to pretend that everything I’m about to say is true,” Ladybug began.

Chat Noir gave her a funny look like, ‘why wouldn't I?’

Ladybug couldn’t help but smile a bit at that. She crouched down in front of him, placing a palm atop each bouncing knee. “You are going to die in three minutes,” Ladybug said.

Chat froze.

“Your heart. It stops. An arrhythmia,” Ladybug continued, keeping her eyes locked with his, making sure he was following along. They never had time to go over it again. “We’ve been here a lot. Anything you are about to say I’ve tried.” She had tried every hospital, every ER, every doctor; had tried Lucky charm-ing a solution countless times.

Chat’s eyebrows drew together. His eyes were still present in the room with her, though. They hadn’t glazed off or flicked away in fear. “What?” he breathed. He searched her for a long moment for the joke.

Ladybug knew better than to so much as flinch or blink right now while he was looking for a way out. Chat’s denial came in different severities every time, but it was never helped by her saying or doing anything until he did first.

A stormy look passed across his face as he took that in. “So... I’m dead and there’s nothing anyone can do about it?” he summarized, grinning.

Ladybug nodded, relaxing a touch. In her experience him grinning was usually the best outcome, even though it did seem a bit deranged. She took her hands from his knees, giving him a bit of space despite every bone in her body aching to hold him close. Even though she had held him so many times, it was always new for him. Too much of her affection too fast could scare him off.

“Wait. What about the cure?” he asked.

“You know Ladybug can’t bring people back to life.”

Chat leaned back a touch. A clawed palm drew up to rest over his heart, expression a bit dazed. Ladybug watched as her partner’s brain spun, processing. Then he glanced back at her, eyes startled. “How… How many times have we done this?”

“Many,” Ladybug admitted. “Each time is a little different. Sometimes you don’t believe me. Sometimes you call your dad. Sometimes you call Nino. Sometimes we just sit together.”

“Nino?” Chat caught.

“I know you are Adrien Agreste,” Ladybug said and then waited to see how he would react.

Sometimes this revelation hit hardest. It was more real, more believable. Often the fact that she knew his name at all was taken as proof she was telling the truth about everything else. That realization typically followed with denial. Sometimes terror.

Ladybug watched closely as Chat’s chest heaved in panic.

A humming noise suddenly kicked off. It was only after it stopped that Ladybug realized the air conditioning had been on. The change shocked Chat back out of whatever place he had gone. “Do I know you?” he whispered.

“Do you want to?”

Suddenly he recoiled, gaze suspicious. “You’re not Ladybug,” he stated, as if the thought had just dawned on him. “This isn’t real.”

Ladybug’s heart sank.

He was standing now, stumbling backwards. His shoulder hit one of the wood beams of the replica, causing him to twist.

With a sigh she reached down and twisted the bracelet back into position.

. .

Ladybug woke again in the cooking section of the library.

Chat tapped the screen on his baton and flipped through the cookbook. “Eggs benedict,” he read aloud.

Ladybug was still reeling from last time. They had almost parted ways on terms she could (maybe) accept. But no— Chat had to get paranoid. Not for the first time she cursed all the replicas of herself that her partner had faced. Maybe if he hadn’t been tricked previously they would have a better chance at this.

“Ladybug?” Chat’s voice broke her out of her thoughts, worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Why do you wake up in the morning?” Ladybug asked, eyes locked down at the book in his hands. At the long pause she got out of her crouch and into a cross-legged position, chancing a look at his face. Sometimes his living face in all it’s animated glory really hurt to look at when seconds before it had been dead.

Chat was staring at her in uncertainty. After a beat he mirrored her, settling down at her side and putting down the book. “That’s a weird question. Why? Something to do with the akuma?”

“Yes,” Ladybug lied. “I need to know.” She needed a break. Even though she never grew physically tired, emotionally she was exhausted. She used up rounds getting to know him better, plucking up the courage to try again to say goodbye again.

He had a grin on his face now. “Usually because of my alarm clock.”

. .

She was back in the library.

“Grammont pullet,” said Chat Noir, to her right. He set down the cookbook and tapped his baton.

Ladybug laughed. She laughed and then she cried. She wasn’t sure when she stopped doing the first and started doing the second. They sort of happened together, just like all of these second chances and all of these subtle striations.

Chat’s hands hovered beside her arms like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to comfort her. His ears flattened, green eyes distraught. However, when Ladybug leaned in his arms looped around her in an easy embrace, chin resting atop her head.

Eventually emotions passed and Ladybug went quiet, listening to the sound of Chat’s heartbeat and the rumble of his voice as he asked, “What’s the joke?”

“You started the timer after you read the recipe this time,” Ladybug said.

Chat’s grip shifted. He fell silent, as if weighing something, before he admitted, “I don’t get it.”

Ladybug reached up and patted his back. She hadn’t expected him to.

. .

This time around was coq-au-vin.

They had made it to the elevator. This time, Ladybug pressed ‘Floor 4’ right as Chat pressed ‘Basement’. The elevator suddenly had a choice, and it chose to go down, and instead of twisting the bracelet to start over, Ladybug decided to take out some of her own anger on the akuma.

The fight was over before it barely begun.

The umbrella Ladybug tossed to Chat skidded across the floor. Chat stumbled. Ladybug reached down and spun the bracelet before she had a chance to watch him fall.

. .

The last recipe was profiteroles. And it was only the last one, because Chat— like always— surprised her. Ladybug supposed it was only a matter of when, not if. She could only do this so many times before Chat turned it back around on her.

He was glaring at her now, green eyes bright and vivid, unobstructed by goggles. Ladybug internally cursed whenever Chat decided to transform back because it meant there was no more baton— no more timer— and she always felt a bit lost within these three minutes without it.

“How many times have you put yourself through this?” he was asking her, again, since she couldn’t give him a straight answer. Suddenly, and swiftly, he got up from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed and took two steps forward into her personal space before Ladybug had a chance to stumble back. “How many?” he repeated.

“I-I don’t know!” Ladybug answered truthfully, suddenly flustered beyond belief. This was the first time Adrien Agreste had had the audacity to step this close to her, to get this mad at her.

“Marinette,” Adrien realized, sounding a bit punched in the gut. “You’re Marinette. This whole time...”

Not trusting herself to speak, Marinette nodded, eyes wide. The amount of times they had both come to know each other’s identities were slim. Rarely did it ever get this far. From this point on was uncharted territory for Ladybug. This Chat Noir suddenly became very real, no longer this strange version of himself that repeated the same phrases and did the same things over and over. No, all the sudden this profiteroles version of Chat was wholly unique.

“If I die in three minutes—” he began.

“Any second now, actually,” Marinette corrected.

“—you’ll do what, exactly?” he finished.

Marinette knew how bad it sounded, but she said it anyway, “I’ll go back to when you’re not dead.”

Adrien’s eyes flicked to the Miraculous around her wrist for a second, brows scrunching. “And then what?”

Ladybug only had to meet his eyes for a brief second to answer that question.

Suddenly Chat had a strong grip on her arm, yanking it towards him.

It took Ladybug a full three seconds to realize what he was trying to do. “Chat. Stop. Chat, stop,” she hissed, veins icy, mouth dry. If he took the bracelet it was over. She twisted and ripped her arm out of his grip, stumbling back and away. A quick glance down confirmed the bracelet was still there and still activated. She kept it pressed tightly to her polka dotted chest, holding it with her other hand.

Adrien was shaking his head, bits of blond hair falling in and out of his eyes. “You can’t keep doing this,” he said, a little out of breath.

Marinette wondered if his heart had stopped and her fingers rested down upon the bracelet, but after a few seconds passed and he remained standing she let them drift away.

If Adrien noticed, he didn’t mention it. “Other people need you,” he accused. “Paris needs you.”

“Paris can figure it out,” she hissed.

Chat blinked, surprised. His face slowly morphed, surprise bleeding into understanding. “It’s ok, Bug. It will be ok.”

Her throat clenched and it felt like he had cleaved her entire body into two pieces straight down the middle. How? How would it ever be ok? When she thought of her future now she only saw darkness. There was nothing left.

“I know I can’t keep doing this,” she gasped, the words ripping out of her. “I know other people love me, need me. But you’re not the one that has to walk out of here alone." The word 'alone' made her own heart swell ten times too big until it felt like it would burst. She hoped it would. That would be a whole lot easier. She had wished a whole lot of things recently that would have appalled her younger self. “I’m not ready.”

“When will you be?” Adrien asked softly.

A hot surge of anger raced through her and she felt the insane urge to shove him or hurt him or do something because how dare he ask her that. How dare he! How dare he die in the first place! Ladybug was tempted to twist the bracelet just to get away from this Chat and go back to an earlier version who was still malleable and innocent. Just erase this attempt all together from his memory so she would never have to answer.

All she had to do was twist it. But then he’d be right. And if she didn’t twist it, he’d still be right. Because… he was right, regardless. And no matter how many times she could make him forget it, she would never forget it.

Adrien wobbled, taking a few quick steps back until he was slumping back on the bed, face pale. Time’s up.

Her anger evaporated and she was there, tugging him close into her chest, because this was the closest to Chat she had ever gotten in all her attempts. The crown of his head tucked underneath her chin, gloved fingers running through his hair, as she felt all the movement and life drain out of him. It was like this every time. Quick, quiet, sneaky. As quick as a switch. One minute the lights were on, the next they were off.

She had no idea how much time she had before her five minutes were up. If she had to guess it was down to seconds. Her fingers detangled out of blond hair and dragged along her side, along her arm, until they met her wrist and bumped against the bracelet.

Was she? When would she be? Ready, that is.

#Miraculous Ladybug #fanfic #angst #adrien agreste #time travel #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Chat Noir #Ladybug #Sorry I'm not sorry #If anyone needed a good cry

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talkfastromance4 · 4 years

Note

Can I please please please get #2 with Luke from the Halloween blurb list?? Like maybe they’re kissing and Y/N pulls back and asks and idk I just think it’d be awesome

Yes! I loved writing this and it’s in continuation of my current vampire!luke stuff and follows this blurb I hope you like it!

2. “Can you show me your fangs?”

warnings: mentions of blood drinking

• • • •

She’s watching couples--established and just acquainted--getting frisky in the plush red chairs of the lounge. She’s become immune to the provocativeness that’s in the Blood Bar but she doesn’t understand how the humans can stand being feasted on out in the open like this.

When Luke feasted on her a couple weeks ago...a shiver rolls down her spine at the thought of that intimate moment. She tries to focus on organizing the bills but the memory of Luke sinking his teeth on her breast leaves her cheeks burning.

As soon as he punctured her flesh, she felt warm all over in pleasant way. When he began his feast, her eyes rolled back and she felt as if she were floating. She felt lighter than air and her finger tips were left tingling.

One of the patrons closest to her let out a small gasp as the Vampire continued to drink. Y/N remembers gasping as well at the pleasurable sensation. She ached to touch him at the time but obeyed the rules he’d given her, one of them remaining still.

When Luke finished--she hadn’t wanted him to stop--the cool lick of his tongue swept over his puncture wound. Her body felt wavy, her head was swimming in an ocean of pure bliss but the soft butterfly kisses Luke left on her skin reminded her she was on his bed, in his arms.

A pair of cool hands wrapped around her waist made her jump from her reverie.

“Woah, it’s just me,” Luke says in her ear and she instantly releases. He kisses her cheek, lips lingering. “I thought you heard me calling your name.”

“No, I didn’t hear you. I was...daydreaming.”

“About me, I hope,” he purrs tracing the line of her jaw with his lips.

“Always,” she smiles slipping her fingers through his on her waist.

“Are you ready to go?” his hand pinches the top of her thigh, his teeth nibble on her skin.

Her heart jumps at the sudden physical contact. Since that intimate moment where Luke bit her a few weeks ago, the physical part of their relationship has become scarce.

“Lovie?” Luke hums, his voice vibrates on her ear.

“Um, yeah. Let’s go.”

Back at his house, they’re in his lounge with an old playing in the background. She’s not even sure what it’s really about because of Luke’s cold hands under her shirt and his lips continually pulling kisses and soft moans from her. Her mind won’t stop thinking about the change in Luke.

“You seem distracted,” Luke murmurs ghosting kisses under her jaw.

“Just thinking,” she sighs twisting her fingers in his curls.

“About?” he continues to leave wet kisses on her skin.

“This is the first time we’ve really been intimate since you bit me. Did I do something wrong? Did I not taste good?”

His kisses stop, he huffs out a cold breath on her neck and she trembles. Luke lifts his head then cradles her cheeks in his hands. She looks adorably irresistible.

“Of course not, you did nothing wrong,” he shakes his head, “and you taste heavenly.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing you have to worry about, lovie,” he pecks her lips. “Now, what are you distracted by?”

“Can you show me your fangs?”

His eyebrows flicker and he cocks his head to the side in confusion.

“Why do you want to see them?”

“Curious,” she shrugs then kisses the outside of his palm. “Please?”

“What if it scares you?”

“You don’t scare me. Please?”

Luke sighs. He can never say no to her, within reason.

“All right,” he sighs again then opens his mouth. His fangs extend in length and her eyes widen slightly.

She lifts her hand carefully, pointer finger poised out. As she approaches Luke is reminded of the fairytale Sleeping Beauty when she pricked her finger on a spindle.

Luke’s fangs were much sharper than a spindle, one nanometric poke from the tip of his fang could harm her if he wasn’t careful and his venom could release; which would be much worse than a deep sleep. He’d curse her.

He captures her fingers quickly between his own stopping her motion. She gasps at his speed.

“You need to be careful,” he warns. “In less than a second I could harm you or something worse.”

“I’m...I’m sorry,” she breathes, her heart is racing like crazy.

Luke retracts his fangs then kisses each of her fingertips carefully. The sweet, sweet scent wafts into his nose.

“I need to control myself with you,” he whispers.

“Is that why you’ve been so distant? That one feasting...did it do a lot of damage?”

She bites her lip, a habit Luke’s long ago discovered means she’s nervous. He gives her the smile he’s only reserved for her then plucks her lip away from her teeth so he can kiss her delicately.

“Please, don’t fret, lovie. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I--”

He silences her with a deeper kiss, his fingers removing her top and bra in one fluid motion. There’s a difference in their love making; she’s filled with questions and he’s more torn than ever.

It’s as if they were saying goodbye.

• • • •

Taglist: @calpalirwin @thecurlsofgod @myloverboyash @rotten-kandy @tea4sykes @jannimoeller3 @loveroflrh @iovehemmings @cxddlyash @princesslrh @katiaw2 @g-l-pierce @fairyintheglass @gosh-im-short @banditocth @dezzym17 @koalacal @lukeisbaby @spicycal @mysticalhood @notinthesameguey @wastedheartcth @atlcalm @itjustkindahappenedreally @calumance @babylon-corgis @thew0rldneedsmcreycghurt @lanternlover2 @istaywithmyjonas @calteahood @sarcastically-defensive17 @another-lonely-heart @devilatmydoor @frontmanash @philthepegacorn @mantlereid @lukedorkyhemmings @addietagglikesbands @kikixfandoms @sanrioluke @mayve-hems @morguelth @haikucal @thatscooibaby @meghanrose05 @idontneedanyone @dinosaursandsocks @haveufoundwhaturlooking4 @suchalonelysunflower @burstintocolor @zhangyixingxing1 @dead-and-golden @mymindwide @everyscarisahealingplace @stardust-galaxies @blackbutterfliescal @redrattlers @lovelybonesetc @karajaynetoday @quasighost @i-like-5sos @creampiecashton @calpops

#13 nights of blurbs #vampire!luke #vampire!luke blurb #luke hemmings blurb #luke angst #luke hemmings angst #luke hemmings writing #luke writing #luke 5sos

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cuculine-nelipot · 4 years

Text

ON LUTE STRINGS

{a/n I posted this on ao3 a while ago but I finally got around to sorting out the last of spelling errors and what-nots today I think. So here we are.}

The first time in happens, he doesn’t notice.

They’ve made camp for the night, in a clearing in the woods. He’s had some bread, and even a little meat when the witcher caught him staring longingly at his roast hare.

A fire burns warm, and light enough to for Jaskier to check the angry red welt on his abdomen, already purple in places. He inhales sharply when he prods at it with a tentative finger, and vaguely wonders how long it’ll last.

Half dressed, lazing on his bedroll with his back braced against bark, he fiddles with his new lute. Getting a proper feel for the instrument, he plucks a charming, tripping little tune he can play without too much thought — an Elven composition he stumbled upon as a lad in temple school that seems appropriate to the occasion. He marvels at how buttery the strings feel under his fingertips, how clear the notes ring through the trees. A shiver of pure satisfaction shoots through him, from his hands right down to his gut.

“Shut up boy.” The growl comes from the man — mutant — whatever, on the other side of the fire. Jaskier heaves a pointed sigh.

“Goodnight Geralt.”

He gets naught but a half-hum-half-grunt in response as he puts his lute aside and settles into his bedroll.

In the morning he doesn’t notice that his torso is completely unmarred.

The second instance occurs not much later, but is similarly shrouded by unremarkable circumstance.

It had been a damp few days on the road, and there is not enough herbal tea on the continent to stave off the cold building uncomfortably behind his face.

He watches Geralt fiddle with his various vials and blades and what-nots from his bed on the other side of the room. He shouldn’t — he knows he shouldn’t — but he feels a sort of ache in his chest, knowing that come morning he will likely be too sick to travel. Knowing that he will be left behind. The witcher had said as much, after all.

For now at least, there is a warm room, and food enough, and his music, and he is not alone yet. He picks up his lute and plays that same, well-worn tune, the one that feels like the home he always wanted, the one that sounds like the lullabies he’s never heard. He lets the music wash through him, a stream of sound trickling in his veins, cresting in his skull. He plays until he feels tired, and calm enough to sleep.

Sure enough, he wakes up to a high sun, and the room is much, much emptier than it was the night before.

But he feels better. His nose is clear, the pressure behind his eyes in gone. It’s curious, he thinks, but he never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He sets out soon after, not wanting to lose daylight. If he just so happens to run into a certain witcher, well, there’s only one road out of town isn’t there? Somethings just can't be helped.

He does run into him, that night, making camp not too far off the road.

“You’re sick,” comes the other man’s effusive, albeit confused, greeting.

“I was sick. Feeling much better now, thanks for asking.”

“Hm.”

“And thanks for walking so slow, honestly I can’t believe I caught up with you. Aren’t witchers supposed to have phenomenal stamina or something? Maybe you’re getting old — how old are you anyway?”

“Too old for this. Here.” Without looking, Geralt holds out a steaming mug of something.

“What’s this?” Jaskier asked, only slightly suspicious.

“Tea. You still sound hoarse.”

Jaskier can’t say for sure, but he thinks he sees red creeping up Geralt’s neck when he turns his back to Jaskier.

So many such incidences scattered through so many years, and with the ignorance of youth Jaskier notices none of them. Just like he fails to notice how at 26 his face looks identical to what it was at 18, or that he still has the same boundless energy. He doesn’t take into consideration paper cuts that are there one minute and gone the next. He doesn’t find the fact that he can’t remember the last time he was properly sick or bruised peculiar at all, despite the frequent bar fights and rambles in the rain.

Until, that is, another night spent under the stars in the woods somewhere.

“Pass me that?” Geralt makes no indication of what he’s after, but Jaskier knows him well enough by now to know he’s means his dagger. He moves to give it to him but it slips out of his hand almost as soon as he picks it up; its point slices though his breeches and a few layers of skin on the way down.

“Ow. Ow. Fucking shit ow.” He peppers the air with curses as he sinks to the ground. The edges of the slit silk begin to turn red with his blood, and he quickly but carefully divests himself of the garment before any more damage can be done. With a sigh that’s more annoyed than anything, Geralt turns around to give him a cursory glance.

“Stay there,” he huffs.

“Solid advice once again there, Geralt. And here I was thinking I’d get a head start on tomorrow’s travels.” It might have sounded scathing if his voice and his breathing weren’t so obviously strained with pain.

“Trust you to split your leg open trying to pass someone a knife.” Geralt finally approaches with his first-aid kit. Calloused fingers tenderly come to rest on Jaskier’s thigh, just barely pulling at his skin, shifting his leg, trying to ascertain the extant of the damage. “Needs stitches,” he says as he applies a salve. “This will keep it from getting infected, and it’ll numb the pain a bit, but not a lot.”

The burning pain in his leg does in fact morph into something cold, and almost soothing, but he had no delusions about how much that will do under the attention of a needle and thread.

“Come on.” Geralt pulls one of Jaskier’s arms up, draping it around his shoulder and pulling him to a standing position. Though the bard has a slighter build, he's not much shorter, so Geralt half drags the bard to sit fireside, setting him down with a gentleness not lost on the injured man.

As Geralt prepares to sew him up, Jaskier grabs his lute from where it lays nearby, and starts playing that old melody to calm himself down. After all these years, the sound has come to resemble home to Geralt almost as much as it does to Jaskier, and he feels tension he didn’t know he carried slough away from his shoulders. There’s an ever so slight shivering where his medallion touches his chest, so slight that Geralt’s conscious mind fails to register it, just like every other time.

But when he returns to Jaskier side the hum of his silver seems suddenly to fill the arena of his chest and skull.

“Jaskier.”

“Hm?”

“Your leg.”

“I’m actually trying rather hard to not think about my leg at present, so if you could just finish up there as quickly as possible I would be very appreciative.”

“Jaskier, look.”

Geralt speaks with such urgency Jaskier does look, his finger’s stilling over his lute when he sees that the gash has been greatly diminished.

“Keep playing.”

Jaskier does, and they both watch as the laceration smooths over, first pink, and then gone, as if nothing had ever happened.

“Well shit.”

“Hm.”

They’re silent for awhile, all eyes fixed on Jaskier’s leg.

“Did you know you could do that?”

“I… no,” Jaskier decides eventually. For once his babbling brook of words is dry, replaced instead by pebble-small memories being flung at him at high speed. “I never bruised.”

“Hm?”

“When you punched me in the stomach. When we met. I never bruised. I don’t remember — the last time I got hurt, or really sick, was… years ago. Years and years.”

“I guess… it explains… things.”

They look at each other then, equal parts worried and concerned and excited, so many questions swirling in the air between them.

Jaskier doesn’t exactly want anyone knowing that he has a magic lute, so their research into the matter relies almost exclusively on experimentation.

They learn that it works best when Jaskier plays something Elven, and much slower when he plays anything else.

They learn that while he can’t heal Geralt, he can numb the pain if he’s injured. and even — as he discovered completely by accident — induce a short coma.

They learn that Jaskier can’t use this magic to hurt anyone, even certain other ‘bards’ who definitely have it coming.

They learn, after many, many strenuous hours of Jaskier’s instructing Geralt, that it only works when Jaskier plays.

“It’s protecting you,” Geralt proffers. “The lute was Filavendrel’s gift to you, after all.”

“Protecting me from what though?”

Geralt shrugs at that. “Everything. Life.”

Jaskier doesn’t know why things change between them exactly — he just knows that Geralt doesn’t seem to hold him at such a distance anymore; he lets Jaskier stay closer on hunts, and he’s not so quick to leave him behind. Gone are the days where he seems determined to find any excuse to lose the bard.

And more than that — on cold nights spent under the open sky, Geralt doesn’t just meditate stoically next to Jaskier to keep the younger man warm -- he actually sleeps, holding Jaskier near. And on those occasions when an an inn can only offer one bed, Geralt doesn’t seem to mind so much anymore when Jaskier sleepily snuggles closer, or drapes himself over the Witcher’s chest. There are even times when Jaskier thinks he can feel the thrill of a nose pressed into his hair, or a broad hand stroking his stomach, or fingers lazily scratching his back.

Jaskier doesn’t really know why things change, but he never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he's definitely not complaining.

“Jaskier? Jaskier stay awake, I need you to stay awake okay?” He should have known better than to let the bard get so close to a wyvern but they’re the stuff of legends Geralt, think of the music Geralt, the poetry. Geralt tried to tell him that wyverns were ugly bastards — absolutely nothing legendary or poetical about them. But Jaskier had his heart set, and Geralt, well, Geralt gave in.

Guilt helps no one however, so he just presses Roach onward, faster.

“’M’tired.” It’s clear that Jaskier is in no condition to play — the gash at his shoulder is bone deep, and it was all Geralt could do to keep it from spurting blood and stay attached before getting him on Roach — so Geralt takes him straight to the town’s healer.

“Just a little longer. I promise.” Leaning forward, he presses a kiss into Jaskier’s sweat-soaked hair. Stay awake, please stay awake.

By the time they get to the healer Jaskier’s skin is on fire, and he’s coughing strangled, wet coughs, and there are cuts and bruises covering his entire body that have no reason to be there. It’s only when he sees a familiar gash on the bard’s right thigh that he figures out what’s happening.

The last thing Jaskier remembers is a gigantic angry lizard screaming at him and lunging. Then a searing pain turned his vision white, then more pain ripped through his body as he was thrown, weightless into absolute dark.

Something pulled him cruelly from the vortex of nothingness, arranged his mangled body into what he thinks was an upright position. Then more pain as he was jostled about, more pain as he was surely dismembered, more pain as tendrils of hot summer air whipped at his exposed flesh. There was more jostling, and he tried to throw up but he didn’t know where his stomach was, and liquid fire was flung over whatever pieces were left of him, and there was an awful lot of screaming but it couldn’t have been him because he didn’t know where his lungs or throat were either.

And throughout he thought there was a voice telling him to stay awake, or go to sleep, or telling him he was okay (which seems like at odd thing to say to someone who was just ripped apart limb from limb) and he thinks the voice was Geralt’s but that can’t be right because now every time he opens his eyes to see him he’s not there, and — well, that’s it’s own kind of pain isn’t it?

He’s not sure how much time has passed between the lizard, the fire, and him waking up to find himself in one piece. One piece, but battered and bandaged, and too hot and very congested. He does not think he's being dramatic when he concludes that he's more miserable than he’s ever been.

The room he finds himself in is bare, but pleasant enough. Where ever he is is made of a warm, gold-honey sort of wood. Sunlight streams in through wide, open windows, gauzy curtains float listlessly in a gentle breeze. He’s sure the mattress and sheets he’s on would be more than comfortable if he wasn’t quite so sore. There’s a glass, and a pitcher of water on a small table to his side. He’s working up the courage to prop himself up and drink some when a strange man walks in.

“Ah, you’re awake!” The smile he gives reaches his soft grey eyes, and it warms Jaskier to see someone seemingly so happy to see him alive.

He tries to ask where he is, but his throat feels like sand paper, and all he manages is a hoarse sort of scraping sound.

“It’s probably best you don’t talk for now,” the strange man says as he moves to perch himself on the edge of the bed. “Here let me help you with that.” He fills the glass, lifts Jaskier’s head with practiced care and brings the water to his chapped lips. Jaskier manages to down half of it, and while swallowing is painful, the cool water feels heavenly going down.

“First,” the man offers, his countenance shifting into something more authoritative, “you must be wondering where you are. If you remember the last village you were in, this cabin is a little outside of that. I am a healer — you can call me Varden — and your friend brought you here about five days ago. He said you were attacked by a wyvern, but you had a multitude of other injuries on top of that and a rather nasty illness to boot. Your friend also informed me that you have a magic lute.”

He pauses then, giving Jaskier time to throw him a questioning, mildly suspicious look.

“I’ve had a look at it, and I concluded that you and your friend were right. Its magic does protect you, so long as you play it. When you were attacked the shock your body went through temporarily severed your connection to its magic, and all the injuries and illnesses it protected you from came back with a vengeance. I know it must be tempting now to make all this pain go away, but I really think you better let yourself heal properly to avoid this happening again, and much worse.”

After a moment of contemplation, Jaskier nods in agreement. His stomach knots, but surely that’s just a symptom of his ailments.

“Good!” He claps his hands together, the exuberance he first displayed returning in full force. “Now that you’re properly awake I’ll make you some soup. You just rest, alright? You’ve made remarkable progress the last few days but there’s still quite a ways for you to go.”

He leaves then, and Jaskier can hear the clinking of pots and pans as he moves around the kitchen. Tired, but no longer able to sleep, restless, but unable to move, a dull ache throbbing through his whole body, he fixes his eyes on the ceiling, trying to find patterns and shapes and in the woodgrain.

“You’re awake.”

He doesn’t need to turn to see who it is, so he doesn’t.

“I had to complete a couple of contracts. To pay the healer.”

There’s nothing to say to that, and even if there were, he can’t speak, so he keeps his eyes fixed firmly upward.

“Jaskier—” Geralt takes a few steps closer, thinks better of it, and leaves.

The ceiling blurs, and Jaskier can’t make sense of it anymore.

They stay another three weeks — or Jaskier does, and Geralt scrounges up some more coin, coming and going as he pleases.

On days he does stay; he curls up on the floor next to Jaskier’s bed, where Jaskier slides in and out of fitful, fevered dreams. When the sick man hears a gravelly voices cooing comfort, or he feels a rough hand push the hair from his brow, or wipes the sweat from his face, he wants to believe it’s Geralt. Lucid, Varden’s is the only face he sees.

Finally the fever breaks, and Jaskier’s wounds have healed well enough for travel. Geralt returns and pays Varden more than was asked. He runs his hand through Jaskier’s hair, peers at him closely, much like he’s checking on a dog who’d just run headfirst into a door.

“Ready to go?”

Jaskier, his voice still worn, and slightly put off by the gesture, only nods in response.

Without another word, Geralt takes Jaskier’s pack, puts him on Roach, takes Roach’s lead, and guides them away from the cottage, and back on the Path.

The thing is, despite his tepid countenance, Jaskier is sure that Geralt’s angry at him. Or he’s angry about something at any rate.

Perhaps it’s the frustration at having been tied too long to one place — ridiculous really. It’s not like anyone asked him to stay. It can’t be about the coin, seeing as he willingly over-paid.

So maybe it’s just that the sudden and violent reminder of Jaskier’s mortality pierced the both of them, and tore to ribbons the fragile intimacy they had spent so long weaving.

“You can’t play off every cut and flu from now on.” He says as they enter the woods.

“I know.”

“It’s dangerous.”

"I know." Jaskier supposes that he’ll just have to reacquaint himself with a life of being left behind.

Neither of them speak for the rest of the day. But then that night Jaskier can't fall asleep, his still-frail body shivering, too sensitive to the open air. He hears a resigned sigh, which is soon followed by the warmth of Geralt’s chest pressed behind him. Geralt’s hand cards his hair back, away from his eyes, Geralt’s nose brushes his scalp, Geralt inhales deeply, and holds him close with an arm firmly pressed against the length of his torso, and Jaskier thinks that maybe things will be okay. When he feels a chaste kiss at the back of his neck, he’s almost sure they will be, but then he wonders if it was a goodbye.

“I’m fine.”

“Jask—”

“It’s fine, I’ll be right as rain by morning.”

“Jaskier, you can’t. You promised.”

“I never promised, and I’m coming with you.”

“You’ll stay here. I’ll pick up a contract or two and I’ll come back for you in a few days.”

“No you won’t.” He doesn’t know whether it sounded more a directive, or the wounded that’s-what you-always-say it really was. In the stunned silence that follows he feels more and more like he’s confessed to something, so he adds “I’m not letting you leave me Geralt,” — which is infinitely worse.

And now he can’t look at the other man, and now his face is burning and his eyes are watering in a way that has nothing to do with the illness preparing to wrack through his body.

“Okay.” Whatever Jaskier was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. It startles him enough to make eye contact. Geralt holds his gaze, and takes a few, cautious steps closer. “I’ll stay.”

“You don’t have to.” Jaskier offers in a weak attempt to maintain some level of dignity.

“No, I want to.” Geralt places his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, then slowly grazes them down his arms as his continues. “I’ll stay. With you.” The words are nearly a whisper as he presses his lips to Jaskier’s too-warm brow. “Just please go to bed. You need rest.”

Without out waiting for a response, Geralt manoeuvres the sick man to the bed, tucking him in. When he straightens, Jaskier looks like he wants to protest, but Geralt slips in beside him before he has the chance. Propping himself himself up on his elbow, he glides his hand over the still smooth skin of Jaskier’s stomach.

“This okay?”

Jaskier nods once, not trusting himself to speak, and promptly falls asleep to keep himself from thinking more than anything else.

It’s dark when he wakes up, the sky outside a flat, moonless black. The bed feels much colder and emptier. He feels much colder, and there’s a sticky film of dried sweat clinging to his skin. Flinging off the blanket sends a violent shiver though his body, bare except for his small clothes. The room is too dark for him to see.

“Jaskier.” He hears a voice, soft and deep from the corner. A candle flickers to life, and in its small glow he sees the vague shadow of a familiar form. “I’m right here.”

“I’m cold.”

“I’ve sent for some firewood. Come eat.”

Uneasy, not quite trusting his senses, Jaskier approaches the small round table in the corner of the room, and sits down. He hears the scrape of a plate being pushed towards him and when his eyes adjust to the low light he makes out bread and butter, some fruit — filling stuff that his presently delicate stomach can handle. He mumbles a thanks and sets about feeding himself.

He can see, in his peripheral vision, the other man leaning down, but he doesn’t understand the movement until he feels a large hand grasp his ankle. Geralt straightens, and with him brings Jaskier's foot to rest on his lap. Holding it in both hands, he slowly massages his thumbs into the arch. Jaskier realises then that he’s being watched. Closely.

He says nothing — can say nothing, and senses some smugness coming from the Witcher at having finally rendered him speechless. There is definitely an excess of smugness when Geralt raises his leg, and kisses the balls of his foot, all the while studying Jaskier, who keeps his eyes fixed on his plate. The blush that blooms over his face is near violent (surely the fever isn’t helping, but still) and he’s grateful that Geralt’s colour vision isn’t its best in the dark.

It’s harder than it should be to suppress the needy, plaintive sound that scratches at his throat when Geralt stands, answering a knock at the door. But then a bowl of hot stew is pushed in front of him, and a small fire is lit in the hearth, and Geralt sits down again, and takes Jaskier’s other foot in his hands. This time he keeps his eyes on his task, and lets Jaskier eat untroubled.

Now that the room’s a bit brighter, he casts his eyes around and is relieved to notice that Geralt’s packs are no longer waiting by the door. He does however, feel a twist in his stomach when he notices he can’t see his lute. He wants to say something about it, but he has the irrational fear that Geralt will stop massaging him, won’t sleep next to him later, won’t stick around til morning. So he says nothing, and Geralt’s hands work up his calves, and his body keeps Jaskier’s warm all night, and in the morning he rubs Jaskier’s back while he throws up bile, and keeps Jaskier's hair from sticking to his forehead.

In the afternoon Jaskier gets squirrelly, and he’s hot and tired and he needs to do something with his hands.

His lute makes a reappearance, but he can feel the heat of Geralt watching him from the corners of his amber eyes. So he settles on the bed and plays something distinctly non-magical, and feels much better anyway.

He hadn’t been serious, of course, when he’d wondered if his small brand of magic could mend his broken heart. But the tune had always provided him comfort, so he plucks away in the corner of a tavern, nursing an ale and his bruised ego.

So he’s not actually that far from the mountain, so perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised when a certain silver haired Witcher makes an appearance, but he’s had quite enough of bonds forged by magic against peoples’ wills thank you very much, so he promptly determines to book it to his room.

He only just manages to get a leg on the bottom stair when he feels a grab at his elbow.

“Jaskier —“ It sounds more exasperated that anything.

The bard turns sharply around, throwing as much vitriol into his still-boyish countenance as he can manage. It must work, because he’s never seen Geralt look quite so taken aback.

“I — I didn’t mean it.”

Of course he didn’t mean it. Jaskier knows he didn’t. But is was too much everything he’d always feared, and he still hasn’t heard an apology — hasn’t once, for anything since they’ve met — and he knows how Geralt feels about bonds forged by magic.

“Fuck off.” He wrests his elbow from the other man’s grip, and he doesn’t play himself to sleep that night, or any night after that.

It was much easier than it should have been — swearing off music. Music-less days turn into music-less months into a music-less almost two years, and twenty-two years of not-ageing catches up to him both gradually and all at once.

His jawline sharpens, the lines of his body harden, a significant amount of grey comes to salt his hair. He grows a beard — a proper one — and that’s almost all grey. And he likes it; studying himself in the bathroom mirror, in his lodgings in Oxenfert, he once again appreciates the air of authority his new look lends him and, well, he does look rather dashing.

He’d returned to Oxenfurt almost immediately after the mountain. One cannot be a travelling bard if one does not play music, and it took nearly all his coin just to get to the city. It was nearing winter when he arrived, his old classroom and lodgings were already prepared and waiting for him. Her threw himself into teaching with new verve, and was quickly offered a more permanent position.

People wonder why he stopped his travels — most assume he just got tired. They wonder too why he no longer plays music, but they have the good sense not to ask. Until, one night, fireside in a cozy tavern, surrounded by other faculty members and a few students staying in the city over Yule.

“Come on Professor, just one song,” a rather eager young man implores.

“Yeah professor,” goads one of his colleagues. He rolls his eyes at her — as if you don’t have your fair share of fawning students Celine.

“I’d be happy to oblige,” he lies, “but as it happens I do not have my lute,” and that’s true enough.

“I’ve got one!” Another over-eager student proffers the instrument and well, he’s in it now isn’t he?

He takes the instrument and a shock goes through him at how good it feels just to hold it in his hands. He takes his time, running a hand along the varnished wood, tuning it just so. He won’t play anything Elven, and his own repertoire is entirely out of the question. He settles for something traditional to the season; something cheery, that has people singing and stomping and clapping along in an instant.

He feels that thing like magic coursing through him as he starts swooping around the tavern in graceful-as-ever strides. His voice is out of practice but really only he can tell, and only just. It’s deeper than he remembers, and it reverberates easily over the crowd. He flits and flirts, and everyone is smiling and cheering, everyone is happy. And of course, no one notices how his skin begins to smooth out, just a little.

That night he retrieves his old friend where he’d stowed it out of sight, at the very top of his wardrobes. Where the other lute felt good, this feels right. The strings are buttery under his fingertips, and the notes ring true and clear without his having tuned them.

He doesn’t play anything Elven, and he doesn’t so much as think in the direction of a certain Witcher, but it feels like home anyway. After an unthinkable stretch of time, Jaskier finally feels himself returning home.

Campus is blissfully empty over Spring vacation, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to compose in the open air.

Compose. Just the word itself thrills him. What he’s working on is nothing like before, naturally. That well of inspiration was drained and sealed shut. Never again will he risk diving into its pitch depths. Now his head has been turned by a volume of old poetry he smuggled out of some long-forgotten corner of a university library.

There’s a courtyard — framed by elegant arches and cherry trees with especially deep, richly coloured blossoms — that he’s particularly fond of. He sits there now, on a marble bench in the shade, his book open in front of him as he thinks of how best to transmute the spirit of the verses into music.

He plucks idly at lute strings — so long out of practice he hardly knows where to start. With a long suffering sigh he lies down, and the idle plucking transforms thoughtlessly into a song that sounds familiar, homely, and he’s thinking of the hero in the epic, with his wicked grin and long white hair and his amber eyes like a — no. The hero’s eyes are green, and nothing like a cat’s, and he doesn’t know why he would think they were because he definitely wasn’t thinking of the man who is now standing over him, looking down with a vaguely bemused expression.

“Geralt?” He scrambles to a standing position, unsure whether to run or attempt a punch, or if he’s even awake. “What — how — why are you here? You know what no,” he decides and begins gathering his things. “Just, fuck off alright? I don’t — I can’t — I won’t do this again.” As composed as he’ll ever be, considering the circumstances, he turns his back on the man he once thought was his and walks away. But there are so many things he needs to say.

“I loved you,” he spits, wheeling around, unable to keep the hurt out of it. “I loved you more than I loved myself and you —“ he breaks off, a sort of desperation plain in his voice and on his face. “I never knew where I stood with you.”

Geralt pauses. Words were never his strong suit, and he considers his very carefully. “I loved you too.”

“Oh fuck off with that.”

“I was self-centred, and I was cruel —“ He approaches slowly, carefully, as if hoping the other man won’t notice.

“No fucking shit.”

“— but I loved you. I still do.”

“Fuck you.”

“I miss you.”

“I gave up on you a long time ago.”

“It’s hell without you.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I still don’t know where I stand with you.”

“Let me show you.” He’d come to a pause in front of the other man, so close he can feel his breath on his skin. With one hand on the nape of Jaskier’s neck, and the other flat against his stomach, Geralt pulls him in for a kiss — and emphatic, I-will-always-love-you, kiss.

And maybe Jaskier goes more willingly than he’d like, or is expressly good for his ego, but he’s waited so long for this. Eventually he manages to pull himself away just enough to press their foreheads together.

“You’re not off the hook you know.”

“I know.” But Geralt only smiles, and kisses him again. “I know.”

#The Witcher #Geraskier #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #Geralt #Jaskier #Geralt x Jaskier #my writing

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whereyoursoulresides · 3 years

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The newest chapter is out! In this one, Izou finds out about Kunzite’s interference regarding his job, and things are about to get a little rocky. You can read it on A03, FF.net, or below the cut!

“I’m really sorry,” the voice over the phone begged again. “I wasn’t sure if I should’ve said anything…”

As Izou listened, his furrowed brow deepened. It was dinner time the next day, the first window of opportunity when he and Kunihiro would be home. A pot of package-made curry was stewing quietly on the stove. The plan had been to share a nice, quaint evening together, but Mi-chan’s news quickly began to distress it.

About an hour ago, Izou had just discovered that his employment at the Dark B-ean Garden had been terminated. “Our circumstances have changed,” the assistant manager had apologetically explained. With no further information, Izou had called the one person he felt might have the details. It took some effort to convince Mi-chan to speak about it, and when she did, her voice was wrought with guilt.

“You’re sure it was Kunihiro-chan?”

Mi-chan sounded like she was about to cry. “It seemed like it was him...he wasn’t wearing the uniform, but he looked a lot like him.”

Unconsciously, Izou began to chew the bottom of his lip. Kunihiro hadn’t mentioned anything about this exchange. Nor had he mentioned even visiting the shop! And then there was this woman, this manager...

The sound of the doorknob wiggling snapped Izou out of his thoughts. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” he said quickly. “But thank you, Mi-chan.”

He managed to hang up just as the door opened. As Kunihiro stepped inside, Izou slowly folded his arms across his chest. The man would have some explaining to do.

“Kunihiro-sama.”

Before the door had even closed behind him, Kunzite could tell something was wrong. Izou was waiting for him, but the look on his face was sharp, and his arms were folded over his chest. As the hair on the back of his neck began to rise every so slightly, Kunzite had a feeling he knew what this was about.

“Yes?” Kunzite asked, tucking away his duffel bag into the closet as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Izou’s expression did not change. “A friend of mine from the new coffee shop was speaking just now...”

“Mn.” Kunzite tried to look disinterested as he put away his coat. “And?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Kunzite noticed the grip Izou had on his sleeve tighten marginally.

“Apparently the manager had been fine for me to work, until someone bearing your resemblance came in and spoke to her? Is this true?”

Damn it. Having been so focused on speaking to Beryl, Kunzite hadn’t even considered that he could have been recognized. At this point, he realized there was no value in hiding any longer. Hopefully, he could make Izou understand. Slowly, he turned around to face the boy.

"Izou, I can explain... -”

Izou didn’t even give him any time for that, the boy had flung his arms in disgust as he spun out of the kitchen. Kunzite followed, intent to calm him down. It was fairly rare for Zoisite to ever be angry with him - frustrated, upset, agonizingly exasperated, yes - but rarely angry.

“Izou-”

The redhead was rubbing his forehead and flustering about, as though not even sure where to begin with his anger. But at the sound of his name, he whirled back to face Kunzite.

“No, you listen,” Izou said, uncharacteristically confrontational. “Under no circumstances are you ever allowed to just - unilaterally make a decision like that about my own life! Who do you think you are?!”

“I had intended to tell you,” Kunzite tried to say, even though he had not. “But the opportunity hadn’t arisen.” This was true - it had only been a day since his talk with Beryl.

But somehow Izou could see through this white lie, and even called him out for it.

“To tell me what, exactly?” Izou demanded. “Your concerns as to my employment there - whatever the hell they may be, because you haven’t actually told me yet! - so I could come to that conclusion myself? Or the fact that you’ve already gone ahead and made the decision for me without my consultation?!”

“Both,” Kunzite answered without thinking. Immediately he knew this had been the poorest choice of reply.

Izou’s eyes pinched and bloomed in incredulity multiple times. “I can’t believe this! Do you even hear yourself, Kunihiro-sama?!”

“If you would give me a chance to speak, you would understand!” Kunzite finally rose with a boom. Normally he would have been able to keep a tighter grip on his patience, but Zoisite yelling at him was a foreign and unprecedented experience. Every word rained on him like a round of fire across a warfield, and unthinkingly, the militaristic thunder of his voice rose through his lungs like an old tidal wave. “I did what was necessary, and everything I do is for the betterment of our life, Izou. You would do well to remember that!”

“Don’t you dare use that tone of voice with me!” Izou snapped back dangerously. “I don’t know how you were expecting us to function in this life, but under no circumstances do you ever just make executive decisions without discussing it with your romantic partner! You had absolutely no right to interfere, especially without talking to me first!”

“As your partner I had to do what was necessary to protect you!” Kunzite bellowed back. "My actions were entirely within my bounds, and I would expect you to trust and understand my intentions with your life better than this!"

“You lost all right to my life when you let me die!” Izou shouted.

As though the words had not been his own, Izou’s hands flew to his face and clapped hard over his mouth. But the damage had already been done. Kunihiro’s face was dumbfounded and crinkled, as though Izou had slapped him.

"Kunihiro-sama," Izou breathed, and his voice was small behind his hands. “I'm so sorry..."

In an instant, Kunzite’s breath swept from him like a dam broken open. His blood flooded with a jettison of emotions too quick for him to recognize as they churned through his tightened vessels. Disgust, fear, anger, rage, pain - all spinning through him and cutting him open like rocks whipping against the banks. Unable to speak, Kunzite just shook his head, and turned to make his way to the door. to grab the knob of the door once more.

“Wait, Kunihiro-sama, please!” Izou’s rapid footsteps followed behind him, but Kunzite couldn’t bear to have him near. Grabbing the knob, he swung it open and twisted the door behind him, like a shield.

“I need some space,” was all Kunzite could say. His voice was thick and rough.

“No, Kunihiro-sama, please don’t go-”

Abruptly, Kunzite shut the door behind him.

---

It had been hours since Kunihiro-sama had left the apartment. The silence in the home was both expansive and stifling, and no corner was safe from its permeating discomfort. Though he was sitting on his favourite part of the sofa, Izou’s legs were crossed and his back was straight - it was like sitting on a bed of spikes, and the only way to distract himself was his constant chewing. His bottom lip rolled regularly between his teeth, as well as his thumbnails.

After what seemed like ages, Izou heard the doorknob rattle once more. As soon as the door opened, Izou was on his feet and flying towards it. He only stopped short when he saw that Kunzite hadn’t yet turned to face him, still busying himself with slowly undoing his jacket.

“Welcome home,” Izou said weakly.

Hearing Izou’s little voice made Kunzite’s eyes squeeze, and he let out a deep sigh. His reprieve in the office had given him enough time to settle his adrenaline, but ache in his heart remained heavy, lodged deep under his rib.

“Thank you,” he said, slowly turning around. Izou’s eyes were big and raw, and Kunzite couldn’t help but notice how both strands of curls had been coiled and uncoiled so often that they were now frayed against his cheeks. Unable to remain mad at Izou any longer, especially like this, Kunzite slowly parted his arms.

In a flash, Izou had rushed into his embrace and buried his face in Kunzite’s chest.

“Oh Kunihiro-sama,” Izou whispered in relief, “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

Kunzite could only sigh, wrapping his arms tightly around the bundle below him. Of course he did, and of course he would, but if only everything else could be so simple.

“Think nothing of it.”

“No.” Izou shook his head, pulling up slightly from under Kunzite’s chin. “It was unfair and cruel of me to say what I did. I’m so sorry for what I said.”

Kunzite could only shake his head, slowly resting his chin back on Izou’s head. You were right to say it, he thought, but the words dried up in his throat like dead leaves.

Izou glanced up uncertainly. “Could we talk about this?” he whispered softly. “Please?”

Sighing, Kunzite nodded. Their arms unwinded from one another, but their fingers never broke free. Hands still loosely locked, Izou began to lead them into the living room.

As they approached the sofa, however, Kunzite mildly panicked. With swift command, he plucked Izou up into his arms instead, and directed them both down in his single armchair. While Izou was confused, Kunzite made sure to wrap his arms tightly around the Izou’s waist, and buried his face in his partner’s back. If they must have this conversation, Kunzite would prefer to do it with his face unseen.

Thankfully, Izou did not protest. Instead, he placed his own hands on Kunzite’s arms, squeezing them reassuringly. Leaning into the curve of Kunzite’s bearlike embrace, Izou hesitantly looked over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said again in a small whisper. “I really am.”

Kunzite knew Izou hadn’t meant to hurt him, and that the boy’s apology was genuine. But it alone couldn’t soothe the leaking flesh wound that remained pulsing deep within him. Only time could reseal the crack in his scales.

“I know,” was all Kunzite could say quietly. “I forgive you.” This much was true. Izou had been innocent in his accusation.

But his words did not seem to lift Izou’s anxiety. His fingernails dug marginally into the cotton of Kunziite’s sleeves.

“I swear I never meant to say something like that,” he whispered, biting his lower lip. “That wasn’t me.”

Kunzite took a deep breath to steady himself, and held onto Izou tighter. His heartbeat thumped steadily into Izou’s back.

“It was,” Kunzite finally said quietly, “but you were not wrong.”

Izou’s eyebrows pinched together, and he tried to twist around to face Kunzite once more. But Kunzite’s grip was steadfast, and Izou just had to percolate on this new information in his current position. After some thought, Izou slowly came to understand what had happened.

“It was a me from another time,” he concluded softly. Behind him, he felt Kunzite nod.

“Yes,” was all Kunzite said. Silence followed after that.

Izou tried to fumble with that particular memory in a way that wouldn’t lead him down a rabbit hole. That was something they had mentioned in his clinical sessions - how to only open certain boxes in the mind at a time.

“Do you think we should talk about it?” Izou whispered softly, as if the words were a terrible, forbidden incantation. “The memory, I mean.”

Kunzite readjusted himself so that he was no longer smothering his face into the small of Izou’s back. Instead, he rested his forehead between the boy’s shoulder planes, which fell his bangs forward and shielded his eyes from Izou’s view.

“Do you remember much of it?” Kunzite finally asked. His voice was dark and deathly, like gravel. Izou ran his lip under his teeth again unconsciously.

“A little,” he admitted, his voice still hushed. “Not much…It’s mostly been feelings.” Feelings that leached into his blood like a root in a midnight soil. This flash had been as instant as it had been insidious, whipping from beneath the undergrowth and baring its flesh-eating teeth. But Izou was sure that if he were to delve into the box, the memory would surely consume him in its softly familiar petals.

Kunzite was quiet for a few moments, slowly considering this piece of information.

“Have you spoken about it in your appointments?” Kunzite eventually asked.

Izou thought about it, before shaking his head. This one had been a new sensation; quick and fiery like salt on a branded wound. He couldn’t recall feeling such a white-hot flash of anger and indignation before meeting Kunihiro.

There was another sigh, and Izou held on even tighter, a little scared as to what conclusions Kunihiro would draw from this. There was some silence before Kunihiro finally spoke again.

“You said I let you die,” he finally murmured. “Do you remember who killed you?”

At the thought, Izou’s lungs shrank and his chest tightened. Already he could feel that he was there - a cavernous room, cold to the bone. A woman’s voice, ringing crystal-clear like ice but tearing like a serrated blade. Then his own voice, pleading. I’m sorry, please forgive me, his voice echoed in the empty chamber. Just one more chance…

“Izou.”

As quickly as the sensation had come, Kunihiro saying his name shattered it - for a second, Izou felt displaced, uncertain as to what time or place he was in. Kunzite’s voice was a familiar octave, but the name Izou was crisp and fresh and new, like fresh laundry.

“I don’t think we should talk about this anymore,” Kunihiro said.

As fast as he could, Izou twisted around to face Kunihiro. This time was marginally more successful, finally able to see his partner’s face.

“But we have to,” Izou said helplessly. “How else are we going to move on from this…?”

“We’re going to have to figure that out by ourselves,” Kunzite replied without thinking, still not meeting Izou’s gaze. His face was solemn, as though in prayer or contrition, Izou couldn’t tell. “It’s not my place to tell you how to remember.”

Strangely, these words penetrated deeply within Izou’s heart, and for a moment his chest warmed with unexpected appreciation and respect. But it still didn’t solve the matter at hand - that Kunihiro was still clearly upset, and that this was a knot in their life that needed undoing.

“I think I remember,” Izou finally whispered. He didn’t dare say her name, though. If he thought of her, she might rise again between them.

Kunzite took another deep breath, before readjusting his grip on Izou so that it was looser. So that he could feel the warm planes of the boy’s waist, back and thighs beneath the curve of his hand. So he could remind himself that Zoisite was alive.

“She was the manager at the coffee shop.”

There was a very long pause before Izou finally understood what Kunzite was saying. Eventually when Izou’s expression finally slipped entirely from his face, his voice could only utter a single sound.

“...Oh.”

‘Oh’ indeed. Kunzite simply shook his head, as though ridding himself of the distastefulness that hung in the air. Eventually, Izou readjusted himself so that he was now facing Kunzite properly, straddling across his lap. His hands found themselves gripping the front of Kunihiro’s shirt loosely, like a silk lifeline.

“Were you worried I’d...relapse?” Izou murmured quietly, thinking back to that time they had walked in the garden together after a study session. Izou blinked again, suddenly remembering that night in a new light. Had Kunihiro known about the garden and what it meant? Had they taken that path on purpose?

Kunihiro’s hand was now slowly grazing along Izou’s hip and upper thigh, warm but slightly robotic.

“I was just afraid of how you’d be hurt,” was all Kunzite said.

This new piece of information certainly complicated matters, Izou thought vaguely, as neither man would look the other in the eye. Instead, they partook in each other’s touches, as though reminding themselves that they were still there; they were still wanted. They were still together.

Izou was still trying to figure out how he felt about Kunihiro’s interference, when his partner finally grazed his cheek. It was enough to make Izou raise his eyes and finally meet his lover’s. They were a deep grey-blue, edged with regret but solemn in sincerity.

“I am sorry for the interference,” Kunzite said. His thumb lightly grazed Izou’s cheekbone, and Izou felt himself melt into the touch. “You are right - … I should have spoken to you first.”

Izou shook his head to indicate that he was no longer angry with Kunihiro. “It’s okay, I understand,” he said softly. “You were just - ...looking out for me.” He took a deep breath, bringing up a hand to cup Kunihiro’s. “Just...keep me in the loop in the future, okay?”

Kunzite nodded, but wasn’t entirely sure if he could. How much was necessary to tell? “I’ll try,” was all he could promise.

But the unspoken matter still hung in the air between them; the memory that neither was ready to address. Kunzite wasn’t sure if it would ever be resolved. If anything, the memory was a ticking time bomb...for if Izou were to remember it in its clarity, he might feel that his rage had been truly warranted. That the accusation had the weight of truth behind it. And when that day should come, Kunzite thought hollowly to himself - it was entirely possible Izou might choose to leave.

“Kunihiro-sama?” Izou’s voice filtered into his thoughts. He blinked and saw the boy’s face in his, wide and clear-eyed and beautiful. Izou’s bangs hung above the ridge of his eyes like the curls of grapevines, shrouding him in beauty and love that was truly innocent.

“I’m not mad anymore,” Izou whispered softly. “We’re okay now, right? I forgive you.” Here, his eyebrows knitted again ever so briefly, betraying the hitch in his heart. “Do you forgive me?”

Unable to resist Izou like this, Kunzite gave him the smallest of smiles to reassure him. After Izou’s face lit up in relief, Kunzite wrapped his arms around the boy again, this time bringing him into a crushing hug. In response, Izou’s arms flung tightly around him as well, like a koala holding on for dear life.

“Of course,” Kunzite whispered. “Always.”

As he slowly delved his fingers into his lover’s hair, feeling the sensation of his heartbeat against his, Kunzite ruminated on the word. Forgiveness.

He had let Zoisite die once, this much was true. And no matter how much Izou forgave him for his current human mistakes, Kunzite knew that his worst sin had yet to be washed away, if it ever could. Come high or low tide, Kunzite vowed that he would not fall pretty to the comfort and security of Izou’s love. He would ensure Izou’s safety above all else. It was the only way he could truly redeem himself, for them to truly move on.

And if it was possible that Izou’s love would one day be forfeit, Kunzite thought, it was all the more important that Izou’s life was preserved. No matter what else, Kunzite vowed that he would never let Zoisite’s life slip away again.

He wasn’t going to let that happen again. Not in this life.

Not when Izou was the most important thing.

#kunzite x zoisite #kunzoi #without words #anyo writes #our orbiting paths #third life #civilian au #civilian life #kunzoi fanfiction #sailor moon fanfiction #kunzite #zoisite #Classic BSSM

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mythicamagic · 4 years

Text

Sesskag week Day 7: hurt/comfort

Summery: Decades have passed since the Bone Eater’s well closed. Kagome discovers an injured Sesshoumaru within the shrine grounds one day, having fallen through time into her era. Until the well opens again, he is stuck within modern times, but finds an unlikely bond with the unaging, isolated miko. Oneshot. For Sesskag Week Day 7 - free day.

Rated T

7,700 words

AN: For the last Sesskag week prompt it was a free day, so I chose Hurt/comfort, with a side order of angst bc that's what I'm about lol sorry for the late entry.

Warning: some grief

(all prompts posted on Ao3, fanfic.net and Dokuga)

Together Alone

The sun blazed brilliant hues of orange as it ascended the horizon, slowly inching further into a tangerine sky. A figure stepped outside, feeling a slight breeze tease at the ends of her hair. Not for the first time, Kagome gave thanks to whoever had decided to build their home on a hill, blessing them with the ability to see the vast spread of Tokyo city. Flinching as she stepped out of the shade, blue eyes focused, and she blinked, adjusting to the light.

Walking further into the courtyard of the silent Higurashi shrine, she noted an abundance of leaves scattered around the place. Great piles of flame-filled colours had accumulated, spread out like her own personal confetti. Kagome smiled ruefully.

Autumn had arrived.

Having overslept, she took up a broom as an excuse to move stiff muscles. As she swept the stray leaves up, amusement touched her face. The image of a redhead fox leaping into the firey leaves played through her mind. She didn't stop to acknowledge the nostalgic thought.

As she brushed a few leaves with a little too much force into a waiting, bigger pile, Kagome noticed a tuft of something white sticking out of it. At first, she assumed it to be feathers of some sort and poked the broom over the pile slightly. Yet the more leaves she uncovered, the more white she found, until a particularly long strand of it made her pause.

Hair.

Her miko powers flickered like a forgotten lightbulb that had long since fizzled out, briefly awakening. Sensing a presence under the leaves, Kagome's face became unreadable as she crouched down. Beginning to pluck them off, some of the fine silky strands clung to her hands, and her fingers twitched in response. It felt so soft. The thick volume of hair eventually gave way to pale skin. Kagome's eyes widened. A pointed ear lay under the pad of her thumb. Hastily sweeping the remaining locks aside to reveal a demon's delicate features, the priestess stilled, breath catching.

To say he was beautiful was an understatement. Ethereal perhaps. She couldn't suppress the quiver in her fingers, spying magenta markings adorning his cheeks. Her heart thundered, and she swallowed thickly.

"Sesshoumaru."

Viciously suppressing the ache in her chest, she held out hope that he wasn't lying dead on her doorstep.

Shaking his shoulder, she noted the muscle beneath her palm that his slim figure belied. He was dressed exactly as she remembered, albeit a bit more rumpled, armour broken.

"Hey-" she cleared her throat. "Wake up sleeping beauty."

Feeling for a pulse, a steady thrum fluttered under her fingers.

Kagome gave a huge sigh of relief even as his eyes remained closed.

Reaching through the pile and awkwardly sliding her hands under his arms, Kagome was heedless of the falling leaves scattering around them as she started dragging him. Hoping the Daiyoukai wouldn't kill her for touching him without permission, she heaved, returning back inside with her unexpected guest.

----

Stirring a few hours later, a bright cosmos of golden fire burned alive within demonic irises as his eyes snapped open, blinking up at the ceiling.

"Where...?"

Kagome sat in an armchair near the couch he lay upon, reading. She turned when hearing his voice, rising. "You're in my home."

The moment his gaze swung to her, Sesshoumaru jolted upright. He stared in disbelief, raking his attention down her body. "Impossible."

"I didn't die all those years ago, so I'd say it's pretty probable that I can stand here in front of you," she smiled a little, offering him a glass of water that had been waiting on the table.

Sesshoumaru's eyes widened, shifting fractured attention around the room, returning it to her and observing the contours of her face. "Why have you not aged?" he carefully inquired. "Many years have passed. 20, if memory serves."

Kagome's lips thinned and she set the glass down again. "I dunno, something happened with the jewel or the well. I couldn't figure out which, so-" she smiled wryly, spreading her arms out and turning in a circle. "I'm pretty much physically stuck at age 16. Even though I'm actually around 36. I don't know if I'm just not aging or if I'm immortal. It sucks."

He blinked, scenting the air. "...This one is not picking up the smell of death lingering around you as it does with all humans. Immortality can be assumed then."

A complicated expression crossed her face. "O-oh," she murmured, falling quiet.

Raising a brow, the demon ghosted long claws over his face, something slowly occurring to him. "How did this one come to be here?"

Kagome shook herself and scrambled to retain her bravado. "I should be asking you that. Sleeping in a pile of leaves isn't what I expected from the mighty Lord Sesshoumaru. Then again, you always were quite in touch with nature. Going on long walks and stuff," she smiled a little.

"Hn," Sesshoumaru shifted his feet over the edge of the couch, brushing long hair back and stopping to remove a few leaves. "I should be going," he said primly.

"Uh- sorry for interfering but do you even know where you are?"

"Of course I do," he tutted, before hissing and stilling. Pressing a hand to his side, he felt the rough scrape of bandages under his clothing. They were wrapped around his ribs. His face skittered with an unnamed expression, pinning her with a dark look.

Kagome had the grace to seem mildly guilty before her gaze turned flat. "I put your clothes back on after binding your wounds. You're welcome."

"I did not ask for your assistance." His lip lifted, exposing a fang while pressing his palm against his side protectively. Yet he felt no serious wounds, and that the miko had assisted him while he'd been vulnerable was something he had no choice but to acknowledge.

Kagome's hand raised in a placating gesture. "You're on the defensive, I understand that. But don't get crabby," she drew closer. "We were allies in our fight against Naraku. You can still trust me, even if it has been a while."

The passionate, cold glow in his eyes lessened slightly, and Sesshoumaru exhaled. "...This one recalls fighting near the Bone Eater's Well. An enemy struck- and I…" a steel edge threaded his calm voice, obviously frustrated.

Kagome's brows drew together, "you fell down the well," she finished softly, face drawn. "I wonder why it opened to let you through. It's always been closed for me, ever since that day a long time ago."

"Perhaps it is still open?"

The miko looked sceptical and jaded, breathing out and pushing some hair behind her ear.

"I must see-" he stood, eyes widening as his knees buckled. Kagome quickly caught him about the shoulders, pressing against the hard line of his body in order to steady him. Sesshoumaru's nose briefly dipped into soft, dark hair. She smelled of warm home comforts and the stifled tease of holy power brimming under her skin.

It dazed him enough not to realise she'd gently guided him back down to sit. "Stay here, mister. I can't be lugging you about again if you collapse," blue eyes danced. "I'll go take a look. Be back in a flash," Kagome released him and walked from the room.

Sesshoumaru stared, before turning his attention to the structure he found himself in. The house lay near-silent, but he could detect the faint, gravely sound of breathing in another room. A human. Older, weak.

It smiled faintly of feline too, and his keen gaze sought out the thin, discarded hairs of a shedding house-cat littered on the arm of a chair. His nose wrinkled.

Kagome's home also held the strange, buzzing feeling of energy running through its walls like a nervous system. He followed the hum of power down the side of a wall, trailing his eyes over bizarre, thin black rope connecting to a square box in the corner of the room.

"No dice."

He jolted, bristling at being caught unawares. Kagome smiled gently from the threshold, a faint sheen over her eyes.

Sesshoumaru blinked, not picking up the trace of tears. She'd held them back.

"Explain."

"The well is closed again, so looks like you're stuck for the time being," Kagome hummed, tapping her chin. Noticing the alarm flashing in his eyes, she changed her tone to an assuring one. "If it opened once to let you through, I'm confident it'll do it again. You can take the time to heal here in the meantime, no one will harm you. I think I mentioned this to you before but there's no fighting or killing in Tokyo like in your era, so be on your best behaviour during your stay. There's a garden out back, and a small amount of trees bordering it if you want peace and quiet. I don't think it's a good idea for you to leave the shrine though."

"...Very well," he muttered quietly.

Thinking for a moment, the demon decided it bothered him enough to inquire; "who is the aged human in this house? I hear them."

Surprise skittered over her face, soon gentling. "That's my Grandpa. I live here with him alone- ah- aside from Pyon."

Sesshoumaru sneered. "The feline."

Kagome blinked and burst into a delicate laugh- and had it always been so dusty and gentle? For some reason he recalled it being more full of life and childish.

"You'll have to grin and bear it, for the time being at least," she winked. "Want something to eat?"

"I do not consume human food."

Kagome pursed her mouth, and Sesshoumaru fought the incredibly random urge to take her bottom lip between his teeth, quickly shaking himself. "I've got some fresh meats from the market. No seasoning or anything. Will those do?"

"Hn."

---

Due to his demonic blood, Sesshoumaru merely needed to lounge on the couch for a few more hours before feeling his wound tentatively heal.

He listened, hearing shuffling upstairs and Kagome's gentle voice. Sesshoumaru looked over the back of the couch to observe an incredibly aged human move stiffly into view at the top of the stairs. Kagome helped him onto a chair- which then began to slowly descend the steps via a mechanism attached to the wall.

Sesshoumaru stared.

He had never seen such an old man. Usually, mortals died before managing to reach such an age, vulnerable to disease and such. Kagome followed and helped him to the armchair in the living beside Sesshoumaru, smiling at the demon.

"Grandpa, this is-"

"Demon," the old man rasped in an accusing voice, not looking in his direction.

Sesshoumaru arched a brow.

Kagome beamed. "Yes, Grandpa! But his name is Sesshoumaru. Mind your manners."

"Inuyasha can like it or lump it," Grandpa huffed, pressing a small device. The square box suddenly flared to life, making the demon jolt.

Loud noises assaulted his ears, tiny mortals behind the screen doing bizzare things, dressed in costume and talking very animatedly about a- Sesshoumaru squinted- energy drink?

Gentle fingers smoothed over mokomoko. Golden eyes snapped to her touch, noticing the bristling fur she was trying to calm.

"It's just television. This is what people watch for entertainment or if they're bored."

Sesshoumaru made a non-committal noise. He didn't like it.

Kagome smiled at him sympathetically and offered a hand- which the Daiyoukai reluctantly took, pride stinging. He grit sharp teeth while they made their journey through the house, disliking her soothing closeness and the fact that he found her scent appealing.

Eventually, they made it outside, stepping into the lush, rich sunlight and walking through the courtyard that stretched wide. Sesshoumaru glanced around. "The smell of smoke and other fumes are distinct here."

"It's because of the city," Kagome murmured, arm around his waist to hold him steady. He suspected it was a habit she'd gained from looking after Grandpa. The demon did not need her assistance but also neglected to push her away. "That's Tokyo- see. It's what Kaede's village will become."

Golden eyes followed the point of her finger, gazing out at the large, bustling city beyond the shrine. It looked nothing like he'd ever seen before. Their buildings were tall and imposing. He knew the miko to be from the future, but Sesshoumaru hadn't taken much time to envision what it would be like.

"Why do I not sense any demons?" he muttered.

Kagome winced, avoiding his gaze. "I don't know. I haven't sensed them in the city."

"They are likely cloaking themselves from detection then," Sesshoumaru confidently assumed. Anything else was unthinkable.

The miko didn't reply, watching him glance around.

"Hn, this one was going to sleep out here. However, I do not think it would be a peaceful rest."

"If the garden isn't to your liking then I'm not sure what else to recommend. I do have several plants inside my room, they can make the air feel more clear, right? You can sleep there if you want."

"Very well," he uttered, moving to brush past her. A hiss escapes clenched teeth when his ribs blazed to life with pain and he found herself resting against her side for a moment. Kagome's warm hand felt steady on his waist. She didn't breathe a word, assisting him back inside.

---

It was a painstaking process to try and usher the proud demon up the stairs. Kagome had almost suggested taking Grandpa's stairlift before Sesshoumaru's narrowed gaze had swung to her, stifling the words on her tongue.

"Is this is your room?" he asked once they reached it.

"My childhood bedroom to be exact. I sleep in Mama's old room now," Kagome arched a brow, expecting his sharp tongue. "Is it to your liking, my Lord?" she teased.

"It is very… pink."

A smile quirked her lips. "Hopefully the bed is big enough for you. There's a bathroom in the hallway if you want to be experimental and take a shower. There's always a bath too. Do you need anything else?"

"No."

"Alrighty then, goodnight."

Kagome's heel drew back and she turned, moving away. She was rewarded with the soft cadence of his voice.

"...Thank you."

She blinked, wondering why those words made warmth fan into her hollow feeling chest. Glancing over her shoulder, the miko watched with fascination as he settled onto her much too small bed, silver hair tumbling down to the floor. Leaving soon after, a buzzing took flight in her ears that thrummed through her bloodstream.

Tears pricked blue eyes, and Kagome leaned heavily against a wall once she'd reached the privacy of her own bedroom, pressing a hand to her mouth. Unmitigated relief choked fire up her throat, battling with resentment.

She'd worked hard. She'd worked so damn hard to keep the memories of her friends in the feudal era hidden away in a box. To continue living every day in the cold, repetitive present time.

Cramming her feelings away into that neat and tidy box again, Kagome pushed away from the wall to go check on Grandpa for the umpteenth time.

---

Mama had died at the much too early age of 57.

It had been so long since the well had closed. Now at 36, Kagome supposed she should've probably shared her secret with more people, to keep her in a friendship circle of some sort. Souta had moved out, married and had kids. He still visited sometimes but it didn't feel like nearly enough. She supposed her isolation made her needy, though Kagome never voiced it.

Sesshoumaru had gotten antsy waiting around. He'd consumed almost all the reading material in her house already during his stay, soaking in information like a sponge. "I wish to see the city," he uttered, shooting the cat a glare as Pyon brushed against her leg, purring. "Despite the foul smells, if this one is to remain here for a little while longer, I should like to know my surroundings."

Kagome hadn't refused but had given a few conditions. One was that he couldn't go off on his own (lest he be angered and melt a car) and two, that he looked and dressed the part.

Dying her own hair the colour of chestnut in the bathroom, Kagome had offered a bottle of black hair dye for the demon lord. Sesshoumaru, while holding his nose, had flatly refused.

To her surprise then, he'd swept claw-tipped hands through snowy silver locks, the colour bleeding dark black.

"H-how did you do that?" she'd asked, rinsing her hair over the tub.

"It is a simple enough thing to modify one's appearance when you are a strong enough youkai," he'd sniffed.

When she'd finally finished up and wandered downstairs, he flicked his attention over her appearance just as she drank him in. The magenta stripes and crescent moon were missing, claws retracted but nails still sharp. He couldn't hide the pointed ears, so had swept dark hair into a low ponytail so that the thick volume of strands covered them.

Kagome's hair had been cut shorter, now above her shoulders and appearing brunette.

"Would it not be easier for you to wear a wig?" he asked, uncertain why she needed a disguise too.

She blinked as though roused from a dream, cheeks colouring. "Maybe, but it feels easier to step into a different persona like this. Besides, it's been so long since I last wandered around outside the shrine. We tend to get all our stuff delivered here."

Sesshoumaru arched a brow. "How long has it been?"

"I think 5 months?"

He stared but didn't say another word. In accordance with her conditions, Kagome uncovered father's old clothes from the depths of the attic. Mother had kept them in mint condition for years, so she'd refrained from discarding them. Sesshoumaru dressed in the old white shirt, business shoes and suit jacket, finding the latter a little too small.

"Can't you just enlarge your body into it if 'it's simple enough to modify one's appearance?" Kagome teased.

He tossed her a dry look. "Outward appearance. Some things cannot be changed. If I could adjust myself so easily, I'd have re-grown my severed limb much quicker."

She giggled, trying not to eye him in the navy suit. Noticing his struggle with the black-tie, she sighed and drew closer, reaching up and fixing it.

Golden eyes snapped to her face, body stilling as though waiting for something. Kagome flashed a small smile, gently tapping the area beneath his eye. "You'll have to do something about these as well," she murmured.

Pale lashes lowered slightly, animalistic pupils rounding. Gold dulled into earthy brown tones. "Humans are so plain in appearance."

Kagome pinched his side. "Rude," drawing away and grabbing some contacts, she slid brown over her naturally blue eyes.

Sesshoumaru frowned, wandering outside into the stuffy, clogging city air. Perhaps to humans, it didn't smell so intense, but he was Daiyoukai. Superior senses were hard to mute.

Hearing the creak of wheels, he glanced over one shoulder, watching Kagome help Grandpa outside, pushing his wheelchair. "You are bringing him?" he uttered flatly.

Some of her old temper sparked across her face. "I can't leave him alone, and besides, Grandpa could use the fresh air."

"Are the sakura blossoms in bloom yet?" the old man asked listlessly.

She smiled, tucking the blanket over his legs a little neater. "No, Grandpa. We're in September, so it's a little late."

He grumbled in discontentment, becoming quiet as Kagome wheeled him towards the back of the shrine. Beyond the trees was a road that zig-zagged down to houses.

"What are you doing?"

Kagome glanced back at Sesshoumaru, who stood within the courtyard near the stone stairs she'd used to take for walking to school. "I can't wheel Grandpa down those steps. Well- I can, but it'll take a lot longer and I'm- AHH!" she yelped, feeling an arm wrap around her waist and yank so that both feet left the ground. Sesshoumaru then reached down and lifted Granpa's chair above his head with one hand- the old man barely reacting to the elevation.

Sesshoumaru lept into the air, sailing down the shrine steps in a fast descent, dark hair fanning out behind him. Kagome screamed, clutching his side as the demon carried them down like they were nothing more than pizza boxes he needed to deliver.

Touching down at the bottom of the stairs and releasing her, Sesshoumaru set Grandpa down, who hummed.

"Thank ye, Inuyasha."

"I am not Inuyasha."

Panting, Kagome clutched at the floor, whipping her head up to glare at him. "What the hell?! Don't do that without warning! Someone could've seen- Grandpa could've fallen!"

Sesshoumaru snorted. "You act as though this one could make such an error."

Growling, she straightened and started wheeling the old man down the street. Trying to ignore the thrilling flush of her cheeks or the memory of flying through the air on Kirara or Inuyasha's back, she shook herself. Her heart hadn't thundered so fast in years. "Behave yourself or we go home."

Cutting his eyes to the sky, Sesshoumaru followed at a languid pace.

---

Tokyo proved to be ridiculously large. Sesshoumaru had assumed he'd be able to traverse the city on his own if the two mortals slowed him down, but as it was, he feared getting lost within the bowels of technology, noisy arcades and large buildings.

Walking around made him more aware of the ill-fitting suit jacket, though he did not protest. Oddly enough the miko took him to a store and bought a sleek black jacket that was more his size. He'd glanced at the price tag and noticed the card she used to pay, wondering how she supported herself.

Kagome took him to more shops and bought more casual wear for the house, including a grey oversized hoodie that he resolved to burn the second they got back.

Finally sitting down at a table outside a cafe, Sesshoumaru took a few breaths. Smells from many different types of foods flooded his nostrils, along with the deafening sounds of thousands of people moving around in huge clusters. He'd been trying to ignore it for hours. His head spun with the onslaught of new sensations and scents. Too much.

"Hey-" Kagome touched his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Sesshoumaru eyed her, nostrils flaring. Unfortunately, her usual pleasant scent radiating from her hair had been tarnished by the dye. His attention slid to the material wrapped around her neck.

"Give me your scarf."

"Hm?" She blinked but readily relinquished it, handing it over. "Cold?"

"No," he scoffed, wrapping it around his neck and ducking his nose into the material, inhaling. The scent of gentle citrus and warm home comforts filled his senses, soothing them like a gentle caress.

Kagome's cheeks reddened and she glanced away, helping Grandpa eat his soup.

"Izumi?"

Jolting, she looked up in time with Sesshoumaru, who eyed the young male standing near their table with immediate annoyance. He looked happy and star-struck, no doubt harbouring a crush on the miko.

Kagome forced a smile and stood. "Ryota, hey. How are things?"

"They're good! I'm so happy to see you out and about," he burst. "You should've called me- you know you're welcome to come around any time. Dad wouldn't mind!"

"I'm sure he wouldn't," she smiled delicately, not protesting as Ryota took her hand and squeezed it.

Sesshoumaru bristled and busied himself with sipping his tea.

"Ah um- Ryota, this is my friend, Nao," Kagome introduced Sesshoumaru, who inclined his head. Ryota bowed slightly, eyes darting between them questioningly and finding his attention caught on the pink scarf wrapped snugly around the demon's neck. While Kagome chatted some more, Sesshoumaru dipped his head and inhaled the material again, maintaining eye contact with the male. Ryota looked mildly creeped out, which only made Sesshoumaru preen, thinking he'd successfully intimidated him.

"Kagome, did you get me some green tea?" Grandpa spoke up.

Instead of being suspicious, Ryota merely looked sympathetic as she nudged the tea into his hand and carefully helped him take a sip, arthritis having made his fingers stiff.

"I see your Grandpa hasn't improved," the young man whispered to her, before raising his voice to an obnoxiously loud, patronising level. Or at least Sesshoumaru thought of it that way. "Hello, sir! HOW… ARE… YOU… TODAY?" Ryota patted Grandpa on the shoulder.

He grumbled sourly in response, sipping his tea. It didn't detour the teen, who smiled at Kagome.

"Well, the offer is always open, Izumi. It must be so lonely up in that shrine by yourself."

"I'm really alright. I have Grandpa for company," Kagome gently dismissed.

"Give me a text any time. I gotta get back to class but I'll see you later," he said amiably, hurrying into the passing crowd while checking his watch.

Waving him away, Kagome retook her seat with a sigh, "whew. He's sweet but I feel like saying 'buddy, I'm actually old enough to be your mom'," she giggled, pausing and noticing Sesshoumaru's stare. "What?"

"Nothing."

Feeling the need to explain, she sighed. "I was friends with his father in school. I can't hang around him too much or there's a chance Hojo might show up and likely recognise me. I faked my death years ago because I stopped ageing and have been posing as Souta's daughter ever since. We've arranged it so that I look like I'm homeschooled. This way… I can keep living at the shrine and looking after Grandpa."

"That explains why you do not leave the grounds much," he uttered, reading the menu and flicking his gaze up to her. "You are afraid."

"Wouldn't you be?" Kagome snorted. "People might perform science experiments on me if they knew I wasn't ageing!"

"I do not think that is the reason behind your fear."

She bristled and glanced away, telling him he'd hit the nail on the head. "Who knew you were the type to psychoanalyse," forcing a smile, she giggled and stood. "Drink your tea. I'll go pay for our things," she wandered off.

Sesshoumaru watched her go, halting Grandpa's chair without looking as the old man unknowingly tried to wheel backwards into traffic.

"You should take better care of her, Inuyasha," the old man huffed.

"Hn," his eyes remained on the miko.

---

Several hours later, after they'd seen the sights of the city some more and experienced a train ride, the small group had wandered home and immediately headed to bed. Sesshoumaru appeared within her bedroom not long after.

A dark halo of ebony hair spread out on her pillows, the locks curled in disarray. He noted that she slept very quietly, knees tucked up and hands drawn close to her chest. She looked every bit as beautiful and innocent as he'd figured a young priestess could be, but the shapely line of her legs and outline of certain curves made him certain she'd kept up her physical training long after the need for bows and arrows had died out. A pity her powers had been malnourished.

The bed dipped with his weight as he sat beside her, large claw-tipped hand reaching out- thumb ghosting over her parted lips, hovering over the pulse at her neck.

Kinship with a human felt odd. Yet he couldn't deny the telltale flickers of relatability he'd witnessed. He too, remained the same as others around him grew old. That was the price of keeping company with mortals. She was like him, and yet not. Instead of becoming integrated with humans as he had, she'd shut herself away within the shrine; afraid of the pain of loss. Kagome wore loneliness like a cloak, draping it around her protectively. She was now more like a demon than a human in lifespan, but her heart was not befitting of one. Now she almost resembled a half-demon.

And she needed a pack.

Some sickening, cloying emotion dried up his throat, leaving it parched and scratched. It hurt to swallow. His claws quivered, merely inches from delicate skin, before his fingers clenched and drew away.

Kagome did not stir as he moved off the bed, leaving as silently as he'd appeared.

Unbeknownst to the demon, deep blue eyes slowly drew open.

---

"You have not asked about them," he pointed out a few days later.

Kagome paused in her cleaning, before resuming scrubbing a pot with distracted motions. "I guess not."

Memories rose to the surface like a scuffed knee threatening to bleed but Kagome shook them away. "I'm not ready to know what happened to them yet," she amended, softer. "What about you though, how's your uh… stronghold?"

Sesshoumaru blinked languidly. "What?"

"Your palace?" she tried again, seeing another equally blank look. "Estate?" Groaning when he said nothing, Kagome waved her hands in frustration. "Aren't you a Lord or something?"

"Ah," he finally responded, glancing away dismissively. "You heed Jaken too much. I have no official home."

It was Kagome's turn to stare. "H-hah?"

Sesshoumaru arched a delicate brow as though she were the foolish one for daring to assume a regal demon clad in expensive silks had a shiny castle to return to. "My father was a General, and he claimed territory over the Western Lands, but he did not rule it like a Lord. My mother is more high born than he. She dwells within a castle and has noble blood-"

Kagome's eyes lit up.

"But I have no lands to inherit."

She deflated. "So you're a vagabond."

He brushed some hair over one shoulder. "I prefer to think of it as; no one may house me. I may go where I please."

Kagome eyed him dryly. "You're single, aren't you?"

He bristled. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Figures," Kagome huffed and lifted the pot, walking to the cupboard as she dried it. "You sound like some sort of playboy bachelor with that 'no one can house me' stuff. Honestly, now that I'm paying attention, you really do sound as young as you look. Like you're 19-" she stopped herself from bumping into his chest as he suddenly stood close.

"... I do not take many lovers," he muttered. "But when I do, it is not for 'play.' I assure you I can be quite serious in a relationship." He loomed closer, breath fanning over her cheek. "Do you wish for a sample?" He asked in a silky voice.

Kagome flushed and huffed, elbowing him out of the way to put the pot within a cupboard. What a joker.

----

Wandering downstairs that night, Kagome stopped, noticing something and doing a double-take. Sesshoumaru lay sprawled on the couch, silver hair tumbling down onto the floor as he slept soundlessly. Pyon was curled up on his stomach-and even stranger was the fact that Sesshoumaru's arm curled beneath him, supporting the feline from falling off.

Kagome crept closer, looking at them from over the back of the couch.

She examined his face in the dim light. It was ridiculously, absurdly handsome, closed long lashes hiding golden eyes that could pierce through her shell and pry into her essence. Cheekbones you could cut diamonds with, framed by neatly parted, snowy bangs.

All the magic from Kagome's experiences in the feudal era was now contained in this one man. A demon that most feared and cowered before. She wondered if she wanted him close simply because of nostalgia, or because he brought her joy in his quiet sarcasm and stable presence.

But he'd leave her too, one day.

Kagome's smile bent into a painful curl of her lips.

Sesshoumaru's nostrils flared and he inhaled- before golden eyes slid open. She stiffened and tried to smooth her forlorn expression into something more amiable. "S-sorry, I'm not watching you sleep, I swear!" she babbled. "Was just wondering if you'd checked the Bone Eater's Well for any changes tonight."

"No."

"Ah, gotcha," Kagome floundered. "At least when it does open, your injuries have all healed so you're fine to go."

"Is that what you want?"

She stopped, feeling like she'd been denied an expected step on the stairs and felt her foot plummet through the ground. Reeling, her heart picked up speed. "Of course it is," Kagome said quickly, turning away. "The Fuedal Era is where you belong, silly. You've been a lovely guest. Really, I've enjoyed it. For a vagabond, you fold your clothes neatly and don't make a mess. You read a lot, so it's still pretty quiet, but you also..." her voice became brittle, "you also- play shoji with Grandpa and make great tea. When I do things, I know you're not too far away. It's been nice. I mean that."

Making to walk away, she was halted by a firm hand catching her wrist. Sesshoumaru had sat up now, disturbing the cat and staring at her with unblinking eyes.

"You should come with me."

Her stomach twisted and she shook her head, looking at him with tired eyes. "I can't."

"Nonsense."

"I have Grandpa to look after."

"Your brother could easily-"

"No, he couldn't," Kagome cut in. "Souta has a wife and a big family to support. He gives us money- weren't you wondering how we're kept afloat? I try to help by doing online work but Grandpa isn't someone you can just expect to look after so easily on top of everything else. I couldn't ask or expect Souta to take over just for me to run off and play in the Feudal Era again, abandoning a life I've known for decades now."

White teeth flashed, exposing a sneer in the dim light, his eyes narrow. "Your Grandfather will be dead soon."

Sesshoumaru never regretted anything. He was too strong, too proud, too confident to make a misstep. And yet at that moment, he regretted the words immediately after they were out.

If she were younger, still the spirited girl of 15 he'd known and the person she outwardly resembled- Sesshoumaru wagered she'd have slapped him. Instead, the miko gave him something that felt altogether much worse; a look of disappointment.

As a demon, he never felt like a young pup except within the presence of his mother and ancient elders, but he experienced it again, watching as she slowly padded to the threshold of the doorway.

"Yeah, he will be. And after Grandpa and Souta go, I'm never going to get attached to anyone again. It's too painful. But I'm making the most of the time with him I have left. Besides," Kagome glanced at him tiredly. "From where we sit, won't everyone eventually be dead soon?"

Sesshoumaru's eyes flickered as she left. The image of Rin with her husband and children, all eventually greying and leaving him alone passed through his mind.

It was true, the miko could theoretically return with him to the past. However, what awaited her would be the same. Time's cruelty working it's will on her friends and everyone she'd used to know in the village.

Drawing himself up and absentmindedly grabbing Bakusaiga, Sesshoumaru wandered to the Well House. He stood within its damp structure for a while in silence, not particularly waiting for a response any more, rather trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

The scent of nameless magic stirred in the breeze. He stiffened, lifting his head and scenting the cool air. Silver bangs lifted to sway, silks rustling. With a small hop, he stood on the mouth of the well, gazing into its dark depths.

With just one jump he'd be home.

Sesshoumaru's muscles coiled, heart thundering. Pushing off from the edge, he took the plunge.

----

Stifling the sound of tears in the bathroom by keeping the faucet running and muffling sobs into her hand, Kagome cried. She hadn't done so in a long time. The action felt childish, but a welcome sensation. Pent up stress, loneliness and frustration burst like a dam. She'd felt the whisper of magic. The call back to the Bone Eater's Well. It had been fleeting, gone now, along with any happy feelings that had been elicited because of Sesshoumaru's surprise presence into her life.

"Stupid," she mumbled, splashing her face with water while bending over the sink. "Stupid, stupid- he was always going to leave."

I shouldn't have gotten attached.

But Kagome was a people person at heart. She'd been afraid. So deathly afraid of getting close to someone and having them leave again. Why had she slipped? Because he would live a long time, just like her?

"That doesn't make him beholden to me- stupid, stupid-"

"Enough."

A jolt shuddered through her system, making Kagome whip her head up to blink at the mirror. Sesshoumaru's reflection lingered in the open doorway behind her, crossing the distance between them as she turned. Lithe fingers ceased her chin. "It is admirable, how hard you have tried to appear unruffled and happy, miko," he muttered lowly. "But you cannot fool my superior senses. I have felt you crying out for pack all this time."

Her expression shuddered, crumbling before his very eyes. "Y-you stayed?" she croaked.

"Naturally," a sharp claw brushed over her jaw gently, collecting the evidence of forgotten tears. "Something I have come to understand over the years is that; One does not abandon pack."

Kagome's breathing hitched, feeling the keen press of a great weight sinking into her chest and rendering her exhausted. Relief. Wilting like a flower, she leaned into his strong frame, burying her face in the warmth of his shoulder. The demon lowered his head slightly, both soaking in the presence and stability of the other for a moment. Her thin shoulders shook, small noises escaping her.

He growled into her hair. "Your idea of remaining unattached does not suit you. Look at yourself, miko. You grew attached to me of all beings," he smirked slightly. "I do not think you can handle remaining separate from people. You love humans too much. And… besides that… I believe it should be you telling me to make the most of the time spent with others, not the other way around. To make bonds, and keep them."

Lifting her head, Kagome brushed the hot trace of tears away and sniffed. "But it hurts," she said in a wobbling tone. "Aren't you scared of outliving Rin and everyone else in the village?"

"I am not afraid. She and her husband have shared many years together, and I will watch over their offspring for generations," he paused, considering. "Though I am...uncertain how I shall process the grief once it comes."

"You're still going back, aren't you?" Kagome murmured.

"Indeed, and you are coming with me."

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Grandpa-"

"We will stay for as long as he lives. After that, you should return home, miko."

Kagome threw him a weary smirk. "And if I refuse?"

"Then, I suppose this one is staying in the Modern Era."

Blue eyes flew wide, fingers curling in his clothes and tightening. She rested her cheek against his shoulder again, letting out a long exhale and calming when his chin rested against the crown of her head.

---

Sesshoumaru did not regret his decision. It was to be just three months before Grandpa passed away in the night. He imagined what would've happened to the miko if he'd left her alone; how she stood together with the other humans at the wake and yet apart. It was the most amount of human's he'd witnessed within the shrine at the same time. Detached via some thin veil, Kagome moved around them like vapour. Cordial and polite, yes, but surface level and unattached. Everyone referred to her as Izumi. No one inquired about her grief.

Souta hugged his sister after the funeral ceremony, and she clung to him. After a little while, however, she lifted her head smiled, letting him go check on his five children.

Sesshoumaru drew close to her side, sweeping his gaze down her black kimono. The colour only brought out the pallor of her skin. He did not speak, but she seemed to read his unspoken question.

"It wasn't as hard as Mama's funeral," she murmured, rubbing her eyes. "I think I'd like to get away from all this for a while though. Wanna come for a drive with me?"

He arched an elegant brow. "You know how to?"

"I got my licence when I was still Kagome Higurashi," she stuck out her tongue. "Souta will let me borrow his car. Come on."

After grabbing the keys, they walked through the graveyard where the remains of cremations had been buried. Passing by a Hinako Higurashi whom Sesshoumaru assumed to be the miko's mother, he stopped upon seeing a certain grave.

'Kagome Higurashi'

He stared, unable to identify what he felt looking at the grave.

"Are you coming?" Kagome called from ahead.

Shaking himself, the demon left it alone, but carried those feelings with him even as he walked away.

---

Driving through the city that night, Kagome tightened her hands on the steering wheel. Despite having lived with Grandpa longer than anyone at the funeral, she just couldn't mourn with the family. Instead of talking about it, she glanced at Sesshoumaru and smiled gently.

"I'm ready to hear about them now."

And he told her, detailing how Inuyasha had fallen in love with a woman who passed through the village one day, about four years after the well had closed. She'd been looking for someone to escort her through dangerous territory. She was not miko nor demon Slayer but a competent hunter who seemed to bear a chip on her shoulder. Inuyasha had gravitated to her like a moth to a flame. Upon their return, they'd announced themselves as a couple and married soon after, two sons following.

Kagome listened, expression wistful. The street lights played over her face as they passed by buildings, her eyes a deep blue, mournful yet pleased at the same time. Sesshoumaru went on to talk about Rin's marriage to Kohaku, Shippo's growth and proficiency in magic, Kaede's passing and Miroku and Sango's fourth child.

They sounded happy, and her heart swelled for them.

Pulling the car over to take a detour down a path on the outskirts of the city, she followed the trail up to a hill that overlooked a harbour. Sitting on the hood together and gazing at the stars, her hand found his.

Ageless attention slid to the miko, who kept her doleful gaze on the heavens. "...Life expectancy isn't very high in the feudal era," she murmured quietly.

He knew her unspoken fears. Going back only to lose her mortal friends within a few years of her return no doubt felt daunting.

Long, deadly fingers shifted to close around hers, holding firmly.

"This one will stay with you," he uttered.

Kagome looked at him, hope starting to coax itself alive in her eyes. "R-really?"

"Hn," the demon rumbled, a vow in his voice. "I will be your constant."

Quelling under the seriousness conveyed in his expression, Kagome exhaled. She touched his shoulder, curling her hand there and smiling shyly, daring to believe him. "Even you'll die one day, Killing Perfection."

A velvety, confident chuckle rumbled out of him. "Not for another 2,000 years or so. Perhaps more. Is that sufficient?"

"I guess it'll have to be," Kagome teased, curling into his side and sighing as his large hand splayed over her back. "When you get close to the end..." she said softly, words a whispered, fragile thing. A vow, just as he'd promised for her. "I'll stop there. When you go, I'll go."

Sesshoumaru glanced down at her, tightening his arm and curling a hand into dark, wild hair. The two continued to bask in one another's energies, faint youki and reiki playing across their skin and weaving in a playful, familiar skitter of auras, finally lacing together firmly like clasped fingers.

Months later, Higurashi Shrine would open to the public again, sold by Souta and allowing the structure to be placed under a new family name.

There was no Izumi Higurashi or mysterious 'Nao' walking around the grounds any more. Tree branches swayed, leaves rustling and falling loose to dance around the forgotten well house, which had been boarded up due to disrepair.

The magic within had finally run completely dry; spent on transporting an immortal miko and prideful demon back home.

End

#Sesskag #Sesshoumaru x Kagome #skw2020 #sesskag week 2020 #Kagome Higurashi #Sesshoumaru

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