#in the moment he died! he is dressed as though he was welcome into the castle | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pascalpvnk · 7 months

Text

Pour Choices // You & I

pairing: bartender!joel x f!afab!reader

summary: Austin, Texas was never a dream destination for you, however your work trip there might’ve changed your perspective of the Lone Star State, and it absolutely was not work related.

word count: 6.6k words (oops…)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, smut (dubcon [both drank alcohol], handjob if you squint, oral [f receiving], fingering, unprotected p in v sex [wrap it up!], Joel has had a vasectomy, premature ejaculation, double creampie, alluding to aftercare), possibly ooc, no outbreak AU, Joel is 36 with no specified age for reader, reader described as a woman, use of she/her pronouns, minor body descriptions (reader described as having curves, reader has hair long enough to grasp/pin up, reader is shorter than Joel, he picks up reader for like half a second), time jumping (indicated by solid orange divider), religious euphemisms (?) from Joel (i know that man has religious trauma), alcohol consumption, food consumption

a/n: hello! I know this is a long time coming but she’s finally here. thank you for being patient with me during this writing process and thank you to those who helped and encouraged me! a special thanks to @delicaatefl0vver for beta reading and supporting and adding to my thots. welcome to the rebirth of my fanfic writing. I hope you enjoy xx (dividers by @/saradika)

main masterlist | series masterlist

Sat in the corner of the rustling bar, you were sipping on your Manhattan. The drink tasted medicinal, not how you’d usually prefer it. You had watched the young bartender pour heavy on the vermouth, but chose not to say anything. Red lipstick stained the rim of your glass with each sip of the cocktail. The whiskey mixed in and the maraschino cherry garnish were its only saving graces.

A low hanging light illuminated a warm hue across your features. You were surrounded by classic Texan bar decor and architecture; high ceiling rafters, support beams strung with fairy lights, the walls packed with framed posters of all varieties, the occasional beer branded neon sign, and license plates tacked up behind the bar. Two televisions sat flush against opposing walls, both playing a pregame show of Rangers highlights as they counted down to first pitch. The air was thick as the feet of the patrons shuffled around and chair legs scraped against the wood finished floors. Groups of friends, couples, and everyone between flooded through the doors, ushering themselves to an empty table or stool at the bar. Being there on a Friday night right as the outside rush hour died down was a bold choice, but you had one goal in mind.

The moment the music changed from country to rock and roll, you knew it was time to set yourself out to accomplish it.

The click of your high heels contrasted from the stomp of sneakers and cowboy boots. Glass in hand and head held high, your heart was pounding so hard in your chest, you felt it in your throat. You sure as hell weren’t living up to your stoic, stone cold hearted reputation back home. It’s almost as though your heart thawed in the Texas heat. Though your heart changed with the state, your attire didn’t. You stuck out like a sore thumb among the other consumers in your black maxi dress and perfectly pinned up hair. Some eyes gazed towards you, but you were set on finding one pair in particular. The set of eyes that were darker than the coffee he brewed, but the same ones that looked like honey when the sun was setting. The eyes that were facing away from you at the bar as you found a stool. The ones that snapped up towards you with one word.

“Texas.”

You called for him like a melody. Your throat immediately felt dry as a lump formed. He either felt the same way you did or it was a one off fling. You were hoping it was the former. But…it had been two years since you met, so there was a decent chance he was the one that got away.

The way his muscles tensed under his tight Henley gave away that he recognized you simply from your voice. Those beautiful eyes met yours, and his jaw went a little slack, the corners of his mouth curved.

“Evenin’, Miss New York,” Joel drawled, leaning against the counter. “How are ya, darlin’?”

Joel’s mind was preoccupied before he had seen you the first time, filled with important nonsense that about drove him up the wall.

Gotta make the next schedule. What time is that birthday party Sarah wants t’go to? Wonder if Tommy would be willin’ to take her. No, he’s workin’ on a job site out of town. I need to find someone to cover part of my shift so I can take her. Gotta pay the rent for this month. Can’t keep running the bar if s’gonna be slow like this and that bastard won’t cough up his half of it. God dammit.

“Welcome in, what can I get for ya?” The southern man drawled absentmindedly, tossing a rag over his broad shoulder. The moment his eyes caught yours, his worries washed away. He was only interested in you and your big, beautiful eyes and bright, red lips.

“Whiskey on the rocks. Make it a double please,” you practically sang to him…or at least it sounded like music to his ears. Your ID slipped out of your billfold with ease, and you slid it across the bar as you took a seat. Joel examined the horizontally wide piece of plastic, deciding it was real, especially for a lady ordering a whiskey. A lady from New York, no less.

Joel took in your features for a moment, noticing the difference in your attire and even your accent compared to the other bar patrons. Your beauty was striking to him, making all of the women he’s seen come in flee his memory. He repeated your name over and over in his head, wanting to know how it felt on his tongue. To say he was intrigued would be the understatement of the year.

“You got it, sweetheart,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. He poured a generous portion of whiskey into a cut crystal glass and added several cubes of ice, then slid it over to you with a smile. He leaned forward to rest his arms on the bar, eyes lingering on your curves. "So, what brings you in here tonight? The Big Apple too small for ya?"

“Work,” you responded simply, taking a sip from your drink. He watched as your eyes raked down his frame. There was no visible emotion behind them, so he was unsure if you were checking him out or simply giving him a once over.

Joel’s eyes on the other hand drank in your features, not even attempting to hide his gaze. It lingered across your chest and the way your dress contoured your breasts so perfectly. He was damn near drooling at the sight of you taking down your whiskey better than he would. Your face remained expressionless, zero signs of your mouth twisting in distaste. The simple action had him hooked.

He cleared his throat and began polishing some glasses as he continued to have small talk with you.

“Care to elaborate?” He asked, lining the cups along the bar as he shined them one by one.

“Flight just landed. I checked into my hotel and dropped off my stuff. Wanted to take a walk around to see what this city has to offer and I landed here,” you shrugged, taking another drink of your whiskey. “Nice place, are you the owner?”

“Co-owner, yeah,” Joel chuckled. “So I take it, your work stuff starts tomorrow? Or are you drinking on the job?”

“The former,” you smiled softly. “I’m not trying to get fired, they barely trusted me to come out here in the first place.”

His head nodded gingerly. He couldn’t quite tell if you were shooting him down or just quiet after a long day. He wanted to know more. Wanted as much information that he could get from you without coming off as a creep. Deciding to take a minor risk, he continued conversing with you.

“What kind of work are ya doing all the way out here, hm?” He asked politely, restocking the freshly polished glasses back on their designated shelves.

“My uh…my peer, I suppose, is on maternity leave and she represents most of our buildings in Texas. I’ve been doing most of the work over the phone but one of the Austin buildings required a visit. A lot of incident reports to go through.”

The whiskey in your glass was almost gone and he could tell it was opening you up a little bit. First time in the whole conversation you said more than what his question asked for.

“Darlin’, that’s some big wig stuff, and yet you make it sound so inconspicuous,” he drawled, a low rumble of laughter rolling from his chest. “What field are you in? Or is it top secret?”

“Oh! I work in HR,” you let out a small laugh. “Probably should’ve started with that.”

He smirked at how you fumbled over yourself, admiring the way your smile folded the skin around your eyes and exposed a dimple. He could definitely tell he was breaking down your stone wall. His eyes took you in once more. Your lip prints stained red on the once clean glass, immediately grabbing his attention. Arousal shot through his body, directing into his pants. That’s not something he knew he was attracted to.

“Need another, ma’am?” He asked politely and swallowed hard, attempting to look anywhere but your chest. You accepted his offer and opened a tab. Joel was thanking his lucky stars that the universe brought such a beautiful woman into his bar that night. Thanking fate for having him cover this shift.

“Well, I’ll leave you alone, miss. Just holler if you need another drink or y’wanna close out. My name’s Joel,” he smiled with his boyish charm, flipping his towel back over his shoulder before reluctantly diverting his attention to another customer in need.

You stuck around for a bit, snacking on peanuts and watching the baseball game running on the television. Joel felt your eyes burn into the back of his head as he worked.

It was innocent to start. He popped tops off of beers, poured shots, and shook cocktails all while his cheeks burned pink under the heat of your gaze. Then he intentionally reached up to the top shelf more often, flexing his muscles and letting his shirt ride up his back to grab your attention again and again. It became increasingly difficult for you to peel your eyes off of him the more you drank.

And he noticed.

A couple hours passed, and before you knew it, the clock was nearing midnight. Joel walked around the bar, going to each empty table and wiping them thoroughly. He restocked everything as most of the small crowd filed out. He took a look at you from the front door, admiring the curves that were hardly hidden under your snug dress as you watched the TV mindlessly.

“Well darlin’,” he began as he approached the bar again. “I don’t know what time you have to work in the morning but it’s getting late. Wanna close out your tab?”

“I s’pose so,” you chuckled, copying his accent a little by accident. Your tired, drunken smile made his heart flutter.

A small smile plastered itself across Joel’s face as he ran your card. He let it process, grabbing both receipts and scribbling something on them.

“Can I call you a cab, sweetheart? They aren’t driving around all the time like they do back home for you,” he offered, handing you the merchant copy receipt. He crossed out all of the options to tip, just requiring your signature. You tried to protest, but he silenced your argument.

“Yeah,” you hiccuped. “That would be nice, thank you.”

Joel examined you cleaning up your peanut shell debris as he called for the cab. You signed the receipt, and slid his copy back across the bar. He noticed your subtle smile as you noticed ten digits written neatly on the customer copy.

The line went dead when the conversation concluded, and Joel put the phone back on its charger. He noticed how you folded the receipt paper and tucked it safely into your clutch along with your debit card.

“Cab should be here in ‘bout ten minutes. Um,” he cleared his throat. “If ya need someone to recommend restaurants or if you want a tour of any sort, I hope that’ll come in handy.”

Joel gestured towards your clutch, the current home of his phone number. He wanted to ask you out, so so badly, but you were intoxicated and he didn’t want to give a bad impression. If it was meant to be, you’d take the initiative, at least that’s what he told himself.

“I bet it will,” you openly flirted. Joel knew better than to return the sentiment, but it was so damn difficult. His mama would’ve smacked him upside the head if he had, and that was enough to stop him. All he offered was a smirk before turning away and gathering dishes to be brought back to the pile of other used utensils.

“D’ya need a water or anything?” Joel asked, already reaching for a clean cup. You nodded and he filled the glass first with ice, followed with water and a straw. Laying a napkin on the counter, Joel gently set your water down with a close lipped smile.

“Thanks for stopping in, darlin’,” he said just loud enough to be heard over the rock music he had playing. “Get back to that hotel of yours safely, alright? Don’t wanna hear about Miss New York on the news. They never show anything positive nowadays.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” you chuckled, gathering your things to leave after drinking most of the glass. He took these moments to really take you in, dramatically telling himself that this could be the last time he’d ever see you. Last time he’d witness your cherry stained, stunning, yet intoxicated smile, your soft skin, and those gorgeous eyes.

His admiration was interrupted by the honk erupting from the impatient taxi driver’s vehicle outside. You turned on your heel, offering a ‘goodnight, Texas!’ before walking out the door. Joel scrubbed a hand across his beard, huffing a self deprecating laugh and a muttered ‘shit’ before continuing to close up shop. He beat himself up internally while cleaning the dishes until his phone buzzed. He dug the device from his pocket, flipping it open to see a text from an unknown number.

“Didn’t end up on the news. What a bummer! Maybe next time ;)”

Joel smiled to himself, tucking his phone back into his pocket. He finished his closing tasks and made a little to-go Shirley Temple mocktail for his daughter. Before exiting the building for the night, he turned off the glowing ‘Pour Choices’ sign and locked the door behind him. His smile faded as he left his bar behind, remembering his life’s reality and his responsibilities. Those stressors sat heavy once more upon his shoulders until he fell into a deep slumber that night.

Your first full day of work was exhausting to say the least, and the small hangover you suffered did not help one bit. And whoever decided you should come to Austin in August had become your own mortal enemy. You’re used to your mild summers back home, not sweating so much that your clothes stick to you uncomfortably. But the thing that bothered you the most was the imminent, distracting thought of Joel, especially as the sun retired behind the horizon. The way the fabric of his shirt pulled taut around his thick biceps and how they flexed every time he mixed up drinks. You had watched him use his charm to get tips practically thrown at him by the other patrons, he really put that handsome grin to work.

You were alone in your hotel. There wasn’t a scheduled dinner with your team, so you sat in bed watching Scrubs reruns and eating what constituted your dinner: cheese, crackers and pepperoni slices you picked up from the grocery store. A little disassembled charcuterie board if you will.

Beckoning your attention, your phone buzzed against your nightstand. The caller ID had your heart pounding against your chest. Joel. It was almost like he could read your mind.

“Hello?” You started, wiping the crumbs off of your fingers and lowering the volume on the show.

“Evenin’,” he drawled out your name. His voice came across gruffer and frankly hotter over the phone than in person. The way it fed directly into your ears had a chill running down your spine.

“Night off?” You asked nonchalantly, a sad attempt of remaining mysterious, knowing if he was sat next to you, you’d melt into a puddle.

“Mhm,” he hummed, pausing for a moment and chuckling quietly. “Sorry for callin’ late. I’d text but that would’a taken me a decade. How was today? Hope that whiskey didn’t ruin your morning.”

The smile you sported grew in size. It felt nice having a normal conversation that wasn’t work related…even if it was with someone you just met.

“It was good! Busy but good. I had a headache but nothing I couldn’t handle. It’s stupid hot here though, didn’t appreciate that,” you hummed to yourself in thought. “Nothing much happened, lots of meetings. Now I’m just hanging out in my hotel. How about you?”

“Same here, nothin’ much. Are ya doing anythin’ or just wallowin’ in your loneliness?” He teased, testing the waters a little. You wish you could see his face. See whether he was sporting a shit eating grin or if he was gnawing on his lip nervously.

“Ha-ha,” you shot back, pressing your cell between your cheek and shoulder to stand up and settle near the window. “I’m watching TV and eating my nutritious dinner of cheese, crackers and pepperoni, thank you very much.”

“Dinner?” He scoffed. “Now I think you need'ta hustle on over here and have a real meal. You can’t possibly be callin’ all ‘f those HR shots with that diet, hm?”

You gotta give it to him, you aren’t that smooth on a whim, that takes practice. Looking out at the Austin skyline, you snickered to yourself and leaned against the window’s frame.

“C’mon, I have almost all of my food groups in front of me, I don’t think that’s too horrible,” you retaliated jokingly. “What do you have to offer, huh?”

“Well you got me there, darlin’. I do have wine if you wanna round out your meal,” he offered. You could hear faint tapping coming from the line. He was nervous.

Considering the proposal, you decided to take it, despite your early morning and full day approaching. Joel offered to pick you up so you didn’t have to pay for another cab and you gratefully accepted. You quickly got changed back out of your sleepwear into something almost equally as comfy and perhaps a bit more revealing.

So you find yourself sat on Joel Miller’s couch. The ride was fine, you chatted like before, but with a bit more direct flirting. You observed his spaces. His truck was simple, a little, beat up pickup, but you were sure it got his work done. There were scuff marks from tennis shoes on his dash. Your mind wandered as you imagined if they were from a friend or former lover, but you didn’t let it bother you.

There was a little pine tree air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. The smell of its woody scent combined with his warm, leathery cologne and a hint of Irish Spring all flooded your senses. And god, he didn’t just smell good, he looked so good.

Joel looked perfect in the driver’s seat, his biceps straining against his smooth skin as he gripped the wheel, prominent veins popping through his forearms. Looked so cozy in his small kitchen, pouring both of you a hefty glass of rosé. His hands enveloped his cup entirely as he brought it to his plush lips. The way they framed his teeth when he smiled down at you gave you heart palpitations.

And even sitting comfortably in the corner of his L-shaped couch, Joel continued to look amazing. His leg was crossed over the other, creating the perfect shelf on his knee for his wine. Those arms stretched far across the back of the couch as he fidgeted with a loose string stuck on the cushion. Everything about him screamed disciplined. The way his spaces were mostly neat, organized and decently decorated added to your observation. He belonged here, and it seemed like he worked hard to get the things he earned.

The casual facade you had faded away the longer you chatted about your lives and sipped on your glasses. Topics like work and hobbies came into conversation, and you learned that Joel liked to play with guitar and sing a little—only when he was alone of course. Then you began talking about more personal matters, like your relationship statuses.

“You’re kidding!” You exclaimed, feeling warm from the wine in your system. “You don’t have a girlfriend or anything?”

Joel chuckled and shook his head down at the couch. You watched as he observed the cushions-worth of space between you two. By that point, you were fully turned ninety degrees to face him in conversation, your legs tucked comfortably under you. Your face felt hot as you wielded the half empty, stemless wine glass.

“What about the kid in your pictures? Is she your niece or something?” You were referring to the framed photos both nailed to the wall and decorating the table in his entryway. Most of them contained himself and the child, whether she was celebrating with a soccer ball and a trophy or blowing out candles on a cake, her wild curls spilling every which way from her party hat.

“Nah, she’s all mine. My Sarah turned fourteen a few weeks ago,” he smiled to himself, making your heart clench and pound against the confines of your ribcage. The proud look he had on his face told you about everything you needed to know about his relationship with his daughter.

“Fourteen? You don’t seem old enough to have a teenager,” you chuckle. “Where is she tonight? Seems like you got the house to yourself.”

“Why I'm flattered. She’s got a friend’s birthday party sleepover thing. That’s why I had to take the night off. I’m her personal chauffeur, of course,” Joel offered a curtsey jokingly.

Your smile widened as you brought your now second glass of rosé up to sip once more. You don’t care to ask about Sarah’s mother, it was a personal matter and possibly a sensitive subject.

A comfortable silence fell between you as you looked at one another. You watched the automatic rise and fall of his chest and the way his cheeks burned from your gaze. His chocolate eyes bore into yours, melting your heart without even trying. His exterior was gruff and masculine but he had proven time and time again that he was probably one of the kindest men you have met. Must be that southern charm and hospitality, but man was it addicting.

“What?” He barely asked above a whisper, copying your actions with his wine. His attempt to hide his smile behind his clear cup obviously failed. His blush spread down his neck and you could only imagine if it went any farther down. Your thoughts of Joel were beginning to become tainted by your blooming arousal. You wanted him. On top of you, under you, you’d take anything and the growing wetness pooling in your panties was evidence of that.

“Can I be blunt, Joel?” You grinned as you sunk a bit further into the cushion against your side. He responded with a hummed ‘mhm’ so you’d continue, bringing his hand back into his lap. The fabric of his joggers barely contained his strong thighs, making it more and more difficult to contain your urge to see what else lied beneath his pants.

“I really wanna kiss you,” you admitted cheekily, fairly certain that he was thinking the same thing.

“Oh, do ya now?” He smirked, leaning over to pluck your glass from your grasp and put it safely on his coffee table along with his own.

“I think you’re a little mind reader,” Joel continued. “‘Cause I was thinkin’ the same thing. Bet those pretty lips are real soft.” His hand found your waist after you confirmed he had consent as he guided you onto his lap. You hummed contently as you draped your arms over his shoulders, toying with the stray, chestnut curls at his nape.

“What happened to Mr. Shy Guy, huh?” You teased, letting his calloused hands explore the expanse of your back as your lips ghosted over his.

“Not shy, just polite, sweetheart,” he rasped before closing the gap between you two. His palms were flush against your lower back, radiating heat through the thin material of your shirt.

You melted into him, bodies pressed as close as possible without your knees sinking between the couch cushions. Lips slotted together and hands wandered as you filled all of your senses with Joel. His tongue was stained with a familiar smoky taste, which was definitely not coming from the wine

“Why do you taste like whiskey?” Your mouth formed a smile against his matching one. His hand cupped your cheek as a chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

“Had some before I called ya,” he admitted bashfully. “Doesn’t matter now.”

In an instant, he was kissing you once more with increased passion, making you completely forgo the subject. His tongue flicked into your mouth, teasing the delicate skin on the inside of your lips. He gripped at your hips, trying to pull you closer to him but your legs protested against his furniture.

“Scoot forward,” you mumbled against him. And he did what he was told. His hips shifted forward, granting you more room to sit directly on his lap. Sighs were drawn from both of you as you settled back into each other, his cock already half hard under you. Your fingers messed with the hair behind his ears, earning a pleased moan from him.

“This doesn’t have to go anywhere if you don’t wan’ it to,” he panted between kisses. Just above a whisper, you uttered, ‘I want it,’ and Joel’s hands took it as permission to explore further down your body, palming at your ass through your shorts.

A whimper slipped between your lips into Joel’s, and he swallowed it whole. He pressed your body closer to his, your clothed sex dragging over his sweatpants. His cock twitched up in response to your mouth finding his jaw, his short beard scratching against you.

“Lemme take care of you,” you mused, bringing your hands up the sides of his face. He relaxed back into the couch, his blunt nails pushing under your shorts into the meat of your bare thighs.

You started by kissing his lips once more, then the two prominent patches of missing hair on his chin, and made your way down to his throat. His adam's apple bobbed under your touch as pants grew tighter on him.

“Knew you’d have the best lips, fuck,” he mumbled as you licked up the side of his neck, his pulse racing under your tongue. “Can’t wait to feel your pretty pussy ‘round my cock, sweetheart.”

“Patience, handsome,” you whispered into his ear, your breath sending chills through his body. He let go of your legs as you bunched his shirt into your palms, sitting up to help remove it. Hair scattered sparsely on his chest, pausing on his upper stomach only to come back thicker as it disappeared into his boxers.

Your palms dragged down his torso, skimming over his nipples and ribs as he naturally recoiled from the stimulation. You gently kissed and sucked at his collarbone so it could be hidden away under his shirt. Color rose to the surface of his skin the more you worked at it, flattening your tongue against it once you decided your mark was left properly.

Joel was breathing heavily under you, his hands snaking under your shirt to your breasts. Your nipples were already pebbled through your bralette, becoming unbearably hard the moment Joel started running his thumbs over them. He gently pushed your shirt and bra above your tits, leaning forward to bring one to his mouth as his hand toyed with the other. His tongue lapped your skin, rounding the hardened nipple and sucking it back slightly. An image of him doing the same to your clit had your eyes rolling back with pleasure.

“Joel,” you mewled as he switched breasts. He spread his saliva around your areola as he picked up his ministrations on the other. A groan vibrated against your skin as your nails raked down his happy trail.

“Wanna suck your cock,” you continued, holding onto the waistbands of his pants and underwear. His unused hand covered yours entirely, pushing it down to free his throbbing cock from its confines, the tip weeping with precum. Never in your life had you seen a dick so big before, and you couldn’t wait for it to split you in half.

“I won’t last a minute in your mouth, sweet girl,” he drawled, reaching back up to leave a chaste kiss on your lips. “Don’t wanna come before you.”

Spitting onto your fingertips, you mixed it with the slick seeping from his tip then dragged it down his shaft, squeezing it in your palm on the way back up. Joel groaned into your neck. He wedged his hands back under your top, lifting it over your head and forcing your hand to leave his cock.

“Need’ta taste you first,” he muttered, his amber irises completely eclipsed by his pupils. Joel removed you from his lap and laid you down onto the couch. You watched as he settled between your legs and hooked his thick fingers into your bottoms, licking his lips. Raising your hips, he pulled everything off of you, leaving you bare. Cool air hit your glistening pussy, sending a shiver up your spine. You whined out his name after he stared at you for a moment.

“What?” He cooed, smoothing his hands over your inner thighs. “Wan’ me to touch ya, hm? Fuck you with my fingers ‘n stretch that pretty pussy out? Maybe suck on your clit. S’that what you want, darlin’?”

You nod your head furiously, dying with anticipation to have his hands, mouth, something on you. Wordlessly, your foot hooked around the back of his leg as you attempted to pull him closer to you.

“Ah ah,” he tsked. “I think ya gotta ask for it, honey. Ask for it nicely.”

“Fuck,” you whined with desperation. You could feel your arousal dripping down your ass and ultimately onto the couch. “Please fill me up, touch me, taste me, whatever you want.”

“Good, so good f’me. Open up,” he encouraged, slotting his first two digits between your lips. He spread them on each side of your tongue. Saliva collected on his thick fingers as you swirled your tongue around them in figure eights. A groan rumbled in Joel’s chest.

“Yeah I’m gonna put my cock in this pretty mouth next time, baby. Feels perfect on my fingers,” he grumbled. His fingers came out of your mouth with a pop, a string of spit connecting him to you.

Joel finally slipped his fingers through your swollen folds, teasing your entrance and collecting more slick. His fingertips circled lightly around your clit, drawing a broken moan from your throat. His free hand tapped against your hip, signaling you to raise them with an ‘up.’ He grabbed a throw pillow and positioned it under you. You relaxed your already trembling legs, and he had barely even touched you.

He settled onto his stomach, spreading your legs apart as far as they’d go. A pointer finger breached your entrance as he kissed the seam where your thigh and pussy came together. Soft moans escaped you as you carded your fingers through his curls. His smug eyes met yours as his tongue moved everywhere but your clit. He looked better than ever between your legs, and you didn’t know that could be possible. His teasing was deserved for what you were doing previously, but it was agonizing.

“Please, Joel,” you groaned. “Please gimme more, I need you.”

Obliging to your request, Joel added another finger into your cunt, curling them both and stroking your g-spot expertly. All of the air left your lungs the moment his flattened tongue finally found your clit. Joel’s groan vibrated throughout your entire pussy, adding to each sensation deliciously. It didn’t take much more for your legs to start shaking and squeezing his head between your thighs, a hot sensation bubbling in your lower belly.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, don’t stop,” you cried, grasping Joel’s hair much tighter than before. He suckled your clit and flicked his tongue over it with a moan, sending you flying over the edge. Your walls fluttered around his fingers and he rode you through your high. He kissed your trembling thighs until they relaxed, his unmoving fingers still stuffed inside you.

“God, you’re even sexier when you come, sugar. Taste even sweeter too,” he hummed, shifting himself up your body until his lips found yours again. He tasted still of whiskey but with a mix of your arousal.

Joel brought his now soaked fingers back into your mouth to replace his tongue, urging you to suck all of your spend off of them. You hummed around his digits and wrapped your quivering legs around his waist.

“And you were preachin’ to me about patience,” he teased, removing his fingers and stroking his cock a couple times. He was sitting up and resting on his heels, looking like pure sex. His proportions were perfect, he was broad and you’d happily let him crush you under his weight.

“It’s hard to be patient when you look at me like that,” you muse, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. Joel snickered quietly, dragging his nails over your inner thighs. Goosebumps followed behind his light touch and your legs twitched when he got close enough to your sensitive core.

“So,” Joel began, settling comfortably on top of you and kissing your jaw. “I haven’t been with anyone since I was tested last n’ I’ve had a vasectomy. But I’ll gladly get a condom if ya want me to.”

“Hmm, a gentleman,” you grinned, your fingers finding their way back into his hair as you enjoyed his affection. “I’m clean and more than okay without it.”

Joel slotted his cock into your slit with a smirk, groaning at the new sensation. His tip nudged at your clit with each pass, earning moans from both parties.

“Almost came all over this couch with you clenchin’ ‘round my fingers like that, honey,” he drawled. “Fuck, ‘m not gonna last long.”

You gave him a reassuring kiss as you wedged your hand down between you two. Lining up his tip with your entrance, you watched as he disappeared into your welcoming cunt. His face pressed into your neck as he slowly sank into you, anchoring himself with his hands planted on your waist and thigh. Strings of profanities left him as he stretched you out, the pressure you felt quickly morphing into pleasure.

“Shit,” you hissed when he bottomed out. “Feels so good, Joel.”

You urged him to continue, and he complied. Starting slow, he pulled out halfway and pushed back in to test the waters. The drag of your core had his toes curling. He wasn’t lying when he said he wouldn’t last long. His cock swelled in you after a few minutes as he panted into your neck.

“Fuck, fuck I’m sorry,” he grunted.

“S’okay, come for me, Joel. Please,” you consoled him, wrapping your legs around his hips tighter. He spilled into you, the sticky fluid coating your inner walls. Your nails dragged along the expanse of his back as he caught his breath.

His face emerged from the crook of your neck, flush and sweaty. He tried apologizing once more but you shushed him. Your lips met again as you grasped his dampened curls, pulling at his locks harder than before. Cock stiffening up again, Joel resumed thrusting into you slowly. A squelching sound emitted from your pussy as his pace quickened.

“Joel,” you gasped, tangling yourself around him tighter. He took it as an opportunity to scoop you up and change positions, sitting on the couch and giving you the freedom to ride him.

“Wan’ you comin’ on my cock, beautiful,” he moaned. His calloused fingertips circled your clit as he fucked his load deeper into you. You bounced on him, his cock spearing you. The tip hit your g-spot with each thrust. Stars sparkled in your vision as you clenched down on him hard.

“C’mon, use my cock, make yourself come. That’s it, fuck.”

His hips bucked up to meet yours halfway, the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout his living room. You were a moaning mess, chanting his name haphazardly. Your walls clamped down around him and milked any remaining cum from him as you both reached your second peaks.

“Christ,” he groaned, stilling inside of you. The mixture of your fluids seeped from your fluttering hole. Joel smoothed his palms over your sweat slick back, peppering kisses along your shoulders and collarbone. Praises flew from his mouth like a prayer and you were his goddess, all his to worship.

Joel used his sweatpants to catch any leakage as his softened cock slipped out from you. He took his time with you, helping you regain your composure with more kisses and lingering touches. You followed him to his room where he properly cleaned you up and gave you a Texas Longhorns shirt and boxer shorts.

“You’re more than welcome t’stay,” Joel offered. “Or I can drive ya back. Your choice, sweetheart.”

Your arms snaked up and around his shoulders, stretching yourself up on your tiptoes. A smile crept onto your face as Joel held you steady by your ass. You peeked over at his unmade bed with only two measly pillows, one of them crumpled up in the middle of his bed. A shy smile adorned his face as you refocused on him. He was going to be the death of you.

“Set an alarm and take me to bed, cowboy.”

Late into the following evening, you found yourself back in Pour Choices. A lingering soreness twinged between your legs the entire day. You weren’t there to drink. You wanted Joel.

He started his usual greeting until he realized you had stepped through the doors, another black dress clinging to your body and lips stained a deeper shade of red than before.

“Hey, darlin’,” he smiled breathlessly. You sauntered over to the bar, leaning in close and cutting to the chase in a seductive whisper.

“I’m gonna sit in the corner and wait for you to close up. Wanna return the favor from last night.”

Joel can confidently say that was his quickest close of his career, and you can just as confidently state that you successfully returned the favor, covering that poor man with crimson lip prints. He’d never complain about the physical reminder of you, using it as inspiration on the nights he craved you while you were away. He never thought he’d go from having everything from you for a couple weeks to having nothing for over a year.

“Wasn’t sure if you were gonna remember me,” you smiled softly, a twinge of sadness in your eyes. He chuckled and shook his head, grabbing a new glass and some ice.

“I could never forget you, sugar,” he smirked, grabbing a top shelf whiskey and pouring it into the glass. The crackle of the ice drew your attention. You were always a sucker for whiskey. He remembered.

“On the house, darlin’. Want me to take your other drink? Doesn’t seem like you enjoyed it,” Joel pointed to the condensation lined cup with the half dranken Manhattan. “I know you’re not the sipping type of gal.”

“Yeah, thank you,” you smiled brighter as he took away the used cup. “Y’all don’t make Manhattans like they do back home,” you jabbed, taking a big gulp of the chilled whiskey. Those familiar lip prints stamped on the glass.

“But,” you continued, glancing at his bare ring finger. You observed the sprouting grays in his sideburns and deepened creases on his face, seeing the effect that the last two years had on him. “Y’all have something that New York doesn’t.”

You traced the rim of the glass, trying to pick up any emotion from his expressionless face. He did however crack a small smirk at your comment and leaned against the bar with both hands. Suddenly it felt like everyone else disappeared and it was just you and him in the moment.

“Hm, and what’s that, sweetheart?” He leaned closer and replied softly, but just loud enough for only you to hear.

“You, Joel.”

to keep up to date on upcoming parts, follow @pascalpvnk-writes and turn on notifications. thank you for reading!! <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #my writing #fic: you & i

224 notes · View notes

raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months

Text

I've been dreaming of the Invulnerable Poison Apple.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. This is his home, his roots, and he will cherish them always.

No matter how he may change.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

The Harveston roads stretch out for what seems like forever. Dirt paths uninterrupted by the hustle and bustle of modern life.

It's just Epel and his beloved blastcycle set at a breakneck pace. Green grass below... Mother Nature has pushed through the melting snow at last, sounding the call of spring.

The crate secured to back of his bike is always lighter on the trip home than on the trip to the closest city. With the latest load dropped off, he’s free to fly back.

He loves this feeling—the rush of adrenaline, the wind weaving through his hair. It’s a taste of home, a slice of heaven he can get nowhere else.

Up ahead, his family’s farm comes into view. The outline of their orchard, flush with the buds of new life, is a familiar sight. What's new are the crops whose heads sprout up over the treetops: a giant peach, a pumpkin large enough to be a carriage, and more—all the result of magical modification.

He grins, revving up his engine and pushing forward. Faster, faster.

Then he breaks, skidding to a halt before their wooden front porch. The engine dies, leaving only the erratic pounding of his heart in the smoke and dust.

“I’m home!!” Epel announces, dismounting. He removes his helmet and places it on his blastcycle's seat. Wisps of lilac cling to his forehead, his fair skin colored with the blush of exhilaration.

Similar heads of hair—members of the Felmier family, dressed in casual clothes and fruit-picking gloves—dot the orchard. They meet his eyes and wave.

He counts them: his mom and his dad, his aunt and uncle. His cousin is too young to get their hands down and dirty yet, so they're inside with their grandparents.

So why is there one extra body amid the apple trees? One person, hunched over on a ladder, a shaking arm outstretched to pluck the fruit.

Not her. Please, not her.

Epel immediately bolts into the fields.

The tree leaves shudder and shift, branches swaying, as if they, too, are loved ones welcoming him back. The air is sweet and uplifting, like the faintest taste of a fizzy drink.

"Meemaw? Meemaw…!!" Epel hollers, racing over to her.

She finally has a grip on the apple, gives it a firm twist, and frees it from its branch. For one frightening moment, she wobbles, threatening to topple from high up. Epel arrives just in time, grabbing onto her ladder to steady it.

He heaves a sigh.

"I told ya to try ‘n not overexert yourself…!” Epel scolds her. His hometown’s dialect slips out, smooth as butter and natural sounding to their ears. “You’re gettin’ to that age where doing physical labor ain’t the easiest. At least leave the heavy liftin’ to me ‘n the others!”

“These apples aren’t goin’ to pick themselves!!” Marja grumbles. “Would you rather trade jobs and let me be the one to run deliveries? You wanna be the one to let this old lady on the loose?”

He bites his lower lip. “No, but… I can take some of yer tasks to lighten yer workload. Please, let me.”

His grandma slowly climbs down the ladder. (Epel observes her dissent carefully and maintains his grip on her stairway.) She’s delicate, with rounded, soft features—but he knows she is anything but demure, especially upset.

When Marja lands next to him, he notices her height right away. He had always been just a bit taller than her—“My growin’ little man,” she’d say, giving him a pat on the head—but his grandma seems to have shrunken in the wash.

Marja prods him in the chest, and though she has more strength than one might give her credit for, his muscles are taut and hold their ground. He’s taller, stronger.

The same physique as a Savanaclaw student.

“Don’t get cocky with me just because you’ve hit a growth spurt ‘n yer transferrin’ to a rough ‘b tough new dorm! I’m a Felmier too.” She shoves the freshly picked apple at her grandson’s face. “Ya fell from our family tree, so you ain’t the only one who’s hardy ‘round here. Don’t worry about me so much!”

“I can’t help it, meemaw,” Epel protests. “We’re gettin’ busier and busier and it’s hard to keep up with the pace.”

“Business is boomin’. I don’t see what you’re yappin’ about!”

“Last thing I want’s for you to be shipped off to the nearest hospital cuz you hurt yourself on our produce.”

“Hush now!! I’lll be fine,” she insists with a broad smile. “I’ve got you and everyone else to count on, so I know I’m in good hands.”

Marja drops the apple into a waiting wicker basket at her feet. It lands atop a pile like a ruby laid in the center of a crown. She bends over and picks up her haul with a grunt and starts waddling towards their house.

Epel remains by her side, matching her walk with a few long strides. He may as well be helping her cross the street, but he stays at a considerable distance. Enough to be polite, but still close enough to swoop in if she takes an unceremonious fall.

“‘Sides, I work cuz I want to, not that I have to,” Marja tuts, clambering up the porch steps. Epel offers her his muscular arm, but she refuses it.

“Gotta keep these weary bones active! And… gotta do my best to support ya where I can.”

“You’ve always done that for us, meemaw.”

All that and more.

She laughs. “Yer not the little boy that needs a scoldin’ for whooping the older kids’ tuchuses anymore. Yer a man now, Epel—but even men ain’t islands. Doesn’t matter how many fights ya win by yerself, ‘s nice to have people to fall back on.”

The front door swings open. Marja shuffles inside, followed by her grandson.

“I understand what yer sayin’. Really, I do. Still, nothin’s gonna stop me from givin’ ya lip. ‘S in our blood,” Epel jokes, knocking at his temples. “Stubbornness runs in the family. I must get it from you.”

“You’re gettin’ real cheeky with me today,” Marja chuckles, setting her basket down on a counter. “I know, how about a good ol’ apple pie with all the fixings? That oughta fill yer belly and fix up yer sass.”

Epel responds with a toothy grin. “Nothin’ hits the spot like your home cooking, meemaw.”

Her eyes twinkle warmly. “Darn right.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #Epel Felmier #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst countdown #twisted wonderland countdown #I’ve been dreaming…#twst anni #twst anniversary #twisted wonderland anniversary #twisted wonderland anni #twst imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #Marja Felmier

71 notes · View notes

callsignlucky · 2 years

Text

talk to me, lucky (part 1)

summary: You're Maverick’s kid. You’re also Bradley Bradshaw’s best friend—or at least, you were. What lies between you two now is uncharted territory.

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw/mitchell!reader

a/n: good morning aviators and welcome to my top gun brain rot. i liked this enough i decided to post it, its short and sweet (at least some of it is sweet), feedback would be greatly appreciated! i'm planning a few parts for this and it will remain in first person. your callsign is LUCKY. this also cross-posted on ao3 if that strikes anyone's fancy. (1.5k)

part 2 ->

My memories of Rooster started before he was Rooster.

Back then, he was just Bradley.

He was three when I was born, and according to my parents and Aunt Carole, he loathed me. We’re talking as much hate as a shaggy, blonde-haired three year old could muster. Refused to even look at me, detested when my father showed me the slightest amount of attention, and if Aunt Carole doted on me in the slightest, it was tummy to the ground fists on the carpet full-blown tantrum.

Of course, that lasted all about a month. After he got over the fact that he had to share the attention of the various grown ups in our lives, I had Bradley Bradshaw wrapped around my finger and it had been that way ever since.

We grew up together, three years apart yes but always attached at the hip. When I started walking, I stumbled my way over to Bradley on Christmas Day instead of into my father’s open arms.

When I lost my first tooth, Bradley was the first one I told, and we used the two dollars the tooth fairy left me to share an ice cream cone on the swing set in the backyard.

When Bradley started baseball, I insisted on being at every game, and no matter how long they lasted or how far away they were, I sat through each one and cheered for him louder than everyone.

Middle school started, and my second week of fourth grade, my mom died. Freak car accident, completely out of the blue, and Bradley—a sixth grader at the time but never too cool for me—was by my side through the entirety of it. He had experience in this area with Uncle Goose’s death, and despite him not remembering much, he knew the pain of waking up in the morning expecting both of your parents to be there, and then walking downstairs to find just the one. It was okay though—like Dad had stepped in to try to fill the role Uncle Goose left behind, Aunt Carole did the same with Mom. It was never really the same though, and everyone knew it.

Middle school melted into high school, where Bradley was a junior and I was a freshman. I was fully expecting the silent treatment on my first day, but Bradley intercepted me in the main hall after breaking away from his baseball friends and gave me a guided tour of the school before walking me to class. He kept up that morning tradition every day for the two years we went to high school together—he’d pick me up in his inherited Ford Bronco, we’d go get coffee and bagels, and he’d walk me to class.

After Bradley’s graduation ceremony was completed and all the friends and family had congregated outside, I waited anxiously for him between Dad and Aunt Carole. I saw a flash of blue and white before I was wrapped up in Bradley’s arms, squealing with delight as he hugged me tight and spun me around. One hand clutched the hem of my dress to keep myself decent while the other wrapped around his neck, and his smile was breathless as he shook his diploma excitedly in the air and credited his graduation on the hours I spent tutoring him in history. He was so handsome and so happy at that moment and I think that was the first time I really saw Bradley as something other than my best friend.

Those feelings only got worse during my junior year, when Bradley was visiting home for the fall.

Autumn in California was just like a really tame summer, and Bradley had really become a man in his two years of college. I hadn’t really noticed it before, or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention, or maybe it was the fact that, despite my father’s best efforts, I’d finally discovered boys. Either way, I could’ve died of heat stroke that afternoon when Bradley thought it would be fun to have a pool day with my dad and his mom. I insisted on studying instead of swimming, but my ability to focus on any textbook dissolved as soon as Bradley took off his shirt and dove into our pool. That night, I scolded myself for the thoughts that passed my mind, even though I’d asked Aunt Carole about them (leaving out they were about her son, obviously) and she’d said they were completely normal to have for a girl my age and to not be ashamed. But I was ashamed, because this wasn’t some boy, this was Bradley. My best friend since before I could even walk.

My graduation came along, and Bradley had made a special trip to surprise me for it. It was his first year in the Navy and Dad and Aunt Carole had lied to me, telling me he couldn’t get out of a deployment to attend. I was beyond crushed, until before the ceremony, when my best friend Fallon got my attention and I saw Bradley in the gym’s double doors, dressed in his dress whites and smiling at me like I hung the damn moon. I can’t remember ever being that excited as I ran across the gym in the stupid heels they’d made us wear, practically leaping into his arms and knocking his hat right off his head. The yearbook editor managed to snap a photo of our interaction, and it was the biggest one on the graduation spread.

It wasn’t long after my graduation that everything fell apart.

Aunt Carole had been sick for a while, and died two months later. Dad donned his dress whites for the second time in the same year, and it rained for the first time in California since I was sixteen. I held Bradley’s hand the entire time, just like he’d held mine when we laid my mother to rest. He had stayed stoic during the service, up until the moment before they took his mother’s body away to transport to the cemetery. I let go of Bradley’s hand long enough to say goodbye to the woman who’d stepped up when I needed her most and guided me through my formative years. I kissed her on the forehead, and tucked a little stuffed goose into her casket. When I turned back to Bradley, he had lost his composure, and the rest of the funeral attendees had to wait twenty minutes for us to arrive at the cemetery so they could put Aunt Carole in the ground next to her husband, the father Bradley barely knew.

Two months later, Bradley and my father’s relationship crumbled. Dad made a promise that was completely unfair to Bradley, and as a result he had his papers pulled from the Naval Aviation Academy. Dad would’ve never told Bradley his mother had asked him to do that, it would’ve destroyed him, so he took all the blame. And to be truthful, Dad was selfish in doing it too. I knew what had happened to Uncle Goose. I knew how close he and Dad and Uncle Ice were, I knew how hard it was when the accident in the air took Uncle Goose’s life. Dad hadn’t let go or forgiven himself for it since it happened, despite it not being his fault. I knew he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Bradley in the same way he lost his best friend, and he was more than willing to let Bradley hate him forever so long as he was alive to do it. I remember the sound of the front door slamming the last time I saw Bradley. I was nineteen years old, halfway through my first year in college, and I watched from the bay window in my bedroom as Bradley peeled out of our driveway in his father’s old Bronco.

What my father didn’t understand was that we’d just lost Bradley, and he wasn’t even dead. That’s what made it hurt worse.

As I stood frozen to my spot in Penny Benjamin's bar in North Island, my eyes upon Bradley Bradshaw for the first time since he’d stormed out of our lives ten years ago, those memories flooded back in.

He wasn’t Bradley anymore, he was Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, callsign Rooster, and the sentiment of it had my heart twisting. He was here for the same deployment I was, he was a pilot, the same as I was—he was a Lieutenant, the same as I was. We weren’t children anymore, but as I watched him catch sight of me and pull his aviators off his face, I couldn’t help the teenage to young adult anger of those years I spent without him fill me to my core. Even worse, he sauntered up to me without hesitation, like he hadn’t abandoned me because of something my father did.

He was all smiles and I couldn’t help it. With my father across the bar no doubt watching our every move and our new team standing within spitting distance, six pilots whose respect and trust we needed to earn before our mission in three weeks, I raised my hand and slapped Bradley Bradshaw across the face.

#bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw #top gun #rooster top gun #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw #rooster/reader #jake hangman seresin #tom iceman kazansky #penny benjamin #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw/reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw/reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #mavdad #pete mitchell #pete maverick mitchell

1K notes · View notes

its-vannah · 2 years

Text

You're On Your Own Kid | Jacaerys x Reader

A/N: Before you read, please note: Your son, Lucerys, was named after Lucerys Velaryon the first. It's not the same Luke in the book/show. Secondly, the fic starts in "present day" and shows your life six years earlier, one day earlier, and six months later. Hope that clears up any confusion.

Warnings: Slight fluff, major angst, death of a major character, pregnancy, mentions of blood, mentions of death, it's just sad y'all

Midnights Masterlist

You were dressed in black. Black gown, gloves, shoes, necklace. There was not a hint of color on your clothing. And there was not a hint of happiness on your face.

Taking your young son's hand in yours, he looked up at you with a sad expression, tilting his head full of curls, "Mother?"

Turning your head to look down at him, you responded sadly, "Yes, my love?"

"Why is everybody so sad?" He asked, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes, "It's making me sad."

You've got no reason to be afraid

Your heart softened, and you kneeled down to his level, your hands on either side of your face, "My sweet boy, it's a sad day. It's okay to feel hurt and upset. You just can't feel that was forever, my love."

He nodded, leaning into you, his small hands wrapping around your neck, "Will you be sad forever, too?"

Biting down on your bottom lip, a stream of tears fell down your face, "Oh, Lucerys, you're so much like your uncle."

"He died, too."

Brushing the curls out of his face, you nodded, "We were devastated when he died. That's why we named you after him."

He nodded, looking down at your swollen stomach, "Then are you going to name the baby after father?"

I play it cool with the best of them

You held your son tighter to you, desperate to hide your tears from him, "I don't yet know, my love."

"I think you should," He said, innocently, "Wherever father is, I think he'd like that."

Pressing a kiss to his temple, you rose from the ground, "I think he would, too."

Clearing your throat, you took his hand once again, "Come on, Luke, we don't want to be late."

"How will we be late?" He questioned, "Father's already gone."

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

6 Years Earlier

Summer went away, still the yearning stays

It was nearly fall, and you were sitting beside Jacaerys on a couch by the fireplace. He was in deep conversation with Baela, arguing over who has the better dragon.

I wait patiently, he's gonna notice me

Casting frequent glances at him, you waited endlessly for him to look towards you.

Finally, after the debate ended when Baela was called by her sister, he turned to you, shaking his head.

The jokes weren't funny, I took the money

The moment she left, he opened his mouth, "I have the better dragon, right?"

You gave him a halfhearted smile, "Of course, Jace."

It's okay, we're the best of friends

"See? That's what friends are for, boosting one's ego," He grinned, resting his head on the back of the couch, "What would I do without you?"

I touch my phone as if it's your face

You ran your fingers over the book in your lap, releasing a small sigh, "I'm not sure, and I don't want to find out."

"My mother's suggesting I marry soon." He admitted, playing with the signet ring on one of his fingers, twisting it left and right.

Your heart started beating, faster and faster, "She is? Who did she suggest?"

"Well, she first mentioned Baela, then one of Cregan's sisters..." He trailed off, sending a quick glance towards you.

I picked the petals, he loves me not

"Well, have you made your decision?" You asked, trying to mask the hurt in your eyes.

Jace shook his head, "Not, not yet."

I'll run away

"My father is asking when I'd like to return home," You say, inhaling sharply.

"Already? I feel as though you've just arrived."

I didn't choose this town, I dream of getting out

You shrugged, "I'm sure I've overstaued my welcome."

"You don't wish to stay longer?"

There's just one who could make me stay

"With your upcoming engagement, I would want to cause any sort of tension."

Just to learn that you never cared

Jace stays silent for a moment. You take that silence as an invitation to leave the room. pursing your lips, you excuse yourself, abruptly standing.

I see the great escape, so long, Daisy May

Making your way towards the doors, you count your steps. One, two, three, four, five—

I hear it in your voice

That's when Jace calls out to you, "What if you stayed?"

You turned to face him, "Jace..."

Just to learn that my dreams aren't rare

"My mother suggested another betrothal. One I've dreamt of since the day I met her," He said, taking small steps towards you.

Take the moment and taste it

He met you by the door, taking your hands in his, "I want you to—I need you to be my wife."

You squeezed his hand, your voice just above a whisper, "Are you certain?"

You always have been

"I've never been more certain in my whole life."

Like I'd be saved by a perfect kiss

Jace leaned into you, his lips moving against yours, your hands still intertwined with one another.

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

One Day Earlier

Everything you lose is a step you take

Stumbling as you made your way towards your husband's lifeless body, your legs gave out beneath you once you reached him.

Unable to control the sobs that wracked through you, you pulled his body towards you, your hand caressing your face as you had done the night before he rode out.

I looked around in a blood-soaked gown

Your cries echoed throughout the hall, his blood seeping into your dress.

I searched the party of better bodies

Looking around frantically, you yelled out for help, "Help him, please, help him, someone, please, Jacaerys!"

My friends from home don't know what to say

But no one did anything. They watched as you begged for help, but there was nothing that could've been done.

Your forehead resting on his, the room went silent except for the gasps of air you took after bouts of tears.

"Jacaerys..." you whispered, your eyes fluttering open.

And I saw something they can't take away

Even with you blurred vision, you saw the metal ring on his finger. Sliding it off, you traded it with your own.

Yeah, you can face this

Pressing a kiss to his lips, you stayed there for a while, covered in blood and filled with silence.

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

Six Months Later

Giving one last push, your daughter was born at the beginning of summer.

I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for this

Panting heavily, she was placed on your chest moments later, eyes shut as she whimpered.

Shushing her, you stroked her cheek with your finger, "Shhh, my love, mother's here."

She stopped crying soon after, falling asleep in your arms.

After a while, you grew restless, desperate for your son to lay eyes on his sister.

Turning to the wet nurse, you requested that she being Lucerys to you.

After a few minutes, a small figure with a head of curls entered the room, hand in hand with his grandmother.

Practically sprinting towards you, he climbed into the bed, twisting his head to get a better look at the baby that lay on your chest.

"She's beautiful, mother," He smiled, "She looks like father."

Looking down at her, you realized she had Jace's eyes, nose, and mouth. The only resemblance she had of you was your skin tone and hair color. It seemed as though he had made her all by himself.

You've got no reason to be afraid

"I'm never going to let anyone hurt her." He said, crossing his arms.

You're on your own, kid

You wish he could've been here to see them. His children. They shared the same love Jace and his brother, Luke, had. But you were on your own.

Lucerys looked up at you, "What's her name, mother?"

"Do you remember what you told me before your father's funeral?"

He shook his head, "No, mother. I was sad."

"You asked if we could name her after your father."

He raised a brow, "Her name is Jacaerys?"

You let out the first smile you had in a long time, brushing your son's hair, "No, my love."

"Then what's her name?"

"Jacyra."

679 notes · View notes

demonic0angel · 1 year

Text

Chapter 1 of somehow whatever's eternal in me knows whatever's eternal in you

A figure staggered within the darkness, groaning. Dressed in a muddied suit and holding bloodied hands to himself, he looked like a drunk and messy young man that had crashed a wedding and gotten into a fight.

Or perhaps, more accurately, a boy that just dug out of his own grave.

The figure wobbled a few more steps before he collapsed upon the ground. Just a few steps ahead, the shadows opened and a tall figure walked out of it, gloom still clinging onto their form. The taller person, distinctly dressed in sharp fashion with a feminine silhouette, paused at seeing the body on the ground before coming closer, the sound of heels echoing in the night.

The woman stopped at the head of the unconscious figure. Then gently, she bent down and attempted to haul him up with a hand around his wrist.

She clicked her tongue when she felt his weight. Then she shifted and the unconscious figure was cradled within her arms.

Anyone seeing this scene would've felt like they were watching something from a thriller.

The woman was abnormally tall and in the darkness, it looked like it was kidnapping. The unconscious figure's legs swung at her elbows.

The shadows curled around her ankles and shoulders, tendrils curiously exploring the person in its master's arms. Her hair, faint in the deep night, looked like blood dripping onto the ground.

The woman hummed in contemplation and then she sank into the shadows.

A car drove by. If it had been faster, the people inside would've caught a glimpse of the woman leaving or maybe even saved the boy themselves. Instead, they continued to drive peacefully, their lives unaffected by what could've been.

The night was still once more, without a single soul.

————

Jason didn't know when he woke up. One moment, it had seemed as though all he felt was pain and loss and loneliness, and then the next, he found himself sitting at a dinner table with a beautiful girl setting a plate of roast vegetables and a beef broth in front of him.

"Jazz?" He slurred. The girl, with the name Jazz floating somewhere in his brain, paused and tilted her head. Her hair was a beautiful red, even darker and richer than Barbara's but only a shade or two lighter than Aunt Kate's. It drew his eyes towards her, making him unable to look away as his vision blurred in and out of focus.

Wait, who was Barbara? Or Aunt Kate in the first place?

"Welcome back. Are you ready to tell me your name now?" She asked. Her voice sounded like it was meant to be used sweetly but it was instead completely and utterly dead without intonation.

"... Jason," he murmured, as a heavy fog began to set in his mind.

Without a warning, he was pulled back under into the fog.

He woke up again to the tall girl speaking with a collection of people. To him, they looked like green blobs. Before he could even say anything, he sank back into darkness.

The next time he snapped to awareness, the girl, Jazz, was tipping a cup of lightly glowing green water into his mouth. He choked on it as alarm finally struck him, the taste of something sweet and carbonated making his tastebuds tingle.

Ruthlessly, Jazz's hand shot out like an arrow and pinched his nose, forcing him to swallow all of it. He gagged with the taste of some sort of bizarre energy drink sliding down his throat. He coughed as a handkerchief wiped the corner of his lips.

He looked at Jazz pitifully, unable to muster resentment as he stared at her face and all he felt was gratitude and affection.

But why?

Jason couldn't answer this question.

"Jazz?" He croaked. "What was that?"

The fog in his brain did not creep up on him, as his eyes adjusted to sudden alertness. It was as if he was sunken underwater and then suddenly, he was brought to air, to bright sunlight and warm winds. He felt better than he had ever felt before.

"That was diluted ectoplasm. I figured since you already died once, ectoplasm wouldn't have a negative effect on your recovery and I was right. The introduction of ectoplasm to your body system seems to have a positive influence."

Something about what she said didn't sound right.

"I died?"

"Yes." She stood up, towering over him for a moment as she reached to pick up a pen and clipboard on the other side of the medical cot. "What do you remember?"

"I-I... I know your name somehow... my name is... Jason? Jason. Jason Todd. I don't think I should be telling you this for some reason."

She hummed.

"What do you know about Gotham?"

"That's where I lived." He blurted before he reached up to rub at his head, where a headache was beginning to build.

Jazz wrote something on a clipboard.

"I see that memories are still escaping you. Just one more thing. What do you remember about your death?"

The room descended into silence.

Jason's breath quickened as his heart raced. He couldn't remember. Was it because he couldn't? Or because he didn't want to? Something about the memory scared him, carving the hole inside of him deeper and deeper until he was scratching at the skin of his hands, unable to resist the feeling of suffocation, of feeling like his skin was too tight for his body and he was going to explode into little pieces if he didn't escape.

Calloused hands wrapped around his wrists and he flinched as he looked up.

Jazz's aqua green eyes stared at him cooly. From what he had seen, her expression had never even changed. It was a blank canvas of porcelain beauty. She was young too, a teenager, like him.

Jason gulped and flushed at the weight of her gaze.

"Calm down." She said, her thumbs brushing over the side of his wrists before she pulled away. "I apologize for the fright. Are you hungry?"

Jason nodded silently, embarrassed by his outburst. Jazz stood up again and put the pen and clipboard away before she reached over to help Jason to his feet. Awkward at the fact that he had to accept her help, he pushed her hands away and walked on his own.

Her eyes widened just a tad in surprise, making Jason preen before she turned and began walking, gesturing for him to follow. Jason looked at his surroundings as he followed behind her silently.

They were inside of a large but abandoned warehouse, which was filled with towers and shelves of boxes. There was no sounds of other people, only the two of them.

Jason spent a moment just staring at Jazz's tall back before he had to look away, his cheeks warming.

Ah, no wonder he felt nothing but adoration for her.

The fog came back and took him under once more.

The next time he left the fog, he was lying on a mattress as Jazz read to him. They were in the corner of the warehouse, with Jason's mattress pushed against the wall. When he exhaled and then sat up, she stopped reading and turned to look at him.

"Back again?" She closed the book.

It was 'The Little Prince', by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

Jason groaned. "When will this end?! I— I can't seem to stay awake." He tried to lower his voice at the end, ashamed of the fact that he raised it in the first place in front of her.

Jazz blinked slowly. "Recovery will be slow. Your body is recovering from atrophy and your mind and soul is recovering from death. You will get better."

Jason clutched at the thick blankets that pooled at his legs.

"Why... Why are you helping me?"

Jazz blinked again and then turned towards the open area in front of them, staring into space in thought. "I... don't know. I saw you on the ground and I just wanted to help you." She turned back to him and looked into his eyes.Jason blushed.

God, she was so pretty.

"What do you want to do?" 'With me? In life? In general?' Went unspoken.

"I am going to take over Gotham City," she said. "I need the city for reasons I won't tell you. You don't need to help me. Just don't stop me."

Jason was pulled under again before he could answer.

When he awake again, his mind felt clear than ever. He gave a soft, "Hi," to Jazz, who sat against the wall with a laptop in her lap. She clicked on a few keys before she answered without turning.

"Hello, Jason. How do you feel?"

"Surprisingly, great." He stretched and smiled at her. She was now watching him with keen eyes and it made him blush a little. She tilted her head and then nodded, closing her laptop.

"Jason, what would you like to do after you recover?"

Jason stared. "What?"

"I have funds, but I can acquire more if you need it if you have a specific goal in mind. You were a billionaire's son before you died. Tell me and I'll help you."

Jason blinked and thought to himself briefly before he spoke. "I don't... I don't remember my past life. Everything is still blurry to me. I— I'd like to stay with you until then. Will that be allowed?"

Jazz's shoulders slumped for a moment and Jason was happy to see that it was from relief.

Did she also grow to like him from their time spent together?

"Alright," she said. "Recovering will take at least four years. I will help you in every way I can. In return, you will offer me any information you know and not stand in my way, understand? I know that your home was Gotham but I need that city."

Even without the pleading tone in her voice, he probably would've done it anyways.

"Of course," he said, nodding firmly as he gave her a smile when she turned to look at him. "I will support your goals no matter what."

She gave a sweet, sad smile, the first emotion he saw from her. It made her look young and cute, less like a carved marble statue and more like the young girl he expected. "I sure hope so."

For the next few months, Jason trained under Jazz as his memory slowly returned to him.

Both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, she had allies that could help him. He was pleased that they were able to teach him. He was bewildered because none of them were alive. She had answered nearly all of his questions when he asked, of course, which also surprised him because he had expected secrets from her.

For example, her shadows were sentient. They were some sort of ectoplasm-using spirit creature she formed a contract with. In exchange for power and servitude, she offered energy from her own reserves as well as any sacrifices the spirit needed.

She also explained what the fuck ectoplasm was.

"Ectoplasm is a substance that makes up all ghosts, or ecto-entities, as the government would say," she had sneered at this, "It has resurrective qualities and radioactive properties that are beneficial for all existences that are touched by death."

"And I'm touched by death?"

"You've been dead, Jason. You've been touched and consumed by death but now you're regurgitated and reborn. That has consequences." She had said, patient as ever.

Because of Jazz's interventions, his healing came quickly. She taught him about ghosts and everything that existed within the Infinite Realms.

Her allies were all beings from the Ghost Zone and they were happy to train him at Jazz's request.

There were a few that refused to meet him, but for the most part, he had a multitude of tutors in the form of ghosts. Sometimes, they would "overshadow" him and the knowledge of what they wanted him to learn would come naturally. Other times, they would teach him without the usage of their powers and Jason could almost pretend that he was in the Batcave, with its echoing words and cold temperatures, and not with ghosts.

He didn't see Jazz very often. It was something he absolutely despised. She was usually away and if Jason ever asked, she would answer that she was making plans for the future. Of course, she was always purposefully vague but she never ignored him or left his questions unanswered. It was a habit of hers that reminded him of Batman. It made him nostalgic and annoyed all over but because it was Jazz doing it, he just found it mostly endearing.

In the meantime, he trained with ghosts and learned anything that Batman hadn't taught him.

Batman.

The Knight of Gotham.

Bruce Wayne.

The Prince of Gotham.

Dad.

Jason had perhaps the biggest and most embarrassing meltdown in existence when he recovered the memory of Bruce Wayne, Batman, being his dad, especially when he soon gained the memory of his death too. He had cried and screamed when he remembered how Joker had tortured him with a crowbar, when he remembered the betrayal of his birthmother, when he remembered the pain and the tears and the damnable hope—

Jazz had held him throughout it all. Had held him while he begged the heavens for answers, for why he was still alive, for why the Joker had killed him, and for why Bruce never came back for him.

Even when he had pushed her away, she held no grudge against him.

Instead, she had quietly reassured him that he was strong for surviving, that he deserved to be saved, and that he was cared for and cherished.

It was like she was reaching inside of him and plucking the strings of his heart.

Jazz was radiant. Like the sun compared to the street rat that was Jason.

Sometimes, it bewildered him how the shadows heeded her call and obeyed her like she was one of them when to him, it just made so much more sense if she had the ability to control light and warmth instead.

Despite her cool demeanor, she was gentle and kind. She, despite now being called a supervillain by the media and populace, was a better person than Jason had ever been as Robin.

Sometimes, he imagined what it would've been like before he had died and if they had met during that time.

Jason could only dream. He probably would've skipped patrols and faced Batman's wrath for leaving behind his post to flirt with Jazz.

He smiled at the thought but then frowned again.

Bruce. His dad.

Why didn't he come back for him?

How come someone like Jazz found him on accident while his dad was still out there, oblivious to the fact that his son was still alive?

Didn't he visit his parents' graves every week? How come he didn't know Jason was still alive? It had been months.

He bit his lip.

Whatever.

Jason shook his head to get rid of his thoughts and refocused on going through his sets of sword moves. He paused when he sensed eyes on him, but the tingle of ectoplasm didn't cause goosebumps on his skin. He turned, and stared at a woman with caramel skin and dark hair. She stared at him back, with an expression like she hadn't expected him to react.

"What the fuck?" He said.

"Language." She scolded and then began to walk closer to him.

Jason immediately swung his sword and snarled when he saw how expertly she dodged. "How'd you get in here?! What did you do?!"

Jazz had told him that the warehouse was located somewhere in California. She got to the other side of the US through her shadows, and so she has reassured him with the usage of technology and ghost powers, that he was safe.

Clearly, whatever this random woman had done, she had the ability to bypass the security.

The woman paused. "Jason, how are you alive? Does Bruce know?"

"What are you talking about?" He hesitated at the mention of Bruce's name and she took the opportunity to dart forward and then knock the sword out of his hand, a sleek dagger pressing itself against Jason's throat. Jason froze.

He had been careless.

It seemed as though Bruce would remain one of his weaknesses.

The woman used her other hand to pat his cheek and touch his hair. He grimaced and resisted the urge to bite into her palm as she fingered the white strand of hair on his head. Apparently, when Jazz had been healing him with ectoplasm, it had grown in overnight. She could only explain it by saying that she knew others who received the same experience of growing white hair after accidents involving ectoplasm.

The point was, that hair strand had come from ectoplasm and it was also something that came from Jazz and he hated anyone touching it.

"Hands off of me." He finally had enough and slapped the hand away.

He moved backwards, wary and very, very careful. He could sense no other presence but that didn't mean anything. If this woman had gotten this far within the warehouse, who knew who else could've followed her inside?

The woman sighed and looked at him mournfully with emerald eyes. "Oh, Jason. How were you resurrected?"

"How do you know my name?!"

She smiled a little. "My name is Talia al Ghul. And Batman and I are meant to be."

He stared at her, taking another wary step back. "You're delusional."

She frowned.

Jason took another step back and asked, "How did you get in here?"

"We've been keeping an eye on you for awhile now. When we found that your grave was disturbed, we sought to find out who did it. To think that it could've been you yourself... how are you alive?"

He snarled, glancing at his sword that laid on the ground some distance away. "None of your business."

Goosebumps suddenly rose from his skin as the surface beneath his feet became soft for just a moment. In an instant, he knew that Jazz had come, and he straightened, just as he felt a hand slide onto his shoulder. He resisted the urge to look behind him.

He knew who it was.

"Hello. What is your business here?"

Talia was silent, her expression sullen and frustrated before she bowed, a small motion with no real respect behind it. Jason grit his teeth and resisted the urge to berate her.

"Greetings. I am Talia al Ghul and I had received news of Jason Todd's revival a few weeks ago. I tracked him down here, to meet him. Were you the one who resurrected him?"

"No," Jazz answered. "I only helped him recover his memories."

"Hm. Does Bruce know about this?"

Jason glared at Talia. "Why does he need to know?"

"He's your father, isn't he?" She put her hands on her hips. "He deserves to know."

"Fuck you." Jason snapped. He clenched his fists. How dare she act as if she knew the relationship between them? As if she had a hand in how Jason would approach Bruce? As if she could control him and what he did?

"Jason," Jazz said, and her voice immediately snapped him out of his rage. He calmed, taking a deep breath and letting the hand on his shoulder ground him firmly. Her shadows curled around his ankles, a comforting shackle.

He didn't want Jazz to think less of him.

So he shut up as Jazz started to talk. "If that's all, please leave. Jason doesn't wish to meet Bruce and that is all. Respect his wishes."

Talia hummed, crossing her arms as she rested a finger on her lips. Then she said carefully, "How about I take Jason off your hands?"

Jason froze. "What?" Then he processed the words and then snarled. "What?!"

Talia continued, "I want to help him. If you allow me to take him, I will train him to the best of my abilities. You saved him for a reason, no? I can bring him back to you, in one piece, unharmed and taught."

Jazz only said, "It will be Jason's decision. And frankly, I don't trust you. I don't even know you. You came into this warehouse and demanded Jason. How do I know you're not lying?"

"Because I love Bruce. And I wouldn't purposefully hurt one of his children. I will do whatever it takes for Jason's fullest potential." Talia argued.

Jason felt like he was vibrating out of his skin. Immediately, he said, "No. I'm not going."

Talia frowned. "You don't want to learn?

"I have no need for training from a woman I don't even know or trust." He snapped.

"If you come with me, you will grow more powerful. Someone who can stand by that girl's side. You love her, don't you?" Talia gestured to Jazz. "If you come and train with me, I guarantee that you will be able to fight alongside her."

Both Jazz and Jason stiffened in unison.

Then Jazz said firmly, "Jason, you don't have to do it for me."

Cheeks growing warm, Jason pushed through the feeling of humiliation from being outed from his crush and then said, "I still don't trust you."

"Then what would make you trust me? Believe me when I say that I just want to help."

Jazz spoke up. "Promise me by the name of the Ancients. If they approve, I'll allow Jason's training."

Jason glowered as Talia was lead through making some sort of verbal binding vow by Jazz.

"I swear, by the name and power of the Ancients, that I will guide and teach Jason Peter Todd to the best of my abilities and the goodness of my heart. May my afterlife and future be condemned if I ever break this promise."

With that, Jazz seemed satisfied and both women turned to look at him for his answer.

Jason looked down at the ground and then nodded.

After that, Jason was instructed to pack up, because he'd be leaving right away. A small part of him wanted Jazz to ask him to stay, to ask him to not leave her but she didn't say a word as she packed his belongings into a suitcase.

There were little belongings that he possessed, but all of them had come from Jazz. She sat there, on the floor, as she folded his clothes and Jason ached with the force of his need to stay with her, to hold her hand and look her in the eyes, and confess his feelings for her. But he couldn't.

Not while she still had things to do.

She didn’t need distractions from someone like him. He saw how she was starting to help Gotham. She was doing good. Whatever she needed to do, he would only hinder her if he was at where he was right now.

He bit back the protests he had about leaving because he liked the thought of becoming stronger, strong enough to help Jazz achieve her goal. After all, he did want to do this. Just not away from her.

She still hadn't said a word about Talia's admittance of his crush on her and he had not denied it.

He shoved his books into the suitcase and met her gaze when she set her hand on top of his.

"What about your socks? You won't have room."

"You can keep them. You like them because they're warmer, no?" He asked, not needing an answer to an obvious question. Her fingers and feet went colder than normal. He was the opposite, having always had a warm body and a hot temperature.

The two of them were suited for each other, he thought longingly.

She chewed on her bottom lip and he looked away, unable to handle the look on her face, unless he wanted to start hoping.

"Jason," she said finally, "come back to me safely. If anything happens... I want to know, so I can help."

"Of course," he replied instantly as he turned back to face her and his breath caught in his lungs as she leaned forward and placed a short kiss on his cheek. She pulled back and smiled shyly, a rare display of emotion as she fidgeted with the ends of her hair. Her shadow formed a heart behind her, almost making him laugh.

Jason flushed, cheeks warm and chest tight with all sorts of butterflies and worms all wriggling into his heart to burrow their way into his feelings.

"I'll wait for you." She said, and Jason almost burst into an explosion of confetti and love confessions.

"Okay," he said dumbly.

That would be the last time they spoke before Talia would whisk him away.

————

Training was hard.

The League of Shadows were brutal and deadly, and although they didn't treat him any less because of his age or background, they almost seemed crueler when they were reminded of the fact that Talia had been the one to bring him to the League.

When Jason had the time to stop training and had the chance to use the internet, he would sometimes see Jazz on the news, where she could be seen escaping the cameras after decimating gangs and getting rid of corrupt officials. Sometimes, he would catch her on Blüdhaven news channels too, where he would see her jump over the rooftops of Gotham's sister city and away from Nightwing, though that was rare because she almost never crossed the border of Gotham's city to another.

All of the news channels and papers didn't know what to think of her, especially because she was way more open in front of interviewers and cameras than Batman. Thousands of news titles crossed Jason's feed every time he tried searching up anything about Gotham.

'Mysterious Redhead Takes Down Gotham Drug Cartel! Not One of Batman's?'

'Exclusive Interview with Commissioner Gordon: RedHead Vigilante is Not One of Us!'

'Black Mask, Scarecrow, Bane: Captured By Redhead!'

Thank goodness for the fact that ectoplasm corrupted footage and audio. Otherwise, Jason would've had many heart attacks from the possible identity reveals alone, especially because she never wore a mask.

Jason was sure that Bruce was ripping his hair out to try and discover who Jazz was. Jason knew that the new Robin would help Batman, but he wondered if Dick was going to help him look into it, or if he still hadn't reconciled with Bruce.

He... kind of missed Dick, despite how distant he had been sometimes.

He deeply mourned the loss of what could've been a brotherly relationship and felt bitterly jealous over the new Robin, but he didn't focus on his feelings. He trained with swords and weapons that Batman had never taught him and although he faced assassination attempts every week, it was worth it.

He didn't need to be Batman's son, or Robin.

He would just be himself and try to help Jazz as much as he could, just like she had helped him.

Talia taught him to the best of her abilities and when he successfully completed all of her lessons, she brought him to the All-Caste under her recommendation. While she was kind, she certainly wasn't gentle and also wasn't afraid to break a few bones to make him learn his lesson. Ducra, the leader of the All-Caste, was even worse, but thankfully, it didn't feel like straight up abuse and his suffering was beginning to feel worth it.

He felt like everything had been going well at the League of Shadows, especially because he was progressing quickly under Talia and Ducra's tutelage.

But everything changed when Ra's al Ghul pushed him into the Lazarus Pits in some sort of misguided attempt to heal him from death or even possible assassination.

Death would've been kinder.

Torture would've been wanted.

Even rejection from Batman and Jazz would've been more gentle than the pain that tore through his limbs and bones, that broke him down and recreated him, that changed him.

When he finally broke through the hold the Pits had on him and pulled himself out, it was as if his mind had fractured underneath the pressure of corrupted ectoplasm flooding his poor, unbroken body.

There was almost nothing to heal but perhaps the effects of malnourishment and half-healed wounds from previous training.

It was hardly enough for the Pits to be able to do anything with.

And so it took from his head.

————

Green and red clouded his vision.

What was he doing again?

His hands were slick and warm. He felt heavy. Like his clothes were wet and he was weighed down.

Red. Red, red, red, red.

This wasn't the red that he fell in love with though.

Where was that bright red that flew alongside green and yellow? Where was that red that colored books and cakes and Christmas gifts? Where was the red that belonged to her?

Jason was pulled back under the red and green.

————

When he woke again, Jason awoke to the memory of another Robin flying through Gotham. He remembered learning that Batman had another Robin, not one that was him, not one that had already flown to Blüdhaven, not one that had been his son.

No, this Robin had come out of nowhere, taking his place within the family. He had replaced him.

His dad had replaced him so easily.

Did he mean nothing?

This time, he welcomed the red and green.

————

When he awoke again, it was to the taste of sweet, strange soda, like an energy drink that had been left out in the sun and fermented into a sugary sludge that was like electricity solidified.

He blinked blearily, nuzzling the cool skin underneath his cheek. Jazz cradled his head to her chest closely, tipping another gulp of pure ectoplasm into his mouth. Even if the taste made him want to gag, like eating staticky gummy worms after only eating stale pretzels for years, he drank it all.

His mind told him that whatever Jazz wanted, whatever she did to him, she would do it to help him.

Like a tide to the moon, like a moth to candlelight, like Icarus to the sun, he would follow her lead.

He closed his eyes and drank.

Finally, when he finished drinking all of the ectoplasm, she pulled the cup away and cradled his face.

His mind was quiet, like a lulling ocean. He couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything but her touch.

"Jason. How are you feeling?"

He didn't respond. He stared through half lidded eyes at her face, once again memorizing her details into his mind.

Jason drank in the sight of her like a thirsty man within a desert oasis.

The news cameras could not capture her beauty. She had aged in the last three years. Her baby fat had been washed away, revealing a beautiful woman. Jason ached the force of his love for her. Time had only strengthened the love in him, not lessened its fire.

The worry in her eyes intensified and she brushed back his hair, pressing her hand against his head. He blinked slowly, dazedly, as she continued to fret over him.

"... Jazz?" He finally croaked and she breathed a sigh of relief before holding him close.

He was met with a face full of her hair but he didn't mind. Her worry was more than worth it for him.

"Jason." She breathed. "I was so scared. I heard of how Ra's al Ghul used the Pits on you. Talia wasn't there to stop him and— ugh. You're making me so needlessly worried." She pulled back and stared at him. "Idiot."

How did an insult sound so indulgent and loving?

Jason's lips pulled into a slow smile. "Yours."

She looked downward and away, but her pale cheeks couldn't hide the flush.

Jazz gained enough composure and finally turned around, her face set in the same blank mask as always, if it wasn't for the little twinkle in her eyes. She hugged him again and said, "I'm sorry I couldn't have been there for you. I'm here now. I expect that your training was satisfactory? It's been almost three years after all."

He hummed. "Water, please."

"Ah! That's right, yes, water." She fumbled adorably and then fed him a cup of water, washing away the taste of undiluted, raw ectoplasm.

Jason cleared his throat when he finished and said, "It's been great. I trained with the All-Caste when I wasn't training with the League. They're an independent group of people that train to help protect the world from the supernatural. I've learned a lot from them." A hint of pride entered his voice.

"Talia treated me pretty well. What Ra's al Ghul did wasn't her fault."

Jazz's eyebrows furrowed. "Yes, I am aware. You only arrived a few days ago. She has apologized quite thoroughly and was the one who sent you to me. It seems because of your... swim, that the League of Shadows is in disarray and chaos. She gave me her greatest treasure to compensate for the danger to your life."

Jason blinked. "You know, you've grown more expressive over the years, huh?"

Jazz returned the blink and then put a hand to her face. She paused, as if trying to understand what he meant before she said, "I... wasn't always like this. I've only just started smiling around you."

Then she clicked her mouth shut and turned away.

Jason resisted the urge to tease her and changed the subject, "What's Talia's greatest treasure?"

Jazz turned back slowly, wary amusement in her eyes even while her expression was blank. "I'll show you."

She turned to the side and called out, "Damian!"

A boy leapt down from the ceiling and crossed his arms, glaring at Jason.

Jason's jaw dropped. He hadn't noticed him at all! Looking at him further, Jason was even more gobsmacked.

The boy looked exactly like Bruce Wayne as a kid.

Minus the dark skin and green eyes, of course.

Jason turned back to Jazz and his expression must've said a lot because she only nodded and said, "This is Damian al Ghul, son of Talia al Ghul and Bruce Wayne."

Damian clicked his tongue and glared at her ferociously. "Remember all of my titles, wench. I am the heir to the League of Shadows and son of Batman, the true blood heir, unlike the rest of the inferior Robins."

Jason felt a hot fury pierce through him, red and green tinting the edges of his vision again. "Wench?! Watch your tongue, brat!"

"Why should I? I have no idea what Mother was thinking, sending me to mix with the rift-raft." Damian snorted to himself. "You're nothing but a weakling that succumbed to Pit Madness. I have no respect for you and I refuse to obey the word of a pathetic failure like you. Mother should've dropped me off to Father, not any of you."

Jason's rage, for some reason, decided to slow and simmer down. He still had to resist the urge to move away from Jazz's lap and strangle the damn kid though, but he refrained.

"I don't care what you call me, but treat Jazz with respect."

Damon rolled his eyes again. "As if I care for some inbred, useless woman."

Jazz wrapped her arms around his shoulders to hold him back from killing the damn kid.

"Damian," Jazz said soothingly, "your mother brought you here to protect you. There is no need to lash out."

Damian bristled. "I do not need protection! I have been trained from birth to kill and I can certainly protect myself! Far better than the two of you can even do, you abominable weaklings! Once I leave this place, I will go and see my father, Batman!"

Jason resisted the urge to beat the crap out of the kid. He forced back the colors that were clouding his vision again with a careful breath.

Jazz exhaled through her nose. "You're still a child. And I can assure you, you will be safe here." She turned and looked down at Jason. "Hungry?"

Jason grumbled but got to his feet, nodding as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. His clothes had changed from what he had last remembered wearing. He was now clad in a pair of sweatpants and a cotton t-shirt. Jazz stepped in front of him and she gestured Damian to follow as she lead the two of them to another room.

Damian sneered but followed along.

Jason looked around, vaguely surprised at where he was.

Jazz had somehow upgraded the warehouse from before to a high-end apartment, one with lofty rooms, high ceilings, and wide windows. There was sparse furniture within any of the rooms Jason peeked inside of, but it looked less intentional and more like she just forgot to go shopping for it. Blob ghosts bounced along the floor, some curiously approaching them as Jazz walked past them.

Standing within the space, Jason felt a clawing from within him, like a caged monster that didn't feel suited to such a nice and clean area.

Jazz was suited to this place though. She was clean and lovely and deserved all of the luxuries in the world.

Jazz lead the both of the dining room, where she set Damian to her left and Jason to her right, facing each other before she left to cook the food.

"Be good," she said and Jason melted a little before nodding.

He wanted to be good for her. For her, he'd do anything.

Jason idly picked at his nails. Underneath his nails was a dark brown stain, like blood, and Jason pursed his lips, uncomfortable at the thought that he had been killing others, before he looked up to see Damian watching him with a brooding expression, one that would cross Bruce's face many times in the future.

Jason didn't say anything, just looking away, although he noticed the triumphant look on Damian's face.

God, this kid was so bratty, but for some reason, it was kind of adorable.

They sat in silence for a long time, at least half an hour as Jazz prepared the food. Jason was tempted to stand and help her— he loved working together with her in the kitchen because it reminded him of when he was young and Alfred taught him recipes within the Wayne Manor kitchen— but he decided to settle and stay at the dining table to watch over Damian.

Finally, Jason grew bored and he folded his hands in his lap, leaned back, and said, "So. Talia sent you here, huh? What for?"

"It's League business. You have no right and no need to know." Damian said haughtily.

Jason gave a snort. "So you don't know, huh? Typical."

Damian rose to the bait and growled, standing up as he placed his hands on the table and leaned to snarl at Jason's face.

"Shut your mouth, you filthy—"

"Dinner's ready," Jazz said, her voice its usual flatness. She set bowls of rice in front of them and said, "Eat."

Damian glared the bowl of pilaf. Jazz left to bring back three more bowls of salad and when she returned, Damian opened his mouth to complain. "My mother never should've brought me here. If I am forced to eat peasant food, then I would rather die."

Jazz stared at him with a blank expression before she said, "Alright. You don't have to eat it. Sit there until we finish."

Then she began to eat. Jason hid his smile and followed her lead, putting a spoonful of flavorful rice pilaf into his mouth after a few careful blows. He gave an exaggerated moan and swallowed his food before he turned to Jazz and said, "It's delicious. Have you been practicing?"

Jazz' face softened for a moment, and she said, "Yeah, I have been. Do you like it?"

"It's great!" Jason beamed.

Damian's expression had darkened dangerously.

In one smooth motion, he took the provided fork that Jazz gave and pounced at her. Jason had a knee jerk reaction to the sight, nearly lunging forward to block Jazz when the shadows around her shot out and tightly wrapped around Damian, who made an undignified noise and screamed in rage. The shadows curled around his shoulders, arms, and legs, black tendrils wrapping around his hand and tugging him backwards as she struggled. The fork dropped to the table and Damian made a noise that was halfway between a sob and a snarl.

Jazz waved a hand and the shadows retreated, letting Damian slump onto the table. Jazz steadied him with careful hands and she asked, "Are you alright—?" before her breath hitched.

Jason's blood began to roar in his ears.

Red began to stain the table with thick droplets.

Damian twisted the fork into Jazz's side and she gave a small gasp at the pain.

Green and red clouded his vision and Jason shook with the urge to kill that damn brat.

"You fucking bastard!" Jason snarled. He wasn't armed but if that vermin was going to use cutlery to hurt Jazz, he didn't mind returning the favor and using his spoon to kill him.

"Jason," Jazz said monotonously. He didn't care though, and he surged forward to grab Damian by the back of his shirt, swinging him off the table and tossing him towards the wall.

"Jason."

He couldn't hear her through the rage and bloodlust clogging his chest. Damian got to his feet and smirked, though a hint of fear entered his eyes.

"Tt. If it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get," he said. "I heard you were a failed Robin before. Perhaps I should kill you and bring you to Batman as proof of my prowess."

"I'm going to tear you apart." Jason's voice rumbled with his fury. "You're nothing but a weak, pathetic little brat who can't even appreciate kindness when it's given to you.

"Jason! Enough!"

He moved forward but then a strong grip held his wrist back. He pulled his hand forward to throw them off but halted when he saw Jazz's cool expression. Her eyebrows dipped on her forehead, the only sign of her agitation.

The moment he registered her eyes on him, all anger left him like a deflated balloon. He quieted, ashamed and red faced, hunching in on himself as he looked away from her accusing gaze.

"Jason."

"He attacked you." Jason said weakly.

Jazz raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine. It's all healed now, wanna see?" She lifted the edges of the torn hole in her shirt to reveal smooth skin that was tacky with dried blood underneath.

Jason bit his lips. "Sorry."

"Not to me, Jason. Say sorry to Damian."

He could practically sense Damian's conflicting arrogance and confusion.

As fair as always, however, she turned to Damian and said, "You will also apologize to Jason for aggravating him. Your mother brought you to us for protection. While you are under my care, you will not hurt another person in my protection, understand? Apologize to each other."

Jason lifted his eyes and Jazz stared at him with familiar turquoise eyes. Her gaze held no anger, no judgement. She was as a calm as a lake and steady as the mountains. Unlike Bruce, she wouldn't cast him out for stupid mistakes.

He ignored the pain in his heart from the thought of his ex-dad and turned to Damian, who was back to glowering.

"I'm sorry for attacking you."

"You should be." Damian spat.

The air around them chilled enough for Damian to notice and stare at Jazz, wide eyed. She loomed over him, expression blank and emotionless. Her body language and face revealed none of her emotions and yet the two boys could sense that she was very displeased.

Damian clicked his tongue and then said, "I... apologize," the word 'apologize' sounded like it had been strangled out of him, "for attacking your... keeper. And I apologize for provoking you as well."

"Apology accepted," Jason replied dryly.

Damian huffed out of his nose and then pointed the fork he had attacked Jazz with at her. "Tell me, witch, how did you heal yourself? Mother never told me you were not human."

Before Jason could even snap a reply at him for daring to point a fork at Jazz and insulting her, she plucked the fork out of his fingers and pocketed it. "I have accelerated healing."

She sighed down at the spilled food on the table and then said, "I will prepare another dish and more utensils. Sit and eat this time."

Damian huffed again and crossed his arms.

Jason grimaced and sat back down, picking up his spoon again.

Well, even if it was infested with a pest, at least he was back home and with Jazz.

————

Unfortunately, the pest kind of grew on him.

Damian was kind of cute in a tiny-baby-animal-who-has-rabies kind of way. He was absolutely feral and quick to violence but he was also intelligent and clever, even when more often than not, he used his wits to find more and more creative ways to insult Jason and Jazz, like the way they dressed, the way they are, then the house they lived in, the blob ghosts that found their homes around them, and then even the way they breathed.

Jason had to wonder to himself, 'Was this what having a little brother felt like?'

But then he realized that no, having a little brother probably didn't require this much murderous intent and assassination attempts. In fact, because of how many attempts there were, Jazz had to move the dining table to the kitchen just so she could keep an eye on them without having to use her shadows, which Jazz tried not to use often on Damian because of how he was frightened he was of it.

Damian, of course, attached himself to Jazz the moment he began to recognize her power and also grew to like the shadows, which often coiled his ankles like a languid dog.

Jason would've been jealous if he wasn't already aware of how cuddly those shadows were.

"Why can't I come with you?!" Damian demanded the next time Jazz went to leave to finish more business in Gotham.

Jason looked up from his college books. After some time, Jazz had convinced him to take online college courses. He was currently on his way to earning his English degree with a small minor in law.

Damian looked at him for assistance but Jason just looked back down. He pretended to write a few notes as Damian sulked and tugged futilely on Jazz's coat.

"Jazlyn!" Damian protested again.

That was something new too.

Jazz wasn't just Jazz. She was Jazlyn Nightingale now.

He didn’t mind. He figured that Jason Nightingale didn't sound too bad.

He was once again interrupted out of his daydream when Jazz spoke up.

"Damian—" she sighed, but Jason interrupted her.

"You should let him go with you." Jason said, giving a reassuring smile when both of them looked at him with wide eyes.

Damian gave him an astonished look but then looked at Jazz with a smirk, confident that since Jason was backing him up, Jazz would naturally fall in line.

It was kind of cute how he thought Jason had some measure of control over Jazz.

Jazz sighed again. "Damian, you won't be able to keep up."

"I'm fast enough and I'm strong enough! I'm far more capable than you believe, Jazlyn." He crossed his arms and glared at her.

Jason gave a snort. He took off his reading glasses and said, "Jazz, just let him go with you. The more excuses you give, the more you're just treating him like a child."

She hesitated and then finally caved. "I'm sorry, Damian. I didn't mean to treat you like a child."

Damian clicked his tongue but he still looked pleased at the fact that he was allowed to go, blushing a little as Jazz patted him on the head in apology. He quickly pulled his head away, hissing like a cat.

Jason hid a smile at the cute sight.

Whatever, he'd help the brat just this once.

Jazz went to find a suitable uniform for Damian to wear but had to promise him that she'd make a better and more fitted outfit for him for the next time he'd go with her. Jazz looked resigned to her fate but agreed.

Damian laid himself over the back of the couch in an undignified pose, the kind that would've made himself angry to see some weeks ago, before he began to poke Jason's shoulder.

"Yes, Damian?"

"What do you want to eat? I will endeavor to bring it home so I can repay you for your assistance." He said grouchily.

Jason burst out laughing. "You're so weird!"

Damian scowled, cheeks turning pink. "Do you want it or not?!"

"Yes, yes," Jason said, still chuckling to himself, "Can you bring me some sushi? I've been craving it."

"What kind?" Damian asked begrudgingly.

They discussed sushi flavors until Jazz finally returned with a small uniform and a cloak. Damian took the clothes with skeptical eyes before he looked at Jazz. "Where did you get these?"

"The Ghost Zone."

Damian wrinkled his nose but obediently went into the bathroom to change. Jazz took Damian's spot, elbows pressing against the back of the couch as she stared at Jason. Jason resisted the urge to turn and stare at her unless he wanted to be blinded further but really —did it even matter when the last thing he would see would be Jazz?— and continued to work on his paper. As he was looking up peer reviews, there was the touch of fingers against his scalp before nails scratched lightly on his head, tugging at knotted curls.

Jason twitched and then promptly melted, leaning back into Jazz's hands.

"You haven't brushed your hair today." She murmured. The shadow she cast wriggled and they pooled into his lap, into the shape of an inky dog. He scratched the sentient darkness, the both of them nearly rumbling with pleasure as Jazz threaded her fingers into his hair. Blob ghosts trailed closer, nuzzling against Jason's legs, their cool and smooth skin making his own tingle.

Damian returned, wearing the dark colored uniform. It was red and black and though it didn't fit him perfectly, it was perfect in making him look like a miniature assassin. A blob ghost sat on his shoulder, half way over his head. Jazz moved away from Jason as her hands smoothed over the cape and gently pushed off the blob ghost.

"Come, Damian. On the way, I'll tell you the boundaries I have set."

"We will discuss them." Damian said sternly.

Jazz chuckled, a small smile breaking her doll face. "Of course." Jason stood up as Jazz's shadows formed a dark abyss on the floor. Before the two could step off and teleport into Gotham's belly, Jason opened his arms.

"No hug before you go?"

The two of them paused and then turned in his direction, one with a blank expression, the other with offended bewilderment.

Jazz stepped closer and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. His insides melted and flowed down to his feet, turning his knees wobbly and sticking him to the floor.

Damian glared at him. "Don't be presumptious, weakling. I have no need for physical affecttion."

"Damian." Jazz sighed, but then shook her head and guided him to the hole her shadows created. He dodged the hand that came to his shoulder but didn't say another word.

Jason grinned, not minding too much, and chirped, "Bye! Kick ass, you hear me?"

Jazz gave a lazy salute and then the both of them jumped into the shadows.

Later, when the two of them came back, Damian was carrying a bag of an assortment of sushi, cheeks flushed with exhilaration as he babbled and rambled about patrolling with Jazz. Even when they were eating, he couldn't stop talking about his patrol.

"And then she took down those worthless criminals with a single wave of her hand! Her hand-to-hand needed some work, it was simply atrocious but we met Batman and his Robin when they attempted to intercept our fight. Of course, they were too weak and pathetic to capture to us, but Batman's skills are admirable. Mother was correct in guessing that he was a warrior. Robin... wasn't that bad, but I'm still far more superior."

Jason laughed. "You were always nagging us to bring you to Batman. You don't want to go with him?"

Damian hesitated, glancing at Jazz, who picked up a piece of sashimi and dipped it in soy sauce. She didn't react to either of them as Jason also turned to stare, her expression serene and also more content than usual. It seemed that to her, the patrol had also went well.

Damian gained the courage and then said, "I asked him what he thought of the criminals in Gotham running free and why he didn't just kill them. His reasoning was wrong. He is a naive fool, if he thinks that just keeping them in a room with a hole to the outside to be freed again will solve the problem of crime in Gotham."

"Murder is wrong," Jazz spoke up before Jason could say anything. "But the way Batman thinks and acts isn't all that great either. There are limits and boundaries. His way of fighting crime isn't enough."

Curiously, Jason asked her, "Are you a means kinda person or an ends kinda person?"

Damian blinked, wrinkling his nose. "Is that an English idiom?"

To distract himself, Jason placed a roll of sushi in Damian's plate, who scowled. His hand clutched around his chopsticks like he was about to stick them in Jason. "Yeah, the quote is 'the ends justifies the means'. It means that the results outweigh the methods you use to get there."

Jazz nodded absently. Then she ate another piece of sushi, quiet.

Damian interrupted his staring. "Then I believe that the ends justify the means. The result is what matters! Who cares about who gets hurt along the way?"

Jason rolled his eyes. Damian was smart, but he had never seen outside of the white-and-black world of the League of Shadows. "First of all—"

Jazz put down her chopsticks. They made a clinking noise against the plate, silencing Damian and Jason.

"I am both an ends and means kind of person. It is important to push towards your goal and attempt to accomplish it through any means necessary. But it doesn't mean you should lose yourself, your ideals, or the people you love along the way. Damian, think of it like this. Would you like to lose everything you have just to fulfill your objective?"

Damian grit his teeth. A look of reluctant respect crossed his face before he lowered his head and said, "No."

Jazz smiled softly. "You're a good child, Damian. You will continue to grow and learn."

"I am not a child." He spat.

"It's alright to be one. No one will judge you and this place is safe. After all, you saw how I handled Batman and Robin, no? Now are you two finished eating?"

Damian just stared at her, silent, before Jazz reached over and ruffled his hair. Damian allowed it for a moment, before he then pulled his head away and bent it over his plate to eat. Jason's eyebrows rose and he met Jazz's eyes, who also looked surprised and most of all, pleased.

They went to bed without a fight that night and for once, Jason didn't feel like he would have to worry too much about Damian sneaking into his room to kill him.

The next morning, Damian hadn't even attempted to stab Jason's hand with a fork when Jason placed a plate of waffles in front of him. He also took the bottle of maple syrup that was always placed in front of him but had never actually been used by him.

"Whoa," Jason teased. "Maple syrup? Careful, you might start becoming one of us plebeians."

"Silence, Todd," Damian grouched. "It is too early for your nonsense. I demand blueberry waffles!" He bent under the table to feed a blob ghost a piece of waffle.

Another uncommon thing to see, Damian asking for small things like a different flavor of waffles.

Jason smiled, opening the fridge to pull out a pack of blueberries to wash them. "Coming right up. Want blueberry syrup and whipped cream with it?" He also pulled out a carton of heavy whipping cream and the blueberry syrup that Jason had made on a bored night.

Damian hesitated. Then he asked, "May I... May I try it?"

Jason grinned. "Sure."

Jazz walked into the kitchen and paused. "What happened?"

"We're having blueberry waffles, but there are also plain waffles too, if you want them."

She tilted her head. Then she nodded and said, "I want blueberry waffles."

When Jason was finished cooking them, he plated the waffles with an abundance of homemade whipped cream, blueberry syrup, and more blueberries. He himself took the now cold plain waffles, topping them with the same ingredients.

"Jason, you didn't want blueberry waffles?" Jazz asked, eyebrows pinched slightly.

He smiled, heart all fuzzy as he stared at the picture of them all in the kitchen, eating together.

Like a family.

God, it made his heart hurt at the thought of it.

"Nah, it's okay."

Jazz stared at him before she scooped up an untouched waffle and piled it on top of his plate. "Here."

She turned to stare at Damian, who turned away. Apparently, he had done enough nice things for the day.

Jason laughed. "It's alright, thanks."

Later that evening, as Jazz prepared for another trip to Gotham to see the aftermath of her actions the night before, Jason stood by and watched them prepare.

"So how about a hug before you go?" He asked, when Jazz's shadows opened another portal and they looked ready to leave.

Jazz didn't even hesitate to turn and take a few steps to kiss him on the cheek. Jason's face reddened and he smiled widely.

Damian chewed on the inside of his cheek and then darted forward to wrap thin arms around Jason's waist. "Goodbye," he said shortly. Then he skittered his way back to Jazz, unconsciously hiding behind her height.

Jason waved goodbye. Jazz returned the gesture while Damian turned his back on him.

When they left, Jason decided to prep for his own plans.

No matter how much he was beginning to love his life with Jazz and Damian, he knew there was only one way for the red and green to leave the edges of his vision.

————

Damian continued to patrol with Jazz. It was obvious that his hero worship that had surrounded Batman changed to Jazz. And Jazz wasn't any different because she loved spoiling him, despite how surprising it seemed with her blank expression that contrasted with her motherly personality. She hadn't said much as to why, but she had mentioned a little brother once to Jason when they had lived in the warehouse, so he assumed that it was the reason why Jazz adored Damian so much.

Likewise, Damian returned that devotion and he and Jason had been teaching Jazz better hand-to-hand combat, which she had lacked because she depended on her master over weaponry and her shadows.

It was a quiet night when the two left again to get rid of more of the scum that clogged Gotham.

Jason stared at the empty space that they had been standing in for a moment, before he then picked up his college books and began to put them away. He quickly cleaned up the house, ushered the blob ghosts into their playpen, and then began to dress in a reconnaissance outfit he fashioned out of stolen Kevlar and leather.

His stomach churned with nerves but he had to do this.

He had been running across Gotham rooftops in secret for some time, but he was only barely reaching his goal. Jazz knew, of course she did because she tracked both Jason and Damian with a piece of their shadow, but she didn't interfere, nor did she know exactly what Jason was doing. All she had said to him was, "Be careful," on a late night before she went to patrol with Damian.

She was amazing.

If she knew what he was doing, she probably would've talked him out of it. But Jason couldn't let that happen. He didn't want to be talked out of this.

He needed to get Batman's attention and then get him to kill the Joker. It was the only way Jason could recover from the green and red in his vision, he knew it.

Jason pulled up the hood from his outfit and picked up his personal pet blob ghost, one that was colored turquoise that was the color of Jazz's eyes, and then threw himself out the window, shooting the grapple hook before he could bludgeon his brains across the concrete streets. The blob ghost sat on his shoulder, its ectoplasm humming an unidentifiable soul song. He darted across the roofs and then finally stopped at the abandoned theme park, where his tracker ended.

Some weeks ago, he had placed a tracker within a box of cargo that Jazz and Damian hadn't caught onto yet.

No matter how much they patrolled Gotham, they wouldn't know how she worked. Not like how Jason did, who was born and raised within the depths of Gotham's bowels.

Said cargo had actually been weapons that had been smuggled into Gotham for the Joker. Jason had watched it get transported to him and now he was ready.

He knew how to get Bruce's attention. He just needed to pique his curiosity without provoking him.

So Jason sent a syringe of Jason's blood and a tuff of Joker's hair in a package, in a way that only a select few within the family would be able to recognize. He waited for Bruce as he watched Damian and Jazz through his phone. The two of them had sometimes allowed him to tag along their patrols as their guy in the chair and he took advantage of that now to see where they were and how they were faring.

Jazz had hidden Damian within her shadows while she ran away from the newest Robin. The newest Robin was apparently the smartest one out of Jason and Dick. Jason was quick to notice that he was quick, wily, and skilled. Damian had begrudgingly admitted that he was a good fighter as well, while Jazz had only mentioned how tired he seemed.

Jason refocused and hacked into Bruce's comms, watching the little beacon that crept closer to his hiding spot.

Surely, he had seen the results of whatever tests Alfred had taken on the blood and hair.

The Joker wiggled from where he was sitting. Jason sent him a glare that couldn't exactly be seen from under his hood. Still, the Joker recognized it and his eyes crinkled in an ugly manner as he seemingly grinned from underneath the duct tape covering his mouth.

God, Jason wanted to just kill him then and there but he shook his head to disperse the red and green that clouded his vision.

He wanted to cause a scene.

He wanted it to be dramatic.

He wanted the whole world to see what choice Batman would make.

Would he choose his resurrected son? Or would he choose the famous mass murderer and killer of his own son, the Joker?

The answer was so obvious, and yet why did Jason doubt Bruce?

Surely, all he needed was a push.

Yes, that was the only reason why Bruce hadn't killed the Joker.

All he had was that stupid hope. And so Jason waited, watching Jazz and Damian dodge and fight against Robin. Damian taunted the newest Robin with, "Struggling? Dance, you worm," before Jazz sighed and used her shadows to cover Damian and pull him back into the shadows again, flipping over several batarangs.

The moment Jason sensed Batman's presence, he pocketed his phone into the blob ghost that peacefully sat on the side and stood up.

Batman kicked down the door and glared at Jason. "You. Why do you have Jason's blood? Who are you?" He snapped.

Jason hummed, a mask sliding onto his personality, just as easy as outfitting himself as the righteous and heroic Robin. "Isn't it obvious?"

He reached over and grabbed the Joker's hair, wrenching his head backwards as Jason threw a gun towards Batman, who flinched backwards when it clattered on the floor.

"You're supposed to catch it, y'know." Jason snarked. "Here's the deal, B. Either you kill the Joker or I will. Make a choice. Only two of us are coming out of here alive."

"... you don't have to do this." Batman said. He tilted his head slightly, just the smallest amount like he was shifting on his feet but Jason knew better. His guess was confirmed correct when Batman tensed and then glared at him.

"Can't talk to Oracle?" He asked.

"What did you do?!" Batman snarled.

Jason shrugged carelessly before pressing the gun to the Joker's temple. "You don't get to call for backup. Decide, here and now. The only way to stop me is to kill me. Like I said, only two of us are leaving here alive."

Batman didn't move.

Why wasn't he moving?

Did he think that Jason was joking? Why was he hesitating?

Why the fuck was he hesitating?

Would he actually choose the Joker over him? His own son? The Batman, hero of Gotham, would actually choose to save a killer rather than help stop millions of future crimes and avenge past deaths?

Just why did Jason have to suffer? All for Batman to reject him another time and choose his own fucking murderer over him?

Millions of thoughts passed Jason's mind in less than a second and yet all of them only made him agrier and feeling worse than ever. Suddenly agitated, Jason's hands twitched from the urge to just pull the trigger but before he could say a word, a batarang flew towards him.

He couldn't dodge as the sharp points of the batarang scraped past the flesh of his throat, a sharp blinding pain shocking him enough that he let go of the Joker and his gun.

Jason collapsed on the floor as he pressed a gloved hand to his bleeding throat.

No, no, no, no!

Why? Why, why, why?

What made him so unloveable that his dad just tried to kill him?

Why didn't Batman choose the Joker?

Why didn't Bruce pick him?

Batman moved forward to grab the Joker again, leaving Jason on the floor, gasping and clutching at his throat.

Blood roared in his ears and flooded his tongue. Red and green entered his vision again and Jason gave a wretched scream, gagging past the taste of metal.

Why?

His blob ghost bounced over to him and covered his hand in an attempt to cover the bleeding, the presence of ectoplasm already helping to form a scab but Jason couldn't let himself heal as he shook his head from the force of his thoughts that screamed at him.

Red and green pervaded his senses, like coppery blood and cloying ectoplasm.

Before he could even think, the blob ghost stretched itself and covered him, blocking the sudden explosion that shattered the windows around him and imploded the walls outward. The floor he was on crashed onto lower ground but the blob ghost protected him from that too.

The shock from the explosion and falling against the ground floor finally kicked him back to proper survival instincts, pulling him out of his wallowing.

Jason couldn't think. He ran home, panting with exhaustion and bleeding from his throat. He had field dressing held to his neck as he ran, the rain making his escape slippery and his hands too wet to keep the field dressing dry. The blob ghost was shoved into his pocket. He would thank it with pets and more ectoplasm later, when he could finally think. For now, he just needed to keep running, to escape from Batman.

But Bruce didn't follow him.

No, he was tending to the Joker after he tried to kill his own son.

When Jason stumbled into the penthouse, wet with blood and rain and wobbly kneed, he was greeted with Damian's snide remarks.

"Tt, Todd, if you were going to sneak out, at least have the decency to get back home before us— Todd! You're bleeding!"

"What?! Jason? Jason!" Jazz cried out and she ran out from one of the rooms with her shadow surfing along a medical kit behind her. "What happened?"

Jason, helplessly, began to cry. Thick tears began to fill in his eyes as the pain, both physical and emotional and mental, finally registered in him, the numbness being chased away with an overwhelming feeling of misery.

Everything in him ached with pain.

"Todd?! What is the matter? I demand answers! Who must I kill?!"

The moment he felt Jazz wrap her arms around him, he fell into them and began to sob.

With the full weight of his body, Jazz was forced to sit on the floor as Jason's body began to shake with whimpering cries.

His face felt sticky and hot and he couldn't help but grab at his chest, as if he was trying to tear open his ribs to pull out his aching, hurt heart.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair!

Why did it seem like Bruce loved the Joker more than him?

Jason couldn't breathe.

His breaths came out fast and hurried, burning his throat as he began to claw at his skin. In one fluid motion, Jaz grabbed his wrists and pulled him forward, so he was forced to hug her to stop tearing at his wound. If he had been coherent, he would've felt the cool carress of Jazz's shadows that cleaned and bandaged his throat.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't feel anything as he started to hyperventilate and panic covered his thinking with a thick haze.

Why? Why, why, why, why?

Didn't Bruce love him?

Jason hiccuped and buried his face in Jazz's shoulder, inhaling the scent of vanilla and darkness, a smell similar to wet earth and salty beach sand. A hand stroked down his spine as Damian curled against his side, arms wrapped around his waist as he struggled to comfort Jason.

Jason sniffled and pulled away from Jazz to grab Damian, tugging him closer before he pressed the both of them into Jazz, as if when he focused enough, he could dig them both into her skin and live within the comfort of her strength and protection without parting from her.

Jazz pet his hair, humming an off tune song as Damian laid limply on Jason's lap, a silent and steady presence.

"Jason? What happened?"

The words spilled from Jason like a gushing faucet. He couldn't help but cry further, too distraught to be embarrassed by the whimpering cries that left him as he shakily told Jazz and Damian what he had done.

He had gone behind their backs to go and seek out the Joker on his own and had tried to trick Batman into killing him. But Batman had refused. He had even struck him with a batarang that had cut through his throat.

Batman never missed and he had surely guessed Jason's identity.

He had chosen to kill his own son over the Joker.

Jason sobbed. If he could see, he would've seen how both Jazz and Damian shared a frantic glance before Jazz gathered Jason further in her arms and Damian pressed his face against his arm, not knowing to do but wanting to help regardless.

Jason's cries eventually slowed and he blearily tucked his face into Damian's hair, holding onto him gently.

Damian couldn't get hurt. Not like how Jason was hurt. He wouldn't let it happen.

Even if Jason had to rip apart Gotham and sink it into the bay with his own hands, he would make sure Damian and Jazz were kept safe.

His heart was shuddering from pain and fear and hurt but the sudden determination to make up his mistake to the two of them was so strong that it was almost dizzying.

Color stained the edges of his sight.

He snarled wordlessly to himself as he held the two of them closer to himself.

Jason eventually fell asleep, the green and red still tinting his vision.

————

When Jason woke up, he was on his bed.

The blob ghost that traveled with him was in his arms, nibbling on his clothes. He gave it a few pats, watching it bounce as he blinked to try and moisten his dry eyes. Everything in him felt sore and sticky, like a child smacked him a few times on a wall and then dunked him in a vat of glue.

He drank water from the water bottle on his desk and looked at the silent and unmoving blob ghost that was still laying on his bed. “Hey, do you know where Jazz and Damian are?”

It bounced once and then jumped into the air, where it spun in a circle to beckon Jason to follow. The blob ghost floated through the door and Jason followed it to the living room, where both Damian and Jazz were looking at the same tablet, squished together in an armchair. Jazz’s shadows curled around them lazily, having taken the form of a small wolf pup.

They both looked up when they noticed Jason.

“Are you alright?” Jazz asked.

Jason tried to give her a small smile, but it didn’t exactly work. He was pretty sure he was grimacing at her instead. “I feel better after sleeping.” He flopped onto the couch and Damian pulled himself from Jazz’s embrace to go and sit next to him.

“Todd, how long have you been sneaking out?” He demanded.

“For awhile now. Maybe a few months? Jazz knew about it.” Jason resigned himself to the questioning. He met Jazz’s gaze, which held no judgement. She looked tired, he realized, and he hated to see it.

Damian gave a betrayed look to Jazz, who sighed. “Sorry, Damian. I tracked Jason leaving the house a couple of times but I didn’t think it was important. This place isn’t a prison, so I didn't mind him leaving as long as he was safe.”

Damian scowled harder and kicked Jason’s side. “Whatever. We investigated what happened and a warehouse from the East End exploded just yesterday, decimating an entire block. Batman was also seen fleeing and the Joker is back in the Asylum. Whatever you tried to do to force Batman to kill the Joker, you failed.”

“I know! I know, okay?!” Jason snapped, suddenly furious.

Who was Damian to tell him his failures? He got it, alright?

He was unloved.

That was just a fact.

“Jason,” Jazz said, briefly snapping him out of his fury. “What were you thinking?”

“I've been thinking of how the Joker is still alive and Batman has done nothing about it." He clenched his fists. "He needs to pay!"

Jazz tilted her head. "Who has to pay?"

Jason faltered. For a moment, he also wondered who he wanted to suffer most before he said determinedly, "Both of them! Batman is a hypocrite who would let the murderer of his son run free while he chases after someone like you, who actually does good!"

Jazz gave a small, embarrassed chuckle. "Not really."

Even Damian snorted. "How so? Everyone knows of your feats in reducing the crime rates in that vile city!" He said. "Batman couldn't do anything in decades but you are single-handedly lowering the amount of violence in that city in only a few years!"

Jason felt a surge of extremely misplaced pride.

Jazz blushed but then turned to Jason and said, "Jason, you never told me you felt this way. How long has this been going on?”

Jason paused and then looked away.

How could he tell her?

She was beautiful and radiant and kind. Not like him, who was ugly and horrible and cruel.

He didn't want her to know the thoughts in his head, the thoughts that sang of death and revenge and murder.

He didn't want her to drive him away like Bruce had done.

There was a rustle of clothing and then a hand gripped his chin, tugging on his face. He squeaked and was met with Jazz's towering height as she stared down at him, eyes wide and intense with green. She had left her seat and crossed the living room to get to him, shadows underneath her writhing slowly.

"Jason. When did you start feeling this way?"

Jason didn't pull away from Jazz's grip. Her hands would never willingly or knowingly hurt him and his body knew this, relaxing within the palms of her hand before he shrugged and mumbled, "I don't know. I've always thought like this."

It pained him to admit just how spiteful he was to her.

She wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye, humming. Then she turned her head back to address Damian. "Damian, you once told me that Jason has succumbed to Pit Madness before, no? Tell me about the Pit."

"The Pits are natural holes of Lazarus water that rises from the Earth's ley lines. Its history is unknown but Grandfather has used them many times to revive and rejuvenate himself. Pit Madness is one of its largest side effects. It causes irrational anger and fear, paranoia, and bipolar moods."

"Thank you, Damian." Damian preened and Jazz turned back to Jason, squishing his face between her gloved fingers gently. "If you've been suffering, why haven't you told me?"

Her thumb rubbed underneath his eyes again. Jason blinked, peering at her through his eyelashes.

The room was quiet before Jason muttered, "I didn't want you to worry."

"I've been worrying regardless. You came back to me from the League drowning from fluid within your lungs and smelling like rot. I thought that the ectoplasm had cleared you, but I see that you haven't been honest with me about your symptoms."

Jason practically wilted. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lie—"

"I'm not angry, Jason." She soothed. "I wish you had been honest, but I am not angry. I don’t think you should attempt this again.”

A sudden surge of anger washed over Jason. "Why not?! Is it because I'm too dangerous?" He pulled his face away from her hands and spat, "The Joker needs to be dead! I need to see Bruce kill that son of a bitch with his own hands!"

Jazz asked, "Why?" And Jason exploded.

"He killed me! He tortured me and he's the reason why I'm dead! But I'm Bruce's son— and he won't even avenge me?! He lets that damn killer run free but he should've died! Four fucking years ago— the day he found my corpse! He lets a murderer run free and he needs to pay!"

His breaths came quicker at the memory of Batman hurting him —slitting his throat and leaving him to die— but he shook his head and recovered quickly as Jazz questioned him further.

"But why? Why do you need Bruce to do it for you?"

Perhaps if the green and red wasn't invading his vision, he would've realized that Jazz was evaluating him, goading him on for more answers as she and Damian shared glances between them. But he was so enraged, he had stood up from the couch, tossing pillows to the floor as he paced, unable to stop his own raving and shouting.

"Because he's my dad! And I would've done the same for him! So why didn't he do it for me?" He paused in his pacing, hurt stabbing through his chest like knives. Why didn't Bruce love him enough? The rage came back quickly though, and he continued, "The both of them need to pay. I'll never rest and recover if the Joker is still alive— you can't make me!"

“I see.” She said. “Tell me, Jason, would getting rid of the Joker get rid of your Pit Madness?”

He grabbed her wrists to look her into the eyes and show her just how serious he was. Her expression was blank but Jason couldn’t calm down the fire roaring in his heart, green and red dotting his vision again.

“Yes. Killing the Joker is my obsession. You can’t stop me from killing him. Even if I have to confront Batman again.”

Jazz tilted her head, her hair blocking the edges of his vision with red, red, red.

"... that's fine. Damian, would you please?"

"Gladly."

The next thing Jason saw was darkness, with Damian standing over him.

Damn it all.

He hadn't noticed the brat sneaking up on him.

Jason woke up again with a sore neck and darkness outside of his window, evident by his desk lamp being the only light within the room.

Immediately, he sat up and whirled around, where Damian and Jazz sat at his desk, idling around. Damian was poking a mysterious new box placed atop his desk like a smug cat, while Jazz was thumbing through Jason's annotations in his books, completely engrossed.

"... you knocked me out." Jason said almost accusingly, making them look up at him.

Damian rolled his eyes. "You were hysterical. We did what we had to."

Jason resisted the urge to snap at him and looked at Jazz, who was staring at him with a blank expression, her shoulders slumped and eyes drooping with exhaustion. Guilt gnawed at his chest and he ducked his head.

"How long was I out?" He asked. He was tired of feeling sorry of how he acted.

It was just who Jason was.

Irritable, cruel, mean Jason who couldn't hold back his ugly temper, even in front of the woman he loved.

"Six hours. We have a present for you." Jazz picked up the box and presented it to Jason. Jason glowered at the sight of it, a thread of irritation coursing through him but he didn't want to disregard Jazz's gift so he reluctantly picked it up. He ignored Damian's eager lean over his shoulder and he unwrapped the pretentious looking ribbon and pulled the lid off.

He stared into the eyes of the Joker, disoriented.

He turned and sputtered, "W-What?"

He was beginning to feel dizzy.

Jazz smiled somewhat shakily. "You said it yourself, right? You won’t recover until he’s dead. Damian and I took him back from the Asylum. And I thought it was rather tasteless, but Damian has a video of what we did to the Joker too."

Gleefully, Damian crooned, "I tortured him for you. With a crowbar and everything. So cheer up, yes? You're polluting our home with your needless anguish. We have avenged you, so be glad."

Jason wanted to throw up.

He stared at Joker's dead eyes and his frozen frown from rigor mortis.

It was as if a weight floated off of his shoulders, freeing him from his earthly tethers.

'We have avenged you.'

He had just wanted to hear a version of those words from his father. He just wanted to know that someone loved him enough to avenge him. He just wanted to know that he was remembered and cherished and loved so badly by someone that they would take a life for him.

And now. He received the greatest gift of all.

Jason's eyes began to fill with tears again. "... thank you," he croaked.

"Oh Jason..." Jazz murmured and she sat on the edge of the bed, pushing away the box that held the Joker's head, to brush away the liquid relief that ran down Jason's cheeks. Damian scoffed but didn't wriggle away when Jason wrapped an arm around him.

"Crybaby," he muttered and Jason laughed wetly.

Jason cried from relief and the amount of feelings and adoration he felt for Jazz and Damian. Jazz continued to brush away tears with her thumbs as she leaned over to lay small kisses over Jason's face and hair.

Jason wanted to melt.

He wanted to melt and die from the amount of love he felt. He felt full in all sorts of ways, as if everything was perfect and he was floating off to heaven and he was nothing but a vessel for the sheer devotion he was suddenly feeling. Everything felt warm and soft and if someone tried to cut him open right now, he didn't know if he would bleed pink hearts or if he would be invulnerable.

When Jason finally stopped crying, the shadows brought him tissues and Damian was drawing mindless shapes on his thighs, leaning against him silently. Jazz still had his face in her hands and even if she twisted his head off right now, he probably would've still opened the gates of heaven for her.

"Feeling okay?" She asked softly.

"I love you both so much." He said as sincerely as he could. He placed a hand on Damian's head, ignoring his stiff body, and another on Jazz's wrist. "Thank you. So much. I... I don't think I can..."

"No payment necessary, Jay." Jazz said sweetly.

"Easy for you to say. I demand that you bake cookies for me. I want chocolate chip, triple chocolate, ginger snaps, crinkle cookies, peanut butter cookies, the ones with jam inside of them, lemon cookies—"

"Whatever you want," Jason replied easily.

If Damian wanted a thousand different types of cookies, who was Jason to deny him? In fact, if Damian wanted Jason to blot out the sun, Jason was inclined to create a blackhole and simply wipe out the entire universe along with it.

Jazz chuckled. "I like Jason's cookies too." Her gaze turned serious and she then murmured, "Jason. Remember when you told me that you would help me take over Gotham?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll need your help soon. Getting rid of the Joker was last on my to-do list. After this, I'm finally confronting Batman head on and if need to be, removing him from Gotham entirely before I take over." Both Jason and Damian tensed.

Jazz's gaze was serious. "So is your offer still open?"

||||||||||

Timeline is iffy *eyes DC with disdain* but Jazz is one year older than Jason. But Angel, you say! How was Jazz only 16 in the beginning and already a budding supervillain? 🤷 For any of you worried, Batman is not the villain! This was not intended to make Batman abusive (he's just a shitty father) This is Jason's POV, so he's the antagonist rn, but I promise, Batman isn't all bad! If you can't tell, Damian is my favorite *attempts to pet his hair but the hair gel is in the way* Please comment!! I worked really hard!! This is most likely the bulkiest chapter out of the whole fic. If there are any mistakes, feel free to tell me (gently) Here is what Jazz Fenton looks like in this AU Next up: Jason reunites with all of his siblings and maybe we learn more of Jazz's real goal?

#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom x dc #dp x dc crossover #jazz fenton #dc batman #anger management #dp au #jason todd #damian wayne #crime boss jazz fenton #dp fic #this is bc someone asked for it 👋🙋#dcxdp #dpxdc

226 notes · View notes

philtstone · 2 months

Note

Eowyn, 1

1 - in lonely beds ive finally scraped together a functional first scene for my accidentally-a-psych 3 hunters detective agency au. if you guys like this mess i'll turn it into a real fic. with chapters and a plot and everything!!!!! the prompt is ... interpreted but loneliness and my girl eowyn are well acquainted

It is four o'clock on a Tuesday and Eowyn Eomundsdottir has three significant problems.

Arrest, rapid-onset dementia, and laundry.

Each of her issues is easily explainable if considered separately. Eowyn is the first to admit that her brother Eomer’s always had a bit of a temper, and if she puts aside the necessary development of maturity and commitment to familial responsibilities that happened after their parents died, it was always a matter of time before some poor idiot pressed his buttons in just the wrong-enough way in front of another just the wrong-enough idiot to get him jailed overnight for knocking in an unwitting nose.

Plenty of people’s uncles develop rapid-onset dementia, she is freely ready to acknowledge.

And – if Eowyn may be so self-aware – she has certainly fallen behind on her laundry many times before.

But no matter how short her brother’s temper, he wouldn’t be arrested for trying to embezzle family funds. Rapid-onset dementia is far less likely when there is next to nil history of it in your family tree, and even less so when the Uncle in question is a scant fifty-three and doing perfectly fine not two months ago. And, most importantly: Eowyn has fallen behind on laundry before, but never because of the above-mentioned two issues, and never such that the only thing she’s got left to wear is a thin white sundress from when she was fourteen that is too short at the knees and not at all suited for the early spring cold spell they are currently experiencing, nor the creepy wandering eyes of Uncle Theoden’s new business manager, who routinely looks like he’s been doused in oil.

It’s fucking miserable, is what it is. Her knees have goosepimpled, she’s so cold. And to make matters worse, her cousin Theodred, whom she would usually text for help in a crisis, seems to have blocked her phone number.

That, Eowyn simply can’t believe.

It’s because of all these things that she finds herself standing at the dingy brick building by the docks, eyeing the circling seagulls warily, and clutching her backpack in one hand and her bike helmet — which has left her long blonde hair looking like a birds nest — in the other. It’s a small place, with a glass window in place of a front wall that’s got the blinds drawn on the inside. There’s no official sign, but someone has taped a small piece of cardstock to the back of the windowpane, facing out. It reads, in surprisingly elegant black Sharpie penmanship:

Telcontar, Gloinson & Thranduilion Private Investigators for Hire

Beneath this, there is an additionally taped series of brightly coloured post-it notes, which are scrawled over with the following in various hands:

Got a phone! +1591-334-9920 (If no one answers the door, call the number! We DO NOT have a website.) That’s because Gimli thinks the government is spying on us. SO DO YOU! All inquiries welcome :-)

Eowyn takes a moment to read through it all. Then she pauses, listening. There is the distinct sound of voices from within, muffled. So someone must be home, then – better just to open the door, rather than knock, in case no one hears her. She takes a deep, steadying breath, tugs at the too-short hem of her dress, and twists the doorknob.

Inside there is what can only be described as carefully organized chaos.

Within the small office space there is a cluttered desk housing a laptop and overlarge monitor. Boxes cover everything, as though someone has only just moved in, and a lopsided whiteboard rests against the far wall, covered in a far less elegant version than the hand that wrote the outside sign. Everything smells a little bit like camphor, and also cookies, and a very faint touch of gym socks. A man sits on a rolly chair in the corner; he is on his cellphone. Eowyn wouldn’t have even seen him if he wasn’t talking, so well does he somehow blend into the taupe walls and cluttered box decor, but as she does: he is tall (too tall for the chair), dark haired, and wearing an old grey hoodie, running shoes, and an abominably ratty pair of jeans. He’s talking on the phone in a low gentle voice that is nonetheless a touch put-upon, but nowhere near snippy or even frustrated. Eowyn (in a fit of fancy) doesn’t think a voice like that could be capable of snippiness, and then promptly feels very embarrassed by her own foolishness. At his feet, by the bottom of the whiteboard, a pile of dirty blankets rests. From within them sounds a plaintive meowing. Opera music plays from a speaker system Eowyn can’t see; a hammer (maybe?) is banging somewhere in the distant back room, the door to which hangs open on squeaky hinges; and two other voices can be heard arguing loudly from the same general direction.

Also, there is a young man, around Eowyn’s own age, standing very awkwardly with his green jumper and moppish brown hair to the immediate left of the door and looking as if he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with himself. At Eowyn’s bewildered look, he offers her a pained smile and a weird little wave hullo. Eowyn waves weirdly back.

“Yeah – yeah, just a second. We’ve got a client –” The man in the rolly chair looks up at Eowyn and smiles. It is such a very nice, genuinely kind smile that Eowyn cannot help but smile back immediately and then feel her whole face go red; she’d be thoroughly soothed if she wasn’t also feeling so completely out of her depth. Bang bang bang, comes the hammer from the back room, along with a swelling of the arguing voices. “Someone will be with you in a second,” whisper-mouths the man. Then he reaches down, takes off one of his running shoes, and flings it very expertly through the open door. There is a small noise, like a crash, and the other two voices stop. He returns to his phone call.

“... what I was saying. No. No, I don’t want you to be halfway across the world. That’s not the point, the point is your dad stopped practicing ten years ago and now owns a bed and breakfast. He’s not the one who’d be navigating a corrupt healthcare system. Do you know how much lobby money lines the pockets of mega corporations? Remember the whole Nestle baby formula thing? The media definitely doesn’t …”

“Good afternoon!” declares a second, much louder voice, minutes before its owner materializes behind the cluttered desk. He is more beard than man, wears a very formal and very 1990s plum coloured suit and one single gold earring, and comes up to about Eowyn’s shoulder. He claps his hands together. “Now, which of you was here first? No – don’t tell me, I will guess!”

But his imminent guessing is interrupted by the third voice, floating in:

“I still can’t find it!”

Desk man deflates by a margin. Without turning his head, he calls,

“I told you to look in the third box!”

“I looked there. It’s not there, Gimli. I’ll try going through the books.”

“Why would a thing like that fit in a book?”

“Try the kitchen,” mouths the man on the rolly chair. A muffled woman’s voice comes through his mobile. He has one hand covering his face now, and his head tipped back to face the ceiling. “Well, yes – I do know that. You’re really telling me you don’t want to go to Paris for a year.” While Eowyn watches the meowing blanket pile moves and from within it a truly horrible looking little cat emerges. It shoots one paw out as if intending specifically to scratch its phone-occupied companion; the speed at which he moves his foot to pin the blankets hem and thwart the little paw is bordering on superhuman. Cat hisses pathetically from under its blanket prison. On the speakers, the opera singer has reached a uniquely high pitch in her stanza. “No, obviously I don’t want to do long-distance, I just think — uh huh. Yes. I’d tell anyone to go to Paris. I’d tell Gimli to go, if Gimli’s university was offering to send him to Paris.”

“He’s already tried the kitchen,” says the man at the desk – presumably Gimli. Still, he yells out, “Try the kitchen, would you?”

“I’ve already tried the kitchen!” calls the disembodied voice. “I can’t find it!”

“You can’t find it because of your terrible organizational system.”

“It is not my terrible organizational system, which you know, and besides which I have never had problems with it before.”

“No,” from the rolling chair, “Legolas is maligning my organizational skills. I know you think they’re fine, so you can tell your cousin that on Sunday …”

“Try the kitchen.”

“I’ve tried the kitchen twice.”

Bang bang bang, continues the sound from the back room. Eowyn wonders if there isn’t an ongoing construction project. The young guy on her left, with the moppish hair and jumper, gives her a look as if to say, Filing cabinet, maybe?

“As you can see, gentle lady,” explains Gimli the desk man, very politely to Eowyn, while the second voice declares somewhat redundantly that he is, in fact, going to check the kitchen, “we are a tad busy this afternoon. Someone will be with you momentarily.” He turns, presumably in the kitchen’s direction, and calls out, “if you ask my opinion on the subject again, I’ll wallop you with Aragorn’s dratted guitar!”

Eowyn looks. There indeed is a battered old guitar, perched merrily on a pile of papers behind the front desk, ready to be used for walloping.

“I could come back later,” says Eowyn. She looks over at jumper guy, who’s staring at the still-hissing pile of blankets with some concern. “Can’t really speak for him, though.”

Jumper guy looks aggrieved. “Er – no, I’d rather not come back later. Gandalf said you’d be free to help.”

“And help –” begins Gimli, while there is another crash from the back room (they all wince, though Gimli does it with serenity) “-- we shall! If you give my colleague Legolas a moment to get his head on straight –” (the disembodied voice says something very rude in response to this pointed inflection), “-- then the two of us will be at your disposal.”

“Three of us,” interjects the first, almost forgotten voice.

Eowyn and her jumper-clad companion turn startled to look: cellphone put away, rolly chair man has stood up to his quite considerable height and is looking at them consideringly. Despite his mildness of expression Eowyn experiences the uncomfortable feeling of being looked at by someone who could in a more fantastical setting have, like, laser vision or something – how is he doing it? And she is sure he isn’t really seeing right through her but she does get the sense he is understanding a lot more than she’d like to let on. Almost defiantly she tugs at her dress and clutches her bike helmet closer to herself. Jumper guy clears his throat. Then from the back room comes – presumably – Legolas, who is fair, thin, and for reasons unexplained wearing sunglasses indoors. He is also covered in what Eowyn hopes are pillow feathers and holding, in one hand, a very large glittering silver sword, and in the other a dingy looking VHS tape. It has cartoon vegetables in cloaks on the front.

“Did anyone know we still had this?” he asks pleasantly, and it is not clear to which find he is referring, “Arwen and I used to stare at it for hours as kids.” He spots Eowyn and her jumper-clad counterpart. “Oh – hello!”

Eowyn gapes. The three of them make a fascinating picture, standing there alongside each other.

“Now then,” says the man called Gimli. “Faramir, we know of already –” he nods at the boy beside Eowyn, who looks a bit bewildered by this, “as Gandalf sent him here! But this young lady we do not. How can we help?”

Perhaps it is the blinding reflection of the hopefully-a-prop sword, but Eowyn is suddenly overtaken by an awful affliction of watery eyes, which has nothing at all to do with her general feelings of overwhelm — until now expertly repressed — she is sure. She feels at once full of despair and yet shaking with eagerness, and everything she’d been desperate to explain to a listening ear gets stuck in her throat in the face of three, admittedly sort of weird (somewhat stern, verging on intense, dipping into outright comical), thoroughly kind faces looking right at her. It suddenly occurs to her how horribly, horribly alone she’s felt for the past six weeks.

She remains rooted to the spot and tragically mute while Faramir, from beside her, begins all at once,

“I wasn’t sure where to go. I didn’t want it getting back to dad, so Gandalf seemed like the best option — and he said you were very trustworthy, and I do trust Gandalf of course – but it's my brother, you see, he’s disappeared,” vaguely Eowyn is aware of a grim look of surprise rippling through the collective at this reveal, “and it’ll sound crazy but I had this awful dream two weeks ago …”

While Eowyn attempts to wrangle her misbehaving emotions like one would a wobbly-legged yet stubbornly misbehaving colt, an impromptu consultation begins.

“Gone missing?”

“I bet he went hiking or something and lost his phone. It’s happened before.”

“Boromir hates hiking, though. Remember when Aragorn tried to bring him camping with us?”

“No wonder Gandalf sent you here.”

“I have odd dreams too sometimes; they are usually because of indigestion. I’m sure old Boromir’s just fine.”

“No,” insists Faramir, who seems – in Eowyn’s half-attentive estimation – to be doing an admirable job at hiding his surprise at this existing knowledge of his brother. “He’s not answering my texts – it’s like he’s blocked my number, which doesn’t make any sense!”

Eowyn’s head jerks around to stare at him.

Could it be a coincidence? That is exactly the thought she herself had, not an hour ago, about her own cousin. Is it possible that she isn’t crazy, and her awful yearning for Eomer to be here and not in overnight jail, so someone who is not Eowyn could deal with things, is not childish? She opens her mouth, but her words are stuck again. All she can do is inhale like a small bird puffing up its chest and make a very very faint squeaking noise, which she is mostly sure no one can hear.

“Legolas,” interjects rolly chair man. His sharp grey eyes, which had flitted around briefly and shrewdly throughout the hubbub, are now fixed again on Eowyn, and thoughtful. The commotion dies down. In a mild voice he says, “Maybe you could fetch a clean pair of gym shorts and a blanket to lend our new friend, so she’ll be a bit more comfortable.”

Eowyn, swaying a bit on the spot, hadn't even realized she was tugging at her dress again.

“Oh,” she manages.

“Aye, I’d say you’re about the same size,” agrees Gimli, to Legolas, after a beat. “Aragorn has a good eye for these things,” he adds, as if needing their prospective clients in crisis to know this.

“I’ll bring her a comb, too,” says Legolas, not at all meanly, and goes to fetch these things.

“And I’ll put on some tea,” says Aragorn, so named, and for a second time his face softens with that warm, open smile. “I’m Aragorn,” he continues. “Let’s all sit down, and you can both start from the beginning; everything will be alright.”

In the moment after this offer Eowyn locks eyes with Faramir. He is standing next to her. His jumper looks particularly sad now that she is paying attention. He isn’t looking at Aragorn or the sword or the pillow feathers Legolas left behind, but at her. Right at her. There’s a solidarity there. It would be a touching exchange, Eowyn thinks, if not for the fact that the feral cat in its blanket pile has started talking to itself in oddly pitched meows.

A large crash sounds from the back room, accompanied by the sound of a child swearing.

“Yeah, okay,” Eowyn says.

For the rest of today, at least, she has decided that she refuses to feel alone.

#my writing #taylor swift prompt memes #lord of the rings #eowyn #faramir #eowyn x faramir #aragorn #gimli #legolas #legolas x gimli #aragorn x arwen #for those wondering yes the veggie tales vhs is lord of the beans #and the cat IS gollum

44 notes · View notes

boredzillenial · 1 month

Note

Hiii i have been loving how you write for Oscar Isaac’s characters so much especially with the King John one 😩. Anyways, can I request a blurb of Orestes from Agora with anything Valentine’s Day related? You can do it with another character if you haven’t watched Agora yet, I’m completely fine with anything you will put ^^

Hi Anon! I gave this my best crack so let’s see! No smut this go around just a writing exercise ☺️

My Dove

Orestes hears of a Saint that may span the hostility between him and his new bride.

Themes: just Orestes trying to win her over, and failing to keep himself from simping

Word count: (idk it’s short lol)

A.N: historical and movie reference mistakes abound — just for funsies don’t take this seriously lol

“A Saint?” Orestes questioned “Valentine?” He tasted the name, finding it strange on his tongue. “And what did he do exactly?”

Orestes’ advisor shrugged as he picked over the arrangement of fruits on the table, “died for something or another. You know how these Christians get, will celebrate anyone who dies for ‘em.” He grumbled as he tossed a scroll on the table only to snatch a cluster of grapes. “Heard the ladies say something about it being romantic though.” His wicked teasing grin grated against Orestes’ nerves.

“Christian’s and romance huh?” Orestes returned his advisors smirk with a tight lipped one of his own. “Who’d have thought.”

“Thought it may help with -“ Orestes halted the sentence with a stony look. “- sorry, sorry.” His advisor threw up his hands and he exited the dimly lit chambers. It was no secret that the arranged marriage of Orestes and a daughter of one of the leaders of the Christian movement was strained to say the least. But he was at his limit with his own men giving him shit for it.

Orestes was not one to shy away from an opportunity for power. So when occasion presented itself he took it, regardless of the rumors he’d heard of her. Though he didn’t agree with the Christian notion of forcing his wife to heel, he thought maybe this could be a bridge. Some shared respect for this new Saint to bring them together.

Orestes grabbed the scroll along with a bowl of her favorite fruits and sauntered down the hall. He filled his lungs slowly, intentionally, as he readied himself. This needs to work, I can’t continue on like this.

This marriage had quelled the violence in the streets and to her credit his wife was commanding in her call for peace. Especially when aided by her father who ensured the zealots yielded. But the violence only shifted from the streets into his home. ”She’s as gentle as a dove.” her father had claimed in his initial offer. What a lair.

While he knew what her father said she should do, to obey her husband, it seemed she never could find the strength to actually do so. ”You opportunistic snake!” she’d screamed on their wedding night when he came to bed. She’d tossed the nearest thing a which turned out to be one of their gifts, a beautiful ornamental bowl. ”Now is that any way to welcome your husband, my dove?” he’d shot back at her. Ever since that’d been her moniker. He shook his head and huffed at the memory, at least she has heart.

That memory alone sent his heart hammering and sweat moistening his palms. His footsteps echoed through the corridors softly as he neared the ornate doorway to the atrium, where she spent most of her days.

As he opened it wearily he cast his gaze across the expansive room. His position had granted him more than a fair bit of luxury, and she had insisted the atrium be filled with flowering plants and water features. There she laid along the edge of the pool, dress hiked up to her hip revealed deliciously smooth skin that glistened with beading sweat. Her leg making slow ripples in the water.

Orestes felt as if his heart stopped for a moment. With here defenses down like this, body relaxed in the morning light… Gods she was beautiful.

The sound of his next step alerted her to his presence. She shot up like a viper, quickly pulled her leg up and under her dress and glared at him. “What.” She hissed

“Have you heard of Valentine?” He strained to keep his voice casual and cast his gaze elsewhere in the room.

“Saint Valentine you mean,” Her voice betrayed her interest as she eyed the scroll in his hand. “I’ve heard mutterings.”

“Well,” He waggled the delicate paper for a moment as he moved, “if you care to know the story.” Carefully he placed it on a nearby bench along with the bowl of fruits beside it. Orestes strolled slowly back toward the doorway. “He was very brave.”

He heard quick shuffling and the rustle of parchment. “Wait -” Her voice echoed in the chamber.

Orestes stopped and turned slowly, a brow quirked in interest. “Yes, my dove?” The look on her face sent his heart hammering again. For a moment the features there had softened and a smile played at the edge of her lips before hardening again.

Her voice though, was gentle, “Thank you, Orestes.” Oh how she could so easily bring him to his knees when she chose to be soft.

He cleared his throat and gave a curt nod with a smile, “Of course.” With what little control he had left he turned and left the atrium. Once the doors closed behind him he leaned against them. She’s taken my soul, my dove…

—————————

Taglist: @melodygatesauthor @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ominoose @romana-after-dark @lunar-ghoulie @flowercrownonapegion @howellatme @mooksmouse @ahookedheroespureheart @beezusvreeland @auntiegigi @moonkxight-blog @faretheeoscar

#orestes fanfiction #orestes fanfic #orestes #agora #oscar isaac characters #inbox reply #drabble requests #requests are open

28 notes · View notes

tonicandjins · 1 year

Text

if walls could talk | lee donghyuck

CHARACTER: haechan/lee donghyuck and reader

WORD COUNT: 2.3k

GENRE: mafia

WARNINGS: mild s-exual content, some language, g-uns

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HERE'S THE FIRST INSTALLMENT OF 23 MOMENTS WITH DONGHYUCK! :) As usual please leave comments and send me asks!

The first mission with the notorious Lee Donghyuck involved looking for the hoodlums who attacked Na Jaemin during his trip to Beijing.

Lee Donghyuck is the syndicate’s big boy—the leader of the pack, they would call him, praising and glorifying the floor he walks on because that’s how good he is. People in and out of your organization, whether or not they’d had any interaction with him at all, would tell you how heartless this man is, then proceed to talk about the missions he’d complete and how he’s the most sought after agent, telling tales about different syndicates and organizations trying to recruit him. You don’t know much about Lee Donghyuck, only the ones the women from your organization gossip about inside the restrooms when they think no one’s listening. And if the walls could talk, well, they’d probably have the juiciest information about the Lee Donghyuck.

Considering his reputation in world of underground businesses, he’s known not to take missions that were too small for his big boy world, hence, it’s a surprise when Mark Lee calls you at two in the morning, telling you a private jet is waiting for you and Lee Donghyuck.

He’s dressed in the darkest shade of black, a thick, expensive leather jacket adorning his unassuming body, jeans ripped in a way one could barely consider it wearable.

“I was in a rush,” he’d explained when he caught you looking at the honey skin showing from where the material is ripped on his knees, legs, up and up. “Had to hop in the plane as quickly as I could.”

You’d nodded, still half asleep, the digital clock showing it’s 2:18 in the morning. You can’t recall if you even introduced yourself, but you remember being shaken, woken up by Lee Donghyuck when you’d arrived in China.

A man named Huang Renjun welcomes you and Lee Donghyuck as soon as you step foot off the plane. You’d met Renjun sometime last year, when he’d visited Mark Lee in Seoul’s headquarters and delivered the custom-made pistols you’d ordered from his city. You never really kept in touch—and it’s not like anyone from your world keeps in touch with anybody else.

He leads you towards the SUV waiting and tells you about the whereabouts of Qian Kun and how you’d find him at five in the morning. It turns out that Qian Kun knows where to find the group of people who put Na Jaemin in a goddamn coma. Renjun discusses the mission from the passenger seat, while you and Lee Donghyuck sit on the back. Lee Donghyuck’s jaw visibly tightens when Renjun describes Jaemin’s condition.

“I’m sorry, man,” Renjun sighs. “I do think it’s better if Jaemin stays here until he gains consciousness. There’s nothing you should be worried about though. The doctors working on him are the best of the best here in China. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“That motherfucker better be,” Lee Donghyuck huffs. “He owes me 20 million from the last time. And I’ll fucking kill him if he dies on me.”

Renjun chuckles. “He literally said the same thing when you had your incident here three years ago.”

It’s the first time you see Lee Donghyuck smile since you’d seen him today, or since you’d seen him at all if passing by him in the headquarters twice a year counts. He lets out the smallest of the small chuckles, lips upturned—both corners, not the infamous smirk he throws in anyone’s way—and looks up, quiet for a second before his mouth goes back to being a thin line.

“I’ll fucking kill them, Renjun,” he firmly says, like a warning—a promise.

Renjun nods. “I would to, if I had the skills like yours,” he replies. His phone chimes. “Kun’s been notified of your arrival. Remember not to trust him fully, yeah? We’re just taking the risk to go to him because he has the information we need to find the devils who attacked Jaemin. Don’t get your guard down.”

Lee Donghyuck smirks. “As if.”

Renjun reaches behind to hand Donghyuck the tablet that shows the map of Kun’s quarters. Lee Donghyuck leans close to you—you can smell his perfume from here—and shares the screen with you, fingers moving as he zooms in and out and navigate through the digital map.

“He probably setup some traps,” Renjun warns. “And they aren’t harmless, so be careful. Donghyuck-ah, you have to be careful, yeah? Mark thought it’d be a bad idea to send you here when you’re emotional and all—”

“Who said I’m emotional?” Lee Donghyuck grunts. “My hands are just itching to pull a trigger to someone’s head. Been quite some time.”

“That mission with Hendery in Germany went well, didn’t it?” Renjun asks. “Should’ve gone to Germany with you.”

“You’re practically useless in site missions, Renjun, no fucking offense,” the other spits. Renjun laughs. “Stay in your fucking lane. Inside the headquarters and in your makeshift laboratory and work on your gunsmith shit. Don’t get involved. Don’t want you to end up like stupid Jaemin who didn’t think of taking a someone with him when he wandered his stupid ass away in Beijing.” You stay quiet all this time. If the walls could talk, they wouldn’t know that Lee Donghyuck has friends.

Qian Kun is a fucking nightmare.

Getting through all his stupid traps and annoyingly impressive security system was a pain in the ass, but you and Lee Donghyuck managed to get through it.

It turns out that you and Lee Donghyuck like to dance. Not in a way when your skins are touching or your feet are matching each other’s pace, but in a way that you know how to fucking tango. You wonder why Mark Lee ever thought of calling you of all people to take this revenge mission, but he’s worked with you and Lee Donghyuck separately for almost a decade now. You assume he probably knows how well you and the leader of the pack could work together. Lee Donghyuck knows how to speak with his eyes, and you know how to read expressions like it’s a game. He carefully looks behind him as if he’d been stabbed in the back before, while you like to focus on what’s ahead, eyes on the path in front of you—hence, dancing tango.

Kun smiles when he sees you and Lee Donghyuck untouched inside his office.

“Come on, it’s fun!” he defends when Lee Donghyuck stares down at him, not a hint of humor showing his face. “It’s like a pre-training before you actually go on your mission, you know?”

“Cut the crap, Kun,” Lee Donghyuck retorts. “You know you could just tell Renjun whatever you know over the phone, right?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Kun sighs. “Also, how would I know Renjun’s not recording any of our conversations? For all I know, he’s out there telling the media I’m alive.”

Lee Donghyuck exhales. “The world still thinks you died in that fire five years ago, Kun. And you’ve known us since then. Have we ever sold you out?”

Kun shrugs. “People change sides.”

“Not us,” you say. “Mark Lee’s been very diligent in ensuring that people think your dead.”

Kun smiles. “He’s the most trustworthy person I know. Even though I only know like three people I can trust.”

Lee Donghyuck takes a step. “Now, tell me where I can find the hoodlums who hurt Na Jaemin.”

The place that Kun gives you is located in between the largest corporations in Beijing—unassuming and hidden in plain sight. Renjun meekly equips you with the pneumatic air guns, while Donghyuck confirms he’s brought his own so he doesn’t need any.

The plan is to enter the corporation as Mr. and Mrs. Li from Tencent Holdings Ltd., the couple who is expected to visit. Kun’s found a way to delay the real Mr. and Mrs. Li by having them miss their flight and Mark, with the help of his tech friends from China, ensured they wouldn’t be able to contact the people they’re meeting.

The security lets you in after sneaking a careful glance on the IDs you present. But with the look of suspicion and a quick tap on the security’s earpiece, you know they know you and Lee Donghyuck aren’t Mr. and Mrs. Li.

Hence, you and him are now running and hiding from their security. Lee Donghyuck himself did not expect them to catch on so easily, and somehow, you think Qian Kun might have been involved.

“Fucking Kun,” Donghyuck grunts under his breath as you and him stop and slide yourselves in a narrow lane. “I knew we couldn’t trust him.”

You’re gasping, hands on your knees as you lean your back against the wall of a building. “Mark will take care of him,” you assure. “For now, let’s get out of here and plan better. From what it looks like, we’re dealing with something bigger. Maybe hurting Na Jaemin was just the tip of the iceberg.”

Footsteps and the sounds of weapons startle you and Lee Donghyuck. You take out your gun, but Donghyuck stops you and does the fucking impossible. He does it so quickly that it doesn’t sink in until you’re up against the wall.

He rids you of your hair tie in one pull and rips your jacket off, leaving your arms and chest exposed, only covered by your black tank top. He throws his own jacket alongside yours on the concrete, showing off his arms clad in a black shirt that fits his body well. And the next thing you know, he’s carrying you, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands on your ass as he pushes you against the cold, hard wall for support.

Lee Donghyuck has the fucking audacity to bite his lips and look into your eyes before diving in and kissing the air out of your fucking lungs. You squirm, groaning as he kisses you open mouth. Donghyuck gropes your ass harder as if he’s telling you to shut up, but you don’t’ condone being kissed without fucking consent, so you keep writhing under his touch, until he pushes his tongue in and you let out a sound—a moan—and you kind of want to punch the smirk out of his stupid lips.

You bite his lips in return, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Don’t,” you grit. “Ever kiss me without consent.”

Donghyuck adjusts and pushes his—damn it—crotch against your heat. “This,” he replies, mouth still all over yours. “Looks like a consent to me.”

And oh, you’re mad. You’re mad that Lee Donghyuck thinks he can do this to you whenever he pleases, like you’re one of the girls who talk about him inside the restrooms when they think no one’s listening. Like you’re some girl he can just push against the wall and make out with when it’s convenient. (You’re not about to show him how true that is right now.) Hence, you take one of your hands and wrap it around his neck.

Lee Donghyuck, for the first time since you met him at two in the morning, runs out of breath and stay still. You keep your mouth on him, while he keeps his agape, so you take the opportunity to invite your tongue in—take, take, take—until he comes to his senses and fights back.

And it’s like dancing tango, you think, except you have your hand tightly wrapped around his neck and Lee Donghyuck’s crotch feels harder than ever against your heat, and he has to stop and almost drops you when he realizes the people running after you are long gone.

You and him are out of breath when it’s over.

“What’d you do that for?” you confront.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“What? The choking?” Donghyuck blinks. You look down at the growing bulge on his pants. “I see you have a thing for choking.”

“Fuck off,” he grunts, turning to pick up his jacket. He kicks your towards where you stand. “Public kissing makes people uncomfortable.”

“That was your best idea?” you ask, bending down so you can pick up your jacket. “I knew everyone’s bluffing when they talk about how great you are.”

Donghyuck chuckles bitterly, walking further down the narrow lane and leading the way. You follow. “And I thought I made the smartest decision to bring you here with me.”

“You what?”

Lee Donghyuck chose you to come to Beijing with him? Now that you think about it, when Mark called you earlier today, he had said, “Someone needs your help today.”

Maybe it was the 2-in-the-morning haze, but kind of forgot about that. You are so used to being called at ungodly hours for a mission that you don’t really keep track of its purpose sometimes. You get up, get ready, and complete the mission—a cycle that you’re accustomed to. But this—Lee Donghyuck handpicking you as his partner for this assignment or revenge mission—is something new. Something you kind of want to get used to.

But Lee Donghyuck runs off before you could start asking questions. He quickly tells you that you and him better split off and try to get off the radar for a few hours and take the earliest flight back to Seoul. He doesn’t give you a rendezvous and just flees; he’s probably expecting you to know where to meet up at the end of the day.

You watch him take a taxi, your lips tingling as you observe the way Lee Donghyuck runs his fingers through his hair, fixing the mess you had made minutes ago. You lick your lips and taste him again; it sends you shivers down to your heat.

Oh, man. If the walls could talk, nobody would believe what just happened.

#tonicandjins #haechan fic #haechan au #haechan smut #haechan x reader #donghyuck au #nct dream fics #nct dream au #nct dream fic #haechan mafia au #faye's moving castle #23mwd

131 notes · View notes

orangeflavoryawp · 9 months

Text

Jonsa - "No More Scars", Part 1

Jon gets Sansa out of King's Landing and they make their way to Riverrun, to reunite with family. A little speeding/condensing of the timeline, so Jon has died up at Castle Black and been revived already. He comes for Sansa after this. Everyone's aged up, as is my usual.

No More Scars

Chapter One: Quelling the Pain

“This is as far as we go.” Jon and Sansa - After rescuing her from King’s Landing, they have a long, winding road to Riverrun before them.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 fin

* * *

The first time Jon sees her in years, she is both half the girl he used to know and yet not wholly the woman he’d expected of her.

“Did Robb send you?” Sansa asks, her brows furrowing over her wide, hopeful eyes.

He isn’t sure whether the truth is welcomed or not, so he only reaches out his hand toward her. “I’m here to get you out,” he tells her. And it’s the safest truth, at least.

She seems to think so as well, because then she’s tucking her hand into his, her mouth a tight line, her other hand clenching her robe closed over her chest, before he’s whisking her through the castle in the dead of night.

She glances back behind her at the gilded cage of King’s Landing just the once, just enough to swallow back the bile.

(He knows, because he sees her throat bobbing with it when he places his hands along her waist and hoists her up along the horse. He takes his seat behind her and then they’re off.)

She’s silent for the whole first half-day that they ride. And then he veers off the road, takes them along a haggard horse-path heading northwest. They don’t stop for many hours.

When they finally drop from the horse for rest, she barely acknowledges him when he hands her a clean, simple dress. She tucks behind the trees for cover and changes in silence. Jon tends the fire in her absence. When she returns, he has their bedrolls already set.

He wonders if she will remark on the closeness of them.

(He’s duty-bound to protect her, after all. And he can’t do it from a distance.)

She does not ask of Robb again, though he waits expectantly for it.

Instead, Sansa only drops down quietly along her spread blanket, not even taking the offered bread he hands her. And then she’s sleeping – quiet and still and deep.

He watches her curl in on herself in her sleep, as he stokes the fire half-heartedly, before dousing it, and turning in himself.

The next day is much of the same. Hours and hours of riding. Hours and hours of quiet.

He thinks she understands now – the answer to her question.

“Did Robb send you?”

He accepts that he may have broken her.

(Because to accept that they left her to be broken is far, far worse.) * * *

“We’ll keep off the Gold Road,” Jon says, taking the pack from their horse, and dropping it in the dirt at their feet. He then tugs the horse toward a nearby tree, looping a tied rope around one branch to tether it, before unbridling the animal.

Sansa watches in a rather dumbfounded state.

Jon glances back to her, slowing in his motions. “Until we’re further north and closer to Riverrun, we can’t risk the main roads. You’re a wanted fugitive by the crown now.”

Sansa only nods, her lips pressed tightly together. She glances around at the small clearing he’s stopped them in.

Jon crouches at the pack by her feet, pulling out two thin bedrolls, and then stopping to glance up at her. He works his jaw, eyes downcast. “I can’t promise you comfort, Sansa,” he says, hands gripping the unfurled bedroll in his hands.

She glances to him, hands limp at her sides.

“But I promise to get you home,” he finishes, looking up at her.

She watches him for many moments, her breath tight in her chest. And then she glances out to the woods around them, peers into the trees, tries to decipher the darkness slowly creeping into the canopies.

Jon sighs beneath her, continuing his task of preparing them for bed, no more words to follow.

Sansa closes her eyes. Thinks of her mother. Hears Rickon’s laugh at her ear.

A soft, watery gasp leaves her – barely there. Her lungs tighten at the memory.

She opens her eyes. The forest is still there. The sun still sinks beneath the tree line.

But Jon is here, spreading out his bedroll to lie beside hers, his hand smoothing over the wool.

She wants to cry suddenly.

“Sansa, look, we just have to – "

She drops to a squat in a single, sinking motion, arms wrapping tight around her legs, her head buried in her knees. A staggering breath shudders from her.

“Sansa,” she hears at her side.

“I just want – ” she says, and then stops, the breath hitching in her throat.

She just wants –

A sob breaks from her lips, splashing against her knees. She digs her head in deeper, another sob catching at the edge of her teeth.

“Sansa,” he says again, and she feels the pressure of his knees settling beside her in the ground.

She pulls her head up to watch him. “I just want to go home,” she croaks out, the words bitter and lonesome along her tongue, her face crumbling instantly.

Jon reaches for her hesitantly, before stopping, his hand hovering in the air.

She only looks at him, the tears hot along her lids. Her mouth tips open, but there are no more words. At least, none as important. “I just...”

Jon’s eyes shift between hers frantically, worried and wanting and always unsure.

“I want to go home. Nothing more,” she cries out brokenly, before she buries her face back into her knees, the world a sudden rush around her – the years and faces and fears of her recent captivity an instant barrage, an unrelenting assault.

Cersei’s sneering face. Joffrey’s threats. The bruise of a guantleted fist. The harsh tear of her dress. The Hound’s taunting. Tyrion’s barely constrained touches. The mocking court. And the loneliness, the loneliness, gods the loneliness.

Her breath catches, harsh and dry in her throat, her mouth parting on the sound, but the tears are familiar, constant, ever-present. The wail she bites off at her knees peters out into a pained moan and then –

Then his hands are around her shoulders, pulling her toward him. His chest is warm and firm and broad. His hands –

His hands never let her go.

She turns into his shoulder with a ragged cry, her fingers clutching his tunic, her breath stalled in her chest, and her cries, her cries, her cries –

Muffled in his trembling embrace.

It’s an awkward fumble of limbs, the way she falls against him, her knees giving out, her arms reaching for him like he’s the last gasp of air her lungs will ever know.

And yet always, constantly, steadily in her ear, there is this:

“I’ve got you.”

His voice is warm at her temple, his lips pressed to her hairline. She squeezes her eyes shut at the exhalation.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes into her.

The clutch of her fingers along his shoulders leaves marks for years to come.

* * *

He’s packing up his bedding on the fourth day of their journey when she says it.

He turns to her, finds her standing there with her woolen blanket folded over her arms, her eyes on his boots.

“What?” he asks her, needing her to repeat it, afraid he’s heard wrong.

She looks up at him, handing him her bedding to fold back into their pack. “Thank you,” she says, even and smooth, only the trembling of her jaw giving away any hint of her uncertainty.

Jon stays staring at her.

She glances up at him, and then away, pulling the blanket back to her chest. “Thank you,” she tells him, “For coming for me.”

Jon remembers suddenly what her songs sounded like, and how she used to scowl so disapprovingly at Arya, and how she howled at him when he spilled his tea along her skirts once, and the direwolf handkerchief she’d knitted for Bran while he slept, and her curtsies and her sighs and her laughs and her pouts and her – and her –

Half-brother, she’d called him.

As though to spare him the pain of ‘bastard’.

And yet, never enough to be just...

(Brother.)

Jon swallows thickly. “Of course I’d come for you,” he says roughly.

She meets his eyes then, the blanket still tight to her chest.

He opens his mouth, finds nothing there.

Because of course he’d come for her. She’s his sister. She’s Sansa Stark.

And she deserves to be fought for.

She seems to crumple in on herself.

Jon steps toward her.

“I didn’t...” she starts, stops, swallows it down. She licks her lips before trying again. “I didn’t want to give myself false hope.”

His brows furrow in confusion.

She seems to notice, face pinching in consternation, and he knows now – what she looks like when she’s trying to word something as palatably as possible.

It makes him feel dirty.

(Because he knows now, that this was the norm, the standard practice for her – to be palatable.)

“I just mean – "

“You’re welcome,” he says, reaching for the bedding held tight to her chest.

She eases her hold on it slowly.

He pulls it gently from her grasp, his hand lingering near hers, the edge of their fingers brushing. “You’re welcome,” he says again, the faint hint of a smirk tugging at his smile.

She blinks at him, her shoulders bunching tight once more. “Jon...”

He squats down to continue packing their belongings away. “You don’t really need to thank me, anyway. I told you – of course I’d come for you.” He feels her staring down at him for long seconds as he works, before she crouches down beside him to help.

He pretends not to hear the quiet sniffling she tries to hide. * * *

She always falls asleep first, her exhaustion unsurprising when they ride for hours each day. Sleeplessness is his companion now, anyway – has been since he first awoke with the red woman’s magic.

He watches Sansa’s back in the dark, whittling the hours away before dawn.

Sometimes he sleeps. Sometimes he doesn’t.

But he never dreams. It’s just an endless darkness that takes him.

Until Sansa’s hand at his shoulder rouses him, or the faint light of dawn peeking through the trees.

He rises, like he did that first cold evening after death.

And the journey continues. * * *

“How did you leave the Watch? I thought those vows were for life,” Sansa asks softly, curling her knees under her, poking at the fire before their mats with a stick.

Jon sits on the ground beside her, arms hanging over his bent knees. He glances to her at her question.

Sansa pokes at the fire again, eyes fixed to it, before noticing his silence. She turns to him. “Aren’t they?” Her mouth purses in confusion.

Jon nods, his throat bobbing. “Aye, they are,” he gets out roughly.

Sansa lowers the stick in her hand. “So...?”

“So, I gave my life for the Watch,” he snaps in answer.

Her shoulders tense at his tone, her knuckles going white along the stick in her hold. She faces the fire once more. “I’m sorry, if I touched a tender subject,” she says diplomatically.

He recognizes this side of her now. The side that braces for a raised hand. And he hates that he has stirred this in her.

Jon sighs heavily, wiping a hand down his face, and then he reaches into the grass beside him, pulling out a fistful of blades. He starts to pluck at them and toss them one by one into the fire. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he grumbles out.

Sansa remains quiet, resuming her cautious exploration of the fire.

Jon throws another blade into the flames, a huff leaving him. “I’ll tell you someday, I promise. Just... not tonight.”

“Alright,” she says gently, eyes still on the fire.

Jon looks at her from the corner of his eye. “My men betrayed me,” he gets out finally.

The burned end of the stick in Sansa’s grasp settles into the dirt as she drops her hand to her lap. “They betrayed you? Why?” she asks, looking over at him. Her brows furrow in question.

Jon heaves a breath. “Because sometimes you just can’t change hate,” he says simply.

And maybe it is that simple. Maybe it always has been. Maybe he’s just been too blind to see it.

He isn’t strong enough to change a man’s hate. Or his fear.

Maybe his real mistake was never understanding that.

“You didn’t deserve that,” she says suddenly, a fierceness underlining her voice.

Again, so simple.

And yet, it makes him turn his head, makes him meet her gaze.

She reaches out a hand and squeezes his fist reassuringly, before settling her hand back in her lap.

She hasn’t a clue what their betrayal truly did to him. She hasn’t seen the scars. She hasn’t witnessed his cold body on a slab. And yet – simply – to hear those words –

You didn’t deserve that .

It makes the air catch in his throat.

“Thank you, Sansa.”

She smiles – hesitant and barely-there. But she smiles.

A direwolf’s howl breaks the silence over them, coming from over the hills. Sansa starts, twisting back to look through the trees behind them, finding nothing in the darkness. “Is that...?”

“Ghost,” Jon reassures her, tossing another blade of grass into the fire. “He’s keeping watch from a distance while we’re still this close to the main road. He’ll join us further north.”

Sansa stays turned in her seat, gaze fixed to the darkness at their backs, her eyes slowly watering.

The realization comes to him then, suddenly and sadly. He swallows tightly before he asks her, “What happened to Lady?”

Because he knows. He knows. Only death could have separated them.

Sansa purses her lips, her jaw tightening, and then she’s shuffling back to her previous position, tucking her legs underneath her with a downcast gaze. “Father killed her,” she clips out, a hand going to wipe the wetness from her eyes, as though it had never been.

Jon’s shoulders slump at the revelation. He feels her loss keenly, like a piece of him has been torn away. He thinks of Ghost. Thinks of the terrible rending his death would cause in him, the ache, the tear, the missing of something that used to be of him. And then he thinks of their father.

Jon clenches his hands into fists atop his knees. “Father... killed her?” he chokes out.

Sansa nods. “As punishment for Nymeria attacking Joffrey, when Nymeria couldn’t be found.”

“Oh,” he says, the breath shuddering from him. He wants to reach to her. Doesn’t know how.

Sansa tosses the stick into the fire. “I resented him so much for it, you know? I was so... so angry. And hurt. And I never felt safe again after that. And I couldn’t forgive him for it. And then I never got the chance to, anyway.”

Jon stares at her, swallowing heavily.

She sighs, hands winding nervously in her lap. “Because then he was dead. And I was forced to look at his head up on that pike, and I... I couldn’t...” She stops, her voice catching. She sniffs back the break, tries again. “I couldn’t forgive myself for missing the chance to tell him before he died – ” She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth, turning to face Jon, her eyes wide and salt-sheened. “That I forgave him, and that I loved him, and that I wasn’t angry with him anymore, that I – I just wanted him to come back, to take us from there. But I’ll never get that chance again. Because he’s gone, just like Lady, killed for a crime he never committed. He’s just... gone,” she exhales on a spent breath, pulling her lip between her teeth. And then she laughs, short and dark, a hand going to her eyes. “It’s so – so stupid,” she mutters.

Jon turns fully to her, his knees folding beside him when he leans over and grabs for her wrist, gently tugging her hand from her face. “It’s not,” he tells her. “It’s not stupid.”

She heaves a steadying breath, eyes still fixed on her lap, but they’re dry now at least.

Jon rubs his thumb along the arch of her wrist. “And you didn’t deserve that,” he says meaningfully.

Sansa looks up at him, brows pinched together when he repeats her words back at her. And then she laughs again, wipes at her nose with her free hand, straightens her shoulders. “Quite the pair we make, huh?”

Her voice and face are still pained though, he sees this.

But her wrist is warm beneath his touch, and she isn’t pulling from him.

“Quite,” he agrees, the lilt of a smile gracing his face, his thumb etching over her pulse point again.

She nods, licking her lips. “I’m glad it was you, Jon, who came for me.” She turns her hand over beneath his grasp and meets his palm with hers. Her fingers tighten over his. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” he says, the words instant along his tongue.

And he means it, he finds. He means it with all of him. * * *

Sansa hates rabbit meat, she discovers,

Jon laughs at her when she makes a face at the skinned animal he turns over the fire.

“It’s so chewy,” she bemoans later, grudgingly taking a bite of the thigh meat Jon offers her, hunger winning out over pickiness.

“You need to eat,” he says firmly, though the hint of a smirk still rests at the corners of his mouth.

She pouts at him.

He only laughs harder. * * *

He catches sight of the scar along the nape of her neck sometime in the next afternoon. It takes him a while, his eyes usually trained ahead. But then she sighs, a hand going to rub at her eyes. She’s tired, he notices, and he looks at her for the first time that day, seated in front of him in the saddle. Her hair is brushed over her shoulder, thin wisps of it escaping the partially pinned style. There’s the slightest red tint over the tops of her ears and the back of her neck, a mark of the sun’s constant watch over their journey. Her shoulders are slumped forward – thin and brittle. The fabric of her dress is dulled and wrinkled over the expanse of her back. And all this he expects until –

The faint, white line etching out from beneath the collar of her dress, arching over the space where neck meets shoulder.

He almost stops their horse at the sight.

Instead, he simply stares, the steady rocking motion of the horse only increasing his focus. Unbidden, his hand rises up to touch it, fingers dragging down the edge of her dress’ collar to bare the scar more fully to him.

Something sharpens in his gut at the revelation it gives him. The scar does not end. It only stretches longer, harsher – unseen beneath the rest of her dress. If he follows the path, he knows it will curve over her shoulder blade, down, and down – perhaps fading out along the backs of her ribs, or perhaps continuing on, to the curve of her waist, tapering off past her hip.

His other hand tightens along the reins.

Jon suddenly realizes she has stiffened in her seat, her shoulders bunching up. Her breath has stilled.

Jon eases the horse to a halt, the words dead along his tongue. He stares at the haggard white strip of flesh at the base of her neck, his fingers still curled along the dress collar, tugged only partially down, his thumb arching tenderly over her scar.

They stay like this for many moments, his eyes slowly watering, a heat behind them that seems finer than rage – more honed. A slow, bitter wrath builds inside him.

Sansa turns her head just slightly, not enough to catch his eyes, but enough for him to see the stiff purse of her lips.

He lets out a heavy breath. “What did they do to you?” he croaks out, surprising even himself with how the words manage to find air.

She doesn’t answer at first, tongue flicking out to wet her lips. She draws a slow, steady breath in – the first he’s felt from her since they’d stopped. Her lids flutter closed. “They did enough,” she tells him.

He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, his thumb pressing firmer along the nape of her neck.

That fine-honed wrath – it narrows. Becomes a pinprick focus.

“Sansa,” he gets out raggedly, his hand releasing her collar, dragging over her neck instead, anchoring there at the edge of her shoulder. He shakes with it – this righteous horror.

And then she slips a hand over his, her fine-boned fingers delicate along his calloused ones.

He blinks at the back of her head, the salt sting of tears lingering just at the corners of his eyes.

She dips her head toward their joined hands along her shoulder, her lips a whisper away from his touch, her breath warming his knuckles. “But they cannot anymore,” she tells him. And then she glances further back, meets his eyes finally. “Because of you.”

Jon’s chest heaves, his hand in the reins settling closer now, just along her stomach.

Her hand slips from over his, her shoulders unbunching as she faces forward once more. There’s an ease to her frame now, a subtle freedom.

As though she feels safe in his arms, pressed up against his chest.

As though she knows:

No other scars will follow.

(And she’d be right – because this, he promises.)

Jon clicks at the horse to continue, his heels pressing in short and quick. They start moving again instantly.

He keeps his eyes on the sliver of white flesh at her nape, and his hand pressed firm along her stomach, reins tangled in his fist.

The weight of her against his chest is almost enough to quiet his wrath.

But not quite. * * *

“Is there a lake nearby? A river?” Sansa asks, eyes roving the land before them as they ride.

“There’s a small river along our route but...” His voice trails off.

Sansa glances back at him to find him looking north.

He frowns. “Not for many miles, I think.” He looks down at her. “Why?”

Sansa turns forward again, shifting in the saddle. She considers her words a moment, before answering. “I’d... like a bath,” she says finally, lip caught between her teeth.

Jon chuckles behind her, his breath warm at the nape of her neck.

She narrows her eyes. “And you could use one, too,” she quips.

He coughs unexpectedly, the laugh petering out in his throat.

She smiles to herself, unseen.

They find water shortly before the sun sets, and Sansa climbs down from the horse eagerly, heading to the edge of the lake. She hesitates only momentarily, before the grime and dirt of the last several days overwhelms her, and after glancing back to make sure Jon has set camp far enough away from shore, she removes her travel dress and makes her way into the water.

When she’s back at camp, as refreshed as she expects to be, clothed in the robe she fled King’s Landing in while her dress dries from washing along the tree branches, she catches the faint outline of Jon washing in the lake by twilight. It’s barely an outline of him, the high moon not yet full, and the lingering trail of the sun’s rays diminishing over the horizon rather quickly, but it’s enough.

He’s become a man in the time she’s spent away from him. She realizes she should have known that by the beard that sometimes brushes her shoulder when they ride, and the rough, calloused hands that hold the reins at her waist, and the broad expanse of his shoulders that hold her weight when exhaustion overcomes her and she reluctantly leans back against him.

But seeing him now, etched in twilight, far enough away to nearly be a mirage, she understands that the man who came for her is not the brother she said goodbye to all those years ago.

He gave his life for the Watch, he’d said, and she still doesn’t know what that means, but she thinks she’s closer to the truth now, when she watches the curved line of his back peeking out from the water, when he turns, just slightly, and she can see the dark line of wounds or scars or... something along his chest.

She’s closer to the truth when later that night, as they lay beside each other before the fire, and she glances over to him, he glances back without her ever needing to speak his name. * * *

“How much longer?” she asks, shifting in the saddle, her thighs beginning to cramp.

Jon grunts behind her in annoyance. “We’re almost there.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You wouldn’t like the answer anyway,” he quips back.

Sansa huffs, throwing a look over her shoulder at him.

Jon rolls his eyes. “It’s almost a month from King’s Landing to Riverrun, and that’s just taking the main roads – which we’re not,” he explains.

“I know,” she sighs.

“Because we can’t risk you being spotted.”

“I know.”

Jon pulls the horse to a halt, peering at her over her shoulder. “It’s going to take longer if we keep stopping like this.”

“I know, Jon,” she snaps turning in her seat before him as much as she can, her nose nearly bumping his. She stills at the sudden closeness.

Jon pulls back just a touch, just enough to keep his gaze on hers.

Her cheeks are pink, her mouth pursed tight.

Jon licks his lips. “Are you tired?” he asks finally, his voice rough.

Sansa’s eyes shift between his, her mouth opening and then closing. She turns away from him, facing forward once again. “I can weather it,” she manages, hands curling over the saddle horn.

Jon stays staring at the back of her head. He sighs out. “If you’re tired...”

“I’ll be fine,” she clips out.

Jon frowns behind her.

“I’ll not complain further,” she assures him, shoulders tight. A faint pink blush etches over the tops of her ears.

Jon waits another moment to be certain of her, before urging the horse back into motion.

She doesn’t speak for the remainder of the ride. * * *

He notices something’s wrong when she becomes unusually quiet along the road the next day. He doesn’t comment on it, but keeps a steady eye on her. Her shoulders start slumping. There’s sweat along the back of her neck. Her hands grip the saddle horn tightly.

“Sansa,” he says, never stopping their trot.

“Hmm?” she answers, never looking back at him.

“Are you alright?”

She straightens somewhat. “I’m fine.”

He watches her for many moments from his seat behind her, before stopping them without a word.

She sighs, glancing back at him. “I’m fine,” she repeats, a censure to her words.

But she’s not. And he knows this.

Jon slips from the saddle, boots landing along the ground in a puff of dirt. “Come here,” he urges her, motioning her to get down from the saddle.

She frowns down at him. “Honestly, Jon, I’m – ”

“You’re not fine,” he clips out, hands going for her waist. “Come.”

She reaches for his shoulders reluctantly, an admonishing glare sent his way. “Jon, it’s just – ”

“You’re clammy,” he says, dragging her from the saddle, steadying her against his chest. “And weak. You’re not well.” He motions toward the fallen log beside their horse. “Come, sit. We’ll rest for a time.”

Sansa grudgingly walks toward the log, a hand at her stomach, as Jon goes to tie the horse off along a nearby tree. When he turns back to her, he catches sight of the small patch of blood along the seat of her dress. He stills instantly.

“Sansa,” he gets out on a croak.

She settles along the log, arm wrapped around her middle, her shoulders hunched over. She looks up at him, a brow arched in question.

He raises a finger to point dazedly. “You’re... bleeding.”

Sansa gives him a perplexed look for a moment, before understanding passes over her features, and she nods quietly, eyes slipping closed as she wraps both arms around her stomach now. “My moon blood,” she says in explanation, a grimace accompanying it.

Jon stays rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do to help.

“Will you build a fire?” she asks then, glancing up at him. “Heat helps.”

He moves into action immediately, starting the fire, and gathering blankets, settling them into their nightly routine well before they should have otherwise been doing so.

The sun is still low over the trees when Sansa curls into a ball along the blankets, facing the fire, her eyes squeezed shut.

Jon sits just behind her, setting the waterskin beside her, within reach. He leans back with a sigh, eyes roving her body. The words clog in his throat. “So, you’re...”

Sansa opens her eyes, hands curling in the blanket wrapped around her. She looks over her shoulder at him. “I’m what?” she urges him.

Jon wipes a hand over his mouth, suddenly regretting that he’s even begun this line of thinking, but it sits in his gut anyway, waiting for air. “You’re not with child, then,” he finishes finally, unable to meet her eyes.

Sansa works her jaw, eyes shifting back to the fire. “My marriage to Tyrion was never consummated,” she tells him, the words clipped.

He can’t smother the sigh of relief that escapes him at her words.

She tugs the blanket closer.

Jon reaches a hand to her shoulder. “I didn’t mean... I only meant to ask if...” His hand curls back, away from her shoulder.

“You only meant to ask if I was still a threat to the North – if I carried a Lannister babe in my belly.”

Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth. “Sansa, no, I – ”

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” she bites out. “There may have been some... unwanted touches,” she manages through clenched teeth, her voice wavering, “But nothing more than that. I’m still a maiden, don’t worry. And not a threat to our family.”

Jon shakes in his sudden wrath, unseen behind her. He rakes a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. “I’ll kill him,” he snarls lowly.

Sansa stiffens at the sound, unable to look back at him.

“I’ll kill him for even touching you,” he says vehemently.

Sansa finally turns to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Jon.”

Her voice seems to bring him back, seems to dull the haze that’s overcome him. He hushes her, a hand at her shoulder, turning her back to the fire, a brittle silence settling between them. They stay like this for many moments before she turns again, voice catching in her throat, “Jon – ”

But then he’s settling into the space at her back, winding an arm around her waist, bracing her back against his chest.

Sansa swallows tightly, eyes blinking furiously against the firelight. “What are you...?” she gets out shakily.

“You said heat helps,” he answers into her shoulder, burrowing closer.

He doesn’t question this need. Doesn’t question this instinct to quell her pain. He only holds her. Firm and unrelenting.

He holds her.

And she lets him.

#jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #no more scars #my writing #got fanfic #jon x sansa #also what the FUCK is going on with tumblr's formatting??#this shit took ages longer to post than normal #dafuq

87 notes · View notes