#it will taste weird (she meant taste like shit). you understand' and instead shared the pizza with the other friend and i got a single

[riverofrainbows]

Something i realised is a hard boundary for me for any future partner is that they must never make me feel left out about food. I have a lot of food intolerances, however they are accommodateable, and i expect my partner to do that. Always, no exceptions. And I don't mean they can't try a new restaurant that only serves food i can't eat, as long as this isn't the only type of 'let's try a new food' they suggest. But if the theme is 'let's invite friends and have cake' and they don't get one i can eat too, or something as a replacement that has the same value (and not sad prepackaged cookies), then i will not play nice to that. I might even just fucking leave, because i will not put a brave face on and be all "No, its fine, how is the cake? I hope you enjoy it".

And i also won't bring my own food to an event someone else organises, especially not my partner's. I used to go to an event where they had, until then, always accommodated me (and others), and then suddenly they stopped and said that it was too much money and effort, and i could write an email before what food they will have and bring a replacement myself. Like no fuck that, i will not pretend they accommodated me through my own effort, if anything i will bring a wildly different food and tell anyone who asks what i have that they were unable to provide accomodation. And yes I do bring my own food to something like going on vacation because I'd rather not starve, but a hotel is neither my friend nor my partner nor an event that prides themselves on inclusivity.

For the longest time i accepted this stuff, but since then i made friends that saw it as a given to accomodate me, and i have raised my standards.

[procrastinatingsapphictrash]

F*cking up the friendship

Word count: 3501

Genre: Angst and fluff

Pairing: Wanda x Natasha x fem!reader

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol (let me know if I need to add any)

Summary: You sometimes forget Nat and Wanda are dating each other but when they go off on a date you feel sad and add alcohol to the mix, unable to fully control your words around them when they come back.

A/n: I’ve been in a huge wandanat x reader mood recently so you’re probably going to get spammed with a lot of these. Originally this was supposed to be a 1k words get together fluff fic that was suggested to me but then I added angst and other stuff so I decided to make the fluffy get together fic separately. Anyways I hope you all enjoy this, I spent hours yesterday writing so I could finish it in one day. 

You sigh loudly as you flip through Netflix, finding nothing interesting to watch. Usually on a Friday night you would be doing something with Wanda and Nat but today they had told you they had a special date planned so you haven’t seen them at all. It was a completely horrible idea to fall in love with your two best friends who happened to be dating each other but your heart betrayed your brain and now you were stuck in this situation, finding it impossible to get over the two most amazing women you had ever met. Spending nearly all your time with them did not help and everyday you feel your heart break a little when they kiss each other in greeting but only give you a smile. You know you should be thankful for their friendship, and you are, but it also pains you to know that there can never be more. 

You imagine what it would be like to share kisses and wake up wrapped in their arms. One time when you had fallen asleep on the couch after staying up late watching movies with them Natasha had carried you to bed and tucked you in and Wanda had said goodnight with a kiss on your forehead. You never talked about that night because you had pretended to be asleep but you replay it over and over in your mine, wishing that it wasn’t a one time thing. They are so strong, so kind, so smart and just so amazing in every possible way. It’s fitting that they are together but it also sucks to have to watch the perfect people have a perfect relationship while you pine silently, always trying to be a supportive friend. 

You try to think positive thoughts but you can’t help but wonder what they could be doing now which ruins your mood. Nothing on Netflix looks good to watch by yourself with nobody to make fun of cringy rom-coms with or to hide your face in during horror movies. It’s almost scary how much time you’ve spent with them recently and how reliant you’ve come to be on it. Come to think of it you can’t remember the last time they went on a proper date and you start to wonder if by watching movies with them you were actually intruding upon their alone time. You hope they would have been honest and told you if you were but they have always been nothing but nice to you so it’s possible they just didn’t want to hurt your feelings. 

Giving up on watching altogether you throw the remote aside carelessly, wincing when it bounces off the couch and hits the floor with a bang, and stand up. Making your way out of the living room and over to the room where the mini bar is you push all the thoughts from your mind, focusing only on the fact that you really need a drink right now. You don’t bother to turn the lights on when you enter the room, heading straight for the bottles and pouring some whiskey into a glass, much more than a recommended size. 

Sitting down on the couch you take a gulp. It burns and tastes disgusting, you’ve never been one for drinking but tonight you enjoy the feeling, not drinking for pleasure but drinking to hopefully forget. It takes about an hour before your thoughts get all muddled and you feel more relaxed. You slowly start to close your eyes and drift off to sleep when you are woken suddenly by a thump and a stream of curse words. You startle and your hand jerks spilling the rest of your drink all over your lap. 

Natasha and Wanda are standing a few feet in front of you. Natasha is looking at you with an expression you can’t recognize in your inebriated state and Wanda is clutching her foot, looking darkly at the leg of the coffee table. 

“Shit.” You mumble loudly, both at spilling your drink and at seeing them while drunk. This wasn’t supposed to happen, they were supposed to still be gone and now you’ve just embarrassed yourself completely in front of them. 

“Hey, Y/n,” Natasha is at your side in an instant, cupping your face in her hands, “let’s get you cleaned up okay?”

Wanda is there a second later, hovering. “And then maybe you could tell us what’s wrong.”

“Nothhhing’s wrong.” You slur, standing up. “Goodnight.”

“No no no, you’re not going anywhere by yourself right now.” Natasha tells you firmly, grabbing your arm. You don’t protest, partly because you know they are both stubborn and will always win and partly because you secretly want to spend as much time with them as possible. 

“Listen to Nat,” Wanda advises, “can you walk?”

“I can walk.” You say, crossing your arms and trying to look serious

Natasha raises an eyebrow, doing a horrible job at stifling her laughter for a spy. “Show me then.”

You take a few steps forward, looking triumphantly at Natasha before you stumble, arms flailing out and grabbing Wanda to prevent yourself from falling. Wanda helps pull you back up straight and kisses you on the forehead.

“I think the correct answer to the question is no.” She tells you amused. “Let me help you.” 

She doesn’t wait for a response and hooks an arm underneath your shoulders to help support your weight. You lean into her and match her steps, frowning when Natasha hurries away in front instead of walking with you.

“She’s just going ahead to grab something.” Wanda whispers, noticing your expression. You feel your entire body shiver from the sound of her whisper in your ear. Luckily she doesn’t mention it and just tightens her grip around you and continues until you’ve reached their shared room.

You stare at the door in confusion. “What are we doing here?”

“Did you really think we would leave you alone when you’re drunk and obviously upset about something?” She asks rhetorically. “We want to take care of you.”

You’re glad she’s holding you up otherwise you’re afraid you would have melted to the floor from her words alone. She pushes the door open and leads you inside. Natasha is waiting and hands you a pile of clothes. You recognize the bottoms as Wanda’s favourites and the top as Natasha’s shirt. 

“For me?” You ask, confused. She had handed them to you but maybe she actually wanted to give them to Wanda seeing as it’s their stuff.

“Yes for you silly,” she says smiling, “are you able to change by yourself in the bathroom?” You nod, feeling slightly more sober now.

“Okay just be careful and call if you need us.” Wanda tells you before stepping away from your side. You already miss her warmth but you pretend to be unaffected and head into the bathroom to change. 

It takes longer than usual, in part because you accidentally tried to put both legs in the same hole at first, but you managed to undress and put the pajamas on. They’re soft and smell like a mixture of them and you will deny it if asked but you hold the shirt up to your nose and breathe it in before realizing how weird that is. Walking back out of the room you shift nervously, unsure of what to do with both Natasha and Wanda staring at you intently.

“Come here sweetheart.” Natasha says and you immediately comply, heart pounding at the endearment, sitting down beside her on the bed in between her and Wanda. “Do you want to tell us why you got drunk now?” You shake your head furiously, only stopping when it starts to make you nauseous. 

“No, I don’t really-” You get cut off by your own yawn, suddenly very tired. 

Wanda giggles. “Let’s get you to bed now.”

You start to pout, upset that you have to leave and go back to your room but before you can move she uses her powers to gently float up the bed to the pillows, pulling you with her. Natasha joins you and cuddles you from behind so you’re pinned between them. Your eyes feel so tired but you try to fight sleep, wanting to stay in the moment forever. 

“Goodnight Y/n.” Natasha says and you stop resisting and start to relax. 

“Night Tasha I love you.” You tell her sleepily. “I love you too Wanda.”

“Sleep well Y/n.” Wanda replies, giving you a short kiss on the top of your forehead. You feel so warm and safe between them and it only takes another minute before you’re fast asleep.

---

You try to move but something strong and warm is holding you down. Your eyes fly open and the first thing you see is Wanda’s face, inches from your own. Natasha must be behind you because you can feel her wrapped around you and her small breaths blowing the back of your head. It’s nice but you can’t remember how you got here so you wrack your brains, ignoring your headache. You were sad so instead of watching a movie you started drinking, then they found you and then they took you back here and after that-SHIT. Shit shit shit shit shit you had told them you loved them. 

You aren’t naive enough to believe they think you meant it in a platonic way, you never tell your friends you love them and Natasha and Wanda are both really smart and can easily tell what you’re thinking. You just hope that they don’t tease you about it because you don’t think you could handle anything but being let down gently. 

“What are you thinking about?” Natasha asks from behind you. You hadn’t realized she was awake already but somehow she noticed you are, she’s scary with how much she knows sometimes. As much as you know this conversation will be awkward and painful you know there’s no point in delaying it and it’s best if you have control over it. 

“That I’m sorry.” You tell her. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She says gently, sitting up, understanding what you’re referencing. 

“No I do, I made things weird and I didn’t want to do that.” You say, hating yourself for the lump that forms in your throat. You start to untangle yourself from Wanda, trying hard not to wake her. This conversation is difficult enough with one person, if Wanda wakes up you’ll most definitely start to cry and the last thing you want is for them to feel bad or to pity you. 

“Y/n-” She starts but you interrupt her, not wanting to hear it. 

“I hope we can still be friends.” You say making your way to the door before pausing. “Please tell Wanda I’m sorry and that I need some time to myself for the day but after that I will pretend nothing happened.”

“Y/n, please-” 

This time you cut her off by closing the door. You run to your room. You don’t think she’ll try to follow and catch up with you but you don’t want to take any chances and you certainly don’t want the others to see where you’re coming from and your shame to get deeper. You are stupid, so stupid, you shouldn’t have gotten drunk and you should have kept your stupid mouth shut. Their friendship means everything to you and although Natasha didn’t seem like she would stop being friends with you over it things will definitely be awkward for a long time and you’ve seen friendships crumble because of it. 

Luckily you make it to your room without anybody noticing and you take a few breaths to calm yourself, closing your eyes. It helps for a second but when you open them again you’re looking straight into your mirror and you can see yourself wearing their clothes and immediately feel the tears start to come. You jump onto your bed and bury yourself fully under the covers, trying to stop crying because you don’t deserve to, it was your fault, and crying only makes everything worse, including your headache. 

---

Natasha shakes Wanda awake only to hear her groan and shift, attempting to fall back asleep. 

Rolling her eyes she tries again. “Wanda. Wanda. Wanda wake up.” Wanda moves slightly and lets out incoherent mumbles before waking up more and sitting straight up.

“Where’s Y/n?” She asks alarmed, remembering you were here when she fell asleep.

“That’s why I’m waking you up; she left.” Natasha tells her and Wanda frowns.

“Why?”

“Because we messed up and now she thinks we don’t love her.” Natasha explains. “She thinks that she ruined our friendship by telling us she loved us last night since we didn’t say it back and she left before I had time to correct her.”

“Oh crap.” Wanda says, thinking about how things seemed for you. From your point of view you had drunkenly confessed your feelings to people in a relationship before falling asleep with them not saying it back. 

“Yeah,” Natasha agrees, “I know we weren’t planning on doing the thing until this evening but I think we should do it now, we can’t let her be upset for any longer.” 

“You’re better at talking so you should get her while I set it up.” Wanda says and Natasha nods in agreement.

“Be as quick as possible, we will hopefully be there in ten minutes.” Natasha tells her before giving her a quick peck. Wanda sighs dreamily, imagining what it’s going to be like when she is dating both you and Natasha (provided you say yes of course but Natasha is certain you will and she trusts Natasha). 

Leaving her room Natasha quickly makes her way to yours and knocks on the door. 

“Go away.” You say and she can’t stand how sad and self loathing you sound just from those two small words.

“No,” she replies, “I need to talk to you.”

“Please.” You beg, your voice cracking in desperation. You can’t see her right now, not like this. She doesn’t listen, hating to ignore you but knowing that if she talks to you she can hopefully make it all better.

“Oh Y/n.” She sighs upon opening the door and seeing your lump under the covers. “Sweetheart it’s going to be okay.”

“No it’s not, I fucked up our friendship Nat!” You cry out, still refusing to show your face.

“No baby you didn’t.” She tells you, the endearment accidentally slipping off her tongue in her attempts to comfort you. “Please just give me a minute to explain some things.”

“Okay.” You sniffle, both confused and curious. You hate that you’re even a tiny bit hopeful at her words and you attempt to squash those thoughts down to spare as much of your heart that hasn’t already been hurt. 

“I would love to see your pretty face when I talk to you.” She prompts, gently lifting the edge of the covers. You slowly peek out of them like a turtle, well aware and slightly embarrassed of the fact that you look like you’ve been crying (which you have but it’s still embarrassing).

“There we go, that’s much better.” She tells you smiling. Even though you’re upset you can’t help but crack a wobbly smile back at her, her happiness really is infectious. She stares at your shirt as you pull more of yourself out from under the covers and you flush when you realize that you had never bothered to change and are still wearing her shirt. 

“It looks nice on you.” She says softly, reaching out to touch the hem before clearing her throat and switching into business mode. “I think you got the wrong impression.”

“I know I never should have-” You start to apologize, scared of her shift in mood. 

“That’s exactly what I mean.” She interrupts. “You seem to think that you’ve ruined our friendship by telling out how you feel but I can assure you that’s not the case at all and we are actually both extremely happy about your feelings.”

“Why isn’t Wanda here then.” You ask skeptically. 

“Because she’s in the living room where I’m supposed to bring you.” Natasha replies. “Will you come?”

“I don’t know,” you say nervously, “are you sure that…” you trail off, unsure of what else to say. 

“Y/n,” Natasha says and suddenly you’re all too aware of how close she is to you, “it will be good I promise.” 

As soon as she finishes speaking she leans in and her lips are on yours. It’s better than any of the times you’ve dreamed and it’s the perfect mix between hard and passionate but also soft and sweet.

“Wow.” You breathe when she pulls away after a few seconds, unable to think of anything else. 

She laughs. “Wanda’s going to be jealous that I got to do that before her and as much as I’d love to kiss you again we shouldn’t keep her waiting for too long.”

You nod silently and take Wanda’s hand when she offers it as she stands up and starts to walk out of the room.

“Wait,” you say just before you leave, “maybe I should change first.”

She looks over your (well technically their) clothes. “You are not changing, I like you wearing our stuff.”

You’re surprised to hear the slight possessive growl in her voice but it makes you incredibly happy. The start to this day had to be one of the worst in your life but it’s quickly becoming the best. Feeling as though you’re floating you allow her to pull you through the halls into one of the living rooms, the one you usually use for watching movies.

Wanda is sitting on the couch looking at the door when you come in but what catches your eye is the sheer amount of stuff around her. There are heaps of all your favourite candies and chips all around her and there’s a cute stuffed bear.

“Do you like it?” She asks and instead of answering you let go of Natasha’s hand and throw yourself at her, wrapping your arms around her waist tightly.

“I think that means yes.” Natasha says, laughing at your enthusiastic reaction.

“I love it,” you tell them, “I love-” You stop yourself before you tell them you love them again because even after all this you’re still not sure if that’s what they want to hear. 

“We love you too Y/n.” Wanda says and you sigh in both happiness and relief at her words. “Nat do you want to give her the thing now?”

You pull away from Wanda to look over at Natasha, curious as to what the thing is. Natasha picks up a small red jewelry box from the table that you hadn’t noticed earlier in your excitement and hands it to you. They both watch as you open it, suddenly nervous that you won’t like it.

You open it up to see a necklace with two charms on it and two charms that are identical lying beside it. Upon closer inspection you gasp, recognizing the the letter charms n and w as the same ones Natasha and Wanda wore on their necklaces, reminding them of each other. The charms lying beside it are the first letter of your name, presumably for them to add to their necklace. You feel yourself tear up at how sweet and thoughtful this gesture is. 

Wanda breaks the silence first. “This is what we were doing yesterday and it took all day because they were custom made so we wanted it done by the same person so it would look the same. We thought it would be nice for us to give you this when we officially asked you out so you don’t feel like an outsider or anything because we really like you and want things to go well.”

“What she’s trying to say is will you go out with us.” Natasha says, halting Wanda’s rambling. 

Wanda smiles sheepishly. “What she said.”

You slowly look up, careful not to let any tears fall and launch yourself into their arms, pulling whatever part of them you are holding towards you. 

“I think you already know the answer by now but I would love to.�� You say, still trying to get as close to them as possible. They wrap their arms around you tightly and moving together they lift you a few steps to the couch and plop you down, sitting and cuddling on either side of you.

“Today’s movie day and we’ll take you on a proper date tomorrow.” Natasha promises and you hum happily in reply. You don’t care at all about what type of dates you go on or even if you go on them at all because you’re dating the two most amazing women in the world and that’s a high you’re going to be riding for a long time, possibly forever.

---

Taglist: @cherryblossomskye @aaron-despair @thewidowsghost @nyx-aira @stephanieromanoff @stop-drop-and-drumroll @peggycarter-steverogers @casperlikej @redswing​ @mxxnmocha​ @king-star​ 

[doloresdraws]

I wanted to paint Werner right after the Embrace before he was completely disfigured. I will write the full scene of his Embrace and what led to it in some other post in the future.

The story below follows him right after the Embrace.

The night after he, on his way from a bar, found a severely burned woman and despite him wanting to take her to the hospital, she convinced him to take her to his motel room instead. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving her on her own after he had seen the men trying to burn her alive.

He was very drunk, because he was celebrating getting a contract for his and Leslie’s book that he was about to sign tomorrow. He tried his best to tend to the woman’s wounds with what he had found in the motel room and tried to talk to her to figure out what happened and if she needed any more help from him.

Werner even offered to take her to the police station to report what happened, but despite his gentle and comforting approach she was impassive and the more he tried to tell her that everything is going to be alright, the more she snapped at him.

He was in no shape to argue with her, so he decided to leave it for the morning, when he's gonna think more clearly. Maybe she will change her mind and lets him call the police or at least take her to the hospital.

After leaving the hurt woman in his bed, he tried hard to stay awake in case he would need to go to the motel manager to call an ambulance for her, but he was still quite drunk and he fell asleep on a couch after a while.

When he woke up his head hurt terribly and it took him a few minutes to shake the sharp pain off him and recollect last night's memories. When he remembered that there was a woman that was severely burned in his bed, he forgot about his pain and he rushed to see her, fearing that he might find her dead.

But the bed was empty and just now he noticed how dark all of his surroundings were, the blinds were closed and the sheets were covering the windows. He called out for the woman, but his motel room was dead silent.

Now, when he was sure the woman left, he instinctively went to check his wallet, but his ID and money, everything was in its place. He sat down, thinking that if she was able to leave, her injuries must have been less severe than it looked like. He thought that she probably got scared after he told her that he will take her to the police station to report the men that tried to burn her alive. After calming himself down, he glanced at the time at his watch and he was shocked.

It was 6pm, he rushed to the window to open the blinds only to see the evening sky. He realized that he missed his appointment with the publisher that was at at 2pm. He cursed at himself, how could he oversleep for the whole day when he had such and important appointment.

As he went to take a shower and started to wash himself, he noticed weird bruises and lacerations all over his hands and after checking, he found more of those over his whole body. He didn’t panic as he explained them as a result of getting burned while helping the woman.

When he noticed clumps of hair in his hand after drying his hair, he cleaned the mirror to see how big the damage was only to notice more injuries on his face, he could see one of his eyes clouded with a milky film. But he couldn’t get a very good look at his face, because there was something clearly wrong with the mirror, he couldn’t get his face to sharpen in the reflection and after a few desperate attempts of trying to clean the mirror he gave up and just got dressed.

He rushed out of the motel to the nearest phone booth and tried to call the publisher’s office to apologize, but nobody picked up as they were probably already closed. He then thought that he should probably call Leslie, but he couldn't because he was out of change. He realized that he was not feeling well, he had quite severe hangover and he felt that all of the adrenaline had worn out... That was why he felt so much cramping and tension inside, shattering headache and a sharp pain in his limbs and rib cage.

He decided to buy a hot dog from a nearby stand, the vendor gave him weird stares, but Werner ignored them, he smelled the hot dog and the stench was awful, but he felt so hungry, he just bit into it and as he tasted it, he couldn’t hold it inside, spitting it out immediately.

Werner turned around to go back to the vendor to tell him something about how nasty the food was, but the people on the street stared at him in disgust that he decided it was not worth it.

He then went into a first diner that he saw, hoping that maybe he can at least have a coffee to get rid of the pressing headache. Inside of the diner he was met with more of the grossed out stares from the other people, some of them even made a step back from him looking at him as he was some kind of a dirty lowlife. He politely asked for a coffee and when he took out the money, smiling at the waitress and saying that he just had a bad day, the waitress forced a smile and squeamishly took the money in a way that made Werner feel like he was contagious.

He felt so uncomfortable with his gaze buried into the table until his coffee was delivered. He was so looking forward to take a sip, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually drink it as if he knew that he won’t be able to.

After what felt like a painful eternity, he took a deep breath and with a shaking hand kicked the whole cup in his throat. Everyone at the diner stared at him, some with disgust and some with general curiosity at the weird man trying to drink a cup of coffee as if it was a shot of whiskey. He tried to hold it in as he realized that there were people watching, but he couldn’t, he started to cough, he tried to make it into the cup, but of course his hands were shaking and he spilled it all over the table.

Some of the men sitting nearby shouted some insults at him. Werner got up and started to apologize to the waitress for the mess, but she just rolled her eyes at him.

There was no point in making this even worse, everyone here thought he was some kind of a drunk idiot, so he ran on the street hoping that the fresh air will make him better.

He walked aimlessly for a bit, but soon he started to go through phases when he felt that his insides were about to tear him apart.There had to be something wrong with him, he needed to go to the hospital. But the problem was, he didn’t know where the nearest hospital was.

He tried to approach people asking for directions, but they either ignored him before he even said anything as they thought he was a homeless person begging for money or stopped to help him, but as soon as they had seen his face they backed away, leaving him frustrated and lost.

He didn’t understand why people treated him so poorly, he was polite and he showered in the morning, wore nice clothes, just because he was not feeling well, they avoided him like the plague.

It crossed his mind a few times to call Leslie, but then he always said to himself that he doesn’t need to worry her just yet, first he wanted to get checked into the hospital, find out what was wrong with him and then he would call her.

After walking aimlessly for a bit, he got tired of the weird stares, so he instinctively avoided people and chose to walk the back alleys, hoping to find a hospital or a police officer to ask for directions.

In one of the alleys he saw a homeless man sitting on the ground, covered in sheets, drinking something from a bottle. As Werner walked next to him, he saw a hat on the ground with a few pennies that people probably threw at him and he thought that today he felt how it probably feels to be in his shoes, so he took out some change and put it in his hat. “Thanks, man.”

The homeless man examined Werner’s face in the street light for a moment. “Man, you look like shit. Need a drink?”  The man moved a bit to the side to make space for Werner and gestured with his hand to offer Werner to sit down. “C’mon, sit, man.”

Werner smiled at him, finally someone wasn’t repelled by him, he awkwardly sat next to the man and cautiously accepted the flask. Today was one of the worst days in his life, if it meant that he will share a drink with a man that might be unclean and homeless, but treats him like a human being, then it was what he was going to do. But once again as soon as he swallowed the drink he felt it was coming back in his throat and he barfed. The man laughed. “You don’t drink often, do you?” and tried to hold Werner’s shoulders to somehow comfort him. When Werner turned around to smile and thank the man for his humane behaviour towards him, seeing the man so close to him made him somehow overwhelmed and suddenly everything went red for him.

“Holy shit, man! What the actual fuck!” Was what he heard from somewhere in the distance and then came pain as he felt his body slammed at the wall. Werner was confused and angry, but the cramps were gone.

A different man stood over him, his red hair falling into his clearly furious face. “At least lick the fucking wound!”

Werner didn’t understand anything.“What?”

The ragged man pointed to the side when the homeless man was lying, blood pouring over his neck. “Lick it, moron, what the hell are you waiting for?!”

Werner started to shake his head putting his hands up, clearly confused at what happened and wanting to leave. But the savage man grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him above the unconscious man. “Do it!” and Werner reluctantly did.

He thought it would be disgusting, but it was quite the other way around, the drops of the blood on his neck tasted like the tears of heaven.

Werner shook the unconscious man, horrified with what he might have done to him… “Is he gonna be alright?”

The red-haired man gave the homeless man one disinterested look. “He’ll make it... probably. But that is only because I intervened, you were gonna drink him dry…”

“Now explain yourself. This is my domain, what the hell do you think you are doing here?!”

Werner was shaking and told the man everything about how he was not feeling himself since the night before and how he can’t imagine that he could do this.

The man in the denim jacket listened to everything quite impatiently. “You serious? You really have no idea what this all is?! Damn, that explains a lot. Fuck, why does this have to happen in my domain, dammit.”

Werner begged him to take him to the hospital to which the man just shook his head. “I am afraid the hospital is not what you need, dude. By how fucked up you look, you have to be one of the Lazarus’ flock. You will have to come with me.”

He gestured to Werner to follow him, but Werner reluctantly glanced at the man on the ground before following him. “I... Need to call my wife.”

Severin stopped. “Sorry to break it up to you, pal, but you are not going to call anyone.”

Werner started to back away, ready to bolt out of here, this man was clearly unstable and dangerous. He wanted to call ambulance or police and most of all he wanted to call Leslie and hear her voice telling him that everything is gonna be alright again. “I can’t just…I need to tell her…”

But before he even finished that sentence, the man grasped him by the wrist with a huge clawed hand “I told you, you are coming with me. Voluntarily or not.”

His yellow eyes glared with rage and he crushed Werner’s wrist more. ''Do you understand now?!” The fear of this monstrous man made him give up and just nod in defeat.

Severin took him down to the docks where he knew the other Nosferatu frequented. The whole way Werner thought about what the hell he got himself into, wishing he could turn back time.

Werner © me/doloresdraws

[fanmoose12]

the devil you know

Сharacters: Hange Zoe, Levi, Moblit Berner, Zeke Yeagar, Armin Arlert

Genres: Action / Drama

Summary: Can you still miss a person, if everything you knew about them was a lie?

Сhapter 7/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Сhapter 6

Life had never been particularly kind to Hange Zoe. Tragedies and heartbreaks followed her ever since the day she was born – kicking, screaming and nearly killing her own mother. Her mother never recovered from that blow, her health diminishing while vexation with her own child grew.

That day gave a start to Hange’s life – and to the endless stream of misfortunes she had to face.

Those misfortunes frequented, the amount of bad days increased as Hange was becoming older. But even as a child, driven solely by curiosity and fascination for the world, uncaring of the workings and the rules of the society around her, she had her fair share of frustrations. They usually appeared when her father was around – luckily, due to the nature of his work, he very rarely was. Hange didn’t know her father well, he was always absent, always somewhere else, doing something incredibly important, shaping the future of their country. He was many things - a leader, soldier, hero. But he was not a father. Hange had but a few memories of him, and after all these years she had forgotten the sound of his voice, couldn’t for the life of her remember if his hair was as brown as her own, or had she inherited that vivid color from her mother. But what Hange could never forget, what was etched into her memory for all eternity was the look in his eyes – full of incomprehension, bewilder, disappointment – that he always aimed at her. No matter what she did – excitedly gushed about her studies, showed him a shiny rock she found or urged to go and see the frog she caught, her father had the same reaction, always told her the same thing,

“I expected better from you, Hange.”

Those words were the first dagger that was buried in her chest. But it was far from being the only one.

Her father died before she reached her eleventh birthday. And despite the mourning clothes mother had forced her to wear, despite the endless eulogies she had to sit through, Hange didn’t feel the same sadness that everyone around her did, she didn’t – couldn’t – share their pain or understand their grief. Her father meant something for all those people, but to her he was just a stranger, an unpleasant one at that. When he died, a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Without him, it was so much easier to breathe.

But her sorrows, her frustrations— sadly, they didn’t end with her father’s death.

Once Hange finished her studies, completed her training, she was sent to the outside world, far away from Marley. And for a moment, for one fleeting moment, she was happy, excited to do what she always wanted – learn and explore. But she was not meant to busy herself with research, to familiarize herself with different cultures, she was sent to these distant lands as a soldier, a weapon of great Marleyan Empire. Instead of books and quills, she held a rifle and a knife. And the only thing she learnt was how much blood her motherland was spilling on the foreign soils.

Sleep was coming harder to her after that, her dreams were haunted by visions of red, by screams of pain and anguish. She had become a soldier, her hands made for creation were now covered in blood. Her brilliant mind was now broken by the horrors she had faced.

And so Hange decided to cover herself in thick armor, to hide behind a smile and false happiness. The bad days persisted, losses following after her like a shadow, chasing like an infatuated lover, but she didn’t let it break her, continued moving forward with her chin raised high and her lips curled up.

However, despite the positive attitude she had adopted, there were lots of days Hange considered bad, awful even – the day when she learned just how Titans were created, what price Eldians had to pay for that; the day when she realized that her teacher, brilliant Tom Ksaver was one of those so called shifters, that his days in this world would end abruptly; the day when she received her first wound and spent the night in infirmary, wallowing in pain; the day when she killed another human for the first time and saw the light fading from someone else’s eyes; the day when Wall Maria fell and she witnessed just how much destruction and devastation she helped to bring to this little island; the day when Mike and Nanaba died; the day when her squad perished; the day when she had to leave Paradis behind; the day when she was brought back.

There were lots of days Hange considered to be bad. But nothing – absolutely nothing – could compare to the fucking shit show that was waiting for her next.

___

This fateful day was off to a good, if only slightly weird, start. As always she was woken up by a knock on the door. However, this one was very different from Moblit’s – less rhythmic, and much louder. In fact, it didn’t sound like a knock at all, more like someone was kicking the door repeatedly.

Confused and still sleepy, Hange rolled from the bed and went to greet her guest, not bothering to put her glasses on. Behind the now opened door she found… a shape that could or could not belong to a human. She raised her hand, mumbled a quick ‘sorry’ and darted back inside the room, blindly searching for her glasses.

Once the specs took their rightful place on the bridge of her nose, Hange returned back to the shape that now took the form of a young, blonde man. She trailed her gaze down, to the tray he was holding. There were plates with pastries, omelet, sandwiches, sausages and a cup with brown liquid that had steam coming out of it.

“I’m sorry,” she spoke through her confusion, “But do I know you?”

“Not… yet?”

Hange couldn’t understand if his words were meant to be an affirmation or a question. Nevertheless, she took a step back, letting him in.

He went straight to setting up the table, humming under his breath as he did so. Hange watched him work, not knowing how to feel – puzzled or amused. She tried to catch the boy’s gaze and ask for his name, but, considering the amount of food he brought and how exquisitely delicious it looked, Hange already had a pretty solid guess about the persona of her visitor.

“Be my guest,” he gestured to the table after he finished setting it. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “My name is Niccolo.”

“I guessed it already,” Hange smiled, taking a seat. Her stomach growled, as the delicious smell of homemade food entered her nostrils, her mouth filling with saliva even before she took a fork in her hands. She forced herself to look away from the food, however, directing her eyes at the man who had prepared it all. “Thank you for the food, but may I ask what is the occasion?”

Niccolo didn’t answer right away. He took his time, dragging the chair to sit on the other side of the table, then absentmindedly fixing the napkin and pushing the plate closer to Hange.

She didn’t urge him, patiently waiting for him to start talking. She had a feeling that whatever he came here to tell her was going to be extremely interesting.

And Niccolo didn’t disappoint.

“I’ve spent most of my life hating Eldians. Like every good, conscious Marleyan, I believed them to be devils and abominations. When these people captured me I thought it’d be better to die than live among them. But then I’ve got to know them better, I cooked for them, I’ve talked with them, I… grew to like some of them.”

He took a pause, and Hange used this moment to push some food into her mouth. Just as she expected – it was finger-liking good. And it tasted even better, because she also had an intriguing story she could listen to while eating.

“And there is one person that I like most of all, more than anyone I had ever met. I’ve realized my feelings long ago - perhaps, they were born the moment that I set my eyes on her, perhaps, it was destiny that brought both of us together. And to think of it – a Marleyan and an Eldian. If someone had told me years ago that I’d fall for a devil from Paradis, I’d probably punch that person in the face, but look at me now…”

A Marleyan and an Eldian? Hange had heard that story before. Hopefully, Niccolo’s would have a happier ending.

“I wanted to confess to Sasha for a while now, but the time was never right, and I kept stalling… You know, I thought there was no reason to be hasty. but then Jean told me what happened during the attack on Liberio, how I almost lost Sasha and my chance to tell her how I truly feel, so…” Niccolo looked Hange in the eyes, his gaze shining with the love he had for Sasha. “I came to say thank you. For giving me another chance.”

Oh, what a sweetheart. Hange felt her chest warm at the sight of such devotion. She always was a sucker for a young, tender love.

“And?” she leaned over the table, eyes alight with curiosity. “What did Sasha say? She returned your feelings, right?”

“Um.” Niccolo brought a hand to his neck, rubbing the back of it. “I didn’t do it, didn’t, eh, confess. Yet.”

“And when—”

“Today,” he said, confidence returning to his voice. “I planned a dinner for Sasha, invited her family and friends. Actually… I wanted to invite you as well.”

Despite regret that spread through her, Hange curled her lips in a comforting, gentle smile. “Not the best idea, but I appreciate the thought. And,” she added, her smile turning into a cheeky grin. “I’ll be expecting another visit from you, where you’ll share all the details.”

Hange wished she could see it for herself – Niccolo standing before Sasha red in the face, stuttering his undoubtedly sweet confession, Sasha gasping, with her mouth opening in shock, their audience watching it all with a mix of mortification and amusement. Hange wished she could have the privilege of being the part of that audience, alongside a certain Captain, who would cringe horribly at the scene, unfolding before their eyes.

Hange wished— for many things. Alas…

“I’m sure your plan will work out perfectly, but just in case,” Hange winked, snickering, when she saw red spread through Niccolo’s cheeks. “Good luck.”

“Knowing Sasha’s friends… I’ll need all the luck I can get. But for now, I also need to get going, the dinner won’t prepare itself. So thank you once again.” Niccolo stood up, bowing his head. “For everything.”

“Make Sasha happy, that’s all the thanks I need.”

Niccolo nodded, showing her a smile. He headed to the door, and just before he left the room, Hange gave him thumbs up, wishing him luck once more.

As the door behind him closed, she slumped back in the chair and continued munching on her breakfast, a blissful expression appearing on her face.

So… not only a great cook, but also a romantic? Sasha was such a lucky girl.

___

Her next visitors were just as unexpected, and their conversation - a lot less pleasant. It was in that moment that Hange started to suspect that this day would take its rightful place in the collection of her awful ones. But she was far from knowing just how horrible it had the potential to become.

The moment that Armin tumbled inside the room without knocking, throwing the door open in his haste, and Mikasa trailed after him, her pace much slower but just as unsure, dread settled in Hange's stomach.

"Hange-san!" Armin was speaking in a quiet, but barely controlled voice. His chest moved rapidly, as he struggled to keep his breathing slow and even. Hange swallowed her worry, her thoughts running at a lighting speed. What could possibly have happened to make him so panicked? She chanced a look at Mikasa - the young girl wore the same guarded expression she always did, but her eyes kept shifting from side to side, hands clasped together tight enough to make her knuckles white. "We need to talk."

Hange gave them a cautious nod and stood up from the bed, the book she was reading moments ago all but forgotten now. Pieck's warning was loud in her mind, as her fear grew. Marley... they couldn't have attacked so swiftly, right?

Hange gestured for her guests to take their seats at the table that stood near the window. Absentmindedly, she wondered where Moblit was. He didn't show his face to her even once this day. What could he be so busy with?

"Your guard told us that you had a visitor today," Armin stiffly began. "Mind telling us who that was?"

Hange frowned, cocking her head to the side. If the guard told Armin about the visitor, didn't she also mention that it was Niccolo? The cooking boy had to be known around the barracks, if he was that close to Sasha.

"Niccolo came by, he wanted—"

"You mean, Marleyan came by." Armin corrected.

"Sasha's and your friend, if I understood properly," Hange protested.

"But he's Marleyan. Just like you."

So, Armin was accusing her. And not only her, but Niccolo too. Accusing them of conspiring, but for what purpose? By which means? Against who? Hange was so confused. Hange didn't understand. Armin was always so rational, so coolheaded. What could possibly make him so frantic? What drove him to such desperation, to such wild guesses?

"Armin..." any other time, with any other person who trusted her just a fraction more, Hange would have taken their hand in hers. She'd caress it gently, try to calm them down, but in Armin's state... Hange worried that it'd make matters even worse. "Armin," she repeated, lowering her voice ever so slightly, making it sound more trustworthy. "What happened?"

Armin didn't answer, lowering his eyes - in shame or indecisiveness, Hange couldn't guess. And so Mikasa took the word.

"Chief Zacklay is dead," she said. And if that wasn't mind-blowing enough, she added, "Eren escaped from the prison."

"Fuck."

What else was there to say? Everything was turned on its head - Paradis' biggest defender seemingly had gone completely off the rails. Hange wondered if the threat of Marley invasion was still the scariest crisis the island would have to face. The absence of the clear answer was… unnerving.

“We don’t know what to do, or where to look for Eren. That’s why… Armin hopes that you’ll shed some light on that.”

Armin hopes – an interesting choice of words. He didn’t think, didn’t speculate, didn’t hypothesize. He hoped – exhibited a desperate, illogical kind of feeling. So… it was that bad, huh?

“I know nothing about it.” Hange said truthfully. “As you’re aware I’m not even allowed to leave this room.”

“We know.” Mikasa agreed softly, pressing her hand to Armin’s. “But it’s hard to come to terms with it.”

“He is your friend.”

Hange didn’t understand what they were going through, she never had someone that close to her destroy the trust between them, but she knew it wasn’t easy. Eren had changed, Eren had already lied to them once, but he was their friend, they’ve spent years, believing him and in him. They couldn’t change their opinion of him in just one night, they couldn’t let a few mistakes kill what they had created over the course of their lives.

She couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how her friends felt. Was it just as hard to believe in her betrayal? Did Moblit and Levi feel just as lost and unsure? Were they just as desperate to come up with a reason for her behavior? Whatever they did, whatever they felt, Hange hoped she would never have to learn about it. She was miserable enough as it was.

But Eren knew what his friends were going through, had to be aware of the consequences of his actions, of what he was doing to his friends, how much he was hurting them. What drove him to his decision then? What happened to the boy with bright eyes and big heart?

“Do you have any idea what Eren is going to do?”

“I don’t think it’s Eren’s doing, Zeke is probably lying to him, but…” his eyes were still cast down, his finger weakly tracing some vague shapes, when Armin muttered, “Hange-san… do you by any chance know what rumbling is?”

Hange froze. Her throat constricted acutely, creating a quiet, choking sound. For one second, one terrifying second her heart stopped, ceasing its usual rhythm.

Rumbling? Did she hear correctly? Was Armin speaking the truth, did he mean what Hange was worried he meant?

Rumbling.

A short, but scary word. One that was mentioned in but a few frowned upon books. One that was only whispered amongst the members of Titan Society, too horrifying to speak it loud and clear. The word that meant death, the end of everything they knew about their world.

“We were meant to experiment with it,” Armin explained, wriggling his hands. “Nothing too serious, nothing too… devastating. Just a showcase of the power we yield, to keep the other nations on their toes. To keep them away from us. But ever since Zeke had appeared, Eren became so…”

Even since Zeke had appeared, Eren had decided to act on his own, distanced himself from his comrades and friends, joined forces with his brother. Hange would have believed, would have been convinced that the boy she once knew was incapable of such cruelty…

But Liberio, the heart of her homeland was standing in ruins. And it was Eren’s doing.

She narrowed her eyes, gave a scrutinizing look first to Armin, then to Mikasa. Hange really, really hoped that she was wrong. Against all sense, she hoped that they would drive away her doubts, that Eren’s closest friends knew him much more intimately than she ever could, that their opinion of him was right and just.

“Do you think he is capable of proceeding with it?”

“No,” Armin answered.

And the same time Mikasa said, “Yes.”

Yes, said the girl, who was in love with Eren, who was devoted to him above anything or anyone else. She said yes, spoke it quietly, in pained voice. But without a shadow of a doubt.

Hange shuddered.

She— they had to stop this. Somehow. Anyhow. Before it was too late.

"Eren can't activate the rumbling on his own," Hange mused out loud, biting at her thumb.

"Right," Armin confirmed. "He needs the bearer of the royal blood."

And that was good, that meant not all hope was lost. To go through with the rumbling, Eren had to find Zeke, and Zeke was out in the woods with Levi. He would never get away from Levi, and so the world was safe, but—

Zeke wasn't the only one with special blood. There was also—

Fuck.

"Historia, where is she?"

Armin's eyes widened, a gasp escaping him as he came to the same conclusion as Hange. "She arrived in the town... This morning."

And that was the morning Eren decided to make his escape. Hardly a coincidence.

"You don't think..." Armin began tentatively, his eyes pleading Hange to say that it was a joke, that she was wrong in her assumptions. She wished she could give him that reassurance.

"I don't know."

She didn't know what Eren's plan was, what was his goal, what was Zeke’s role in all of this. She didn't know what means Eren would use to ensure his success.

Would he go to his brother, would he trust him enough? Or would he go to Historia and risk hurting his friend?

And how Eren would get to them? Both Zeke and Historia were heavily guarded - Zeke as the hostage, Historia as a Queen and a future mother. But who was the easiest target?

With Levi being in charge of Zeke, Historia was an obvious choice, unless—

Hange swallowed heavily.

Unless Zeke was planning something too - some rouse, or a play, something that would fool Levi, make him lose his focus.

Make him lose Zeke.

And if that worked—

"Where is Historia?" Hange repeated that question. Hidden in the forest, theoretically, Levi was safe. He could hold his own in a fight against Zeke, Hange has seen him do just that in Liberio, even if some part of it was a spectacle. She also had seen Zeke after Shiganshina, personally tended to his wounds that refused to heal properly because of the amount of his injuries. Back then, every hiss of his was like a melody to Hange, a miniscule payback for the carnage he had born.

Zeke was far away from Eren, guarded by Levi. Hange had to trust him with that task. She had to hold onto hope that Levi would be safe. But Historia... Historia was another matter. She was here, close, and as good as her security was, they were not on par with humanity's strongest. They had to protect the Queen first.

"Historia chose this day to arrive because of Niccolo's invitation. She's probably in his restaurant, along with the others." Mikasa said.

So she wasn't alone, surrounded by soldiers and friends. Would that be enough to hold off Eren? Possibly, although, Hange wasn't sure.

But Eren was not alone, he had followers, the ones Moblit was so worried about. Would they be just as amicable? Would they not hurt the ones Eren cared so much about?

"Historia is our main priority. We have to go to the restaurant and make sure that—"

"We?" Armin interrupted.

Hange deflated. Of course, how could she forget? She wasn't their superior, their commander, their friend. There was no we. She was an outsider. She always were.

"I didn't mean to—"

"No." Mikasa curtly said. "We need you, Hange-san. We do," she repeated to Armin, who was already opening his mouth with a protest on his tongue. "We need all the help that we can get."

Armin studied Mikasa for a moment, then turned to face Hange, regarding her pensively. The intense look of his big blue eyes was unnerving, almost impossible to hold without flinching. There was a man Hange once knew with the same intent gaze. Oh, how she wished to see him again. He'd know what to do in a shitty ordeal they were facing right now.

"You're right," Armin sighed at last. "We might not have same goals or even enemies... but our concerns align. With you on our side, our chances are much higher. So, Hange Zoe," Armin offered his hand for a handshake. "Will you help us?"

An unlikely alliance then, huh? Hange could work with that.

She shook his hand with a smile.

___

Something was turning, twisting inside Hange on the way to the restaurant. Even the air seemed stiff, the landscape outside of the carriage bright, pretty but ominous all the same. Liberio - her city - looked just as lively before it got crushed.

And today, right now, she couldn't get that image out of her mind. The streets she walked through hundreds, thousands of times; bakeries she visited day after day; parks and playgrounds she admired from afar - everything was now gone, turned into debris, into nothing but broken stone and crushed glass.

And all of it - all the destruction, pain and blood and death - all of it was a courtesy of one Eren Yeager, the boy with bright eyes and passionate soul.

Would the same thing happen to another city? To all the cities in the world? To hundreds and millions of—

Hange took a deep breath, stopping herself before she screamed in fury, ripped something apart, overturned the carriage, or worse - started crying.

No. Nothing of the sort would happen to the other countries or their people. They would stop this— this catastrophe and Eren, and Zeke, and whoever else was involved. They would not allow another tragedy.

In the meanwhile, Hange did her damnest to focus on small, trivial things - the inside of the carriage, the bumps on the road, the subtle similarities between Mikasa and Levi, the sunbeam playing across Armin's face - anything to keep her mind from other, much scarier things. It didn’t really work.

"We are here," Armin announced, cutting through her morbid thoughts. He put a hand on her elbow - a tentative, but heartfelt gesture. Hange wondered just how disturbed she must have seemed to earn it.

"Let's go," she shook off all the worries, all of her fears. They weren't needed. They would slow her down, serve as a distraction, nuisance. And today, she had to be on her best. "We have no time to spare."

Mikasa and Armin seemed to be of the same opinion, and so the three of them left the carriage and started moving towards restaurant's entrance.

The place was much bigger than Hange had imagined it to be. She expected to see something small, but snug, something homely. But Niccolo's restaurant was grander than most buildings on Paradis. It didn't quite reach the luxurious and exquisite nature of restaurants in Marley, but— clearly, that was Niccolo's inspiration.

The restaurant - as big as it was - was packed, the merry sounds of laughter were heard even from the courtyard. People were celebrating, people came here to have some fun. Hange knew just how rare those instances were. And she hated being the one to put a stop to it. But she'd rather ruin someone's day and be wrong about her assumption or ruin someone's say and be right, than— Than not ruin someone's day, be right and waste precious time.

The three of them walked through the dark brown door, and instantly Niccolo stood in front of them, appearing seemingly out of thin air.

"Armin, Mikasa! I didn't think you'd make it! And you brought Hange with you!”

The happiness on his face was so endearing, so genuine. Hange was wrecked with sympathy for him. Niccolo was just a boy, who loved a girl, and decided that today of all days he'd make his feelings known. Unfortunately, the day he had picked turned out to be one of Hange's bad ones.

"Congratulations once again," Hange made sure to put on an extra gentle smile, in vain hope that it would soothe the effect of her next words. "But that's not why we are here."

"No?" the happiness was gone from Niccolo's face, suspicion overtaking it, but only for a second. Next came anger. "I thought we were over this," he leveled, glaring at Armin. "I thought we've already discussed everything you wanted. And I'm not going to deal with this bullshit again. Not today."

Niccolo whirled around, his leg raised to, no doubt, dramatically storm out. Mikasa's gravelly voice and a tight grip on his wrist stopped him. "If you don't want to ruin this day for Sasha, then take us to Queen Historia. Right now."

Oh. Even Hange felt shivers at that tone of voice, and the threat wasn't even directed at her. Was Levi teaching her his tricks? Or was every Ackerman just naturally good at being so scary?

Niccolo yanked his hand out of Mikasa's grasp, massaging it with a wounded expression. He didn't try to argue once again, though. And soon Hange, Armin and Mikasa were following after him to the banquet hall.

He took them through the lengthy hallway, past kitchen and washing room. At the edge of it, Hange could see two familiar figures - one tall, another short. They were standing next to a wooden cupboard, snickering quietly to each other. As they came closer, Hange realized that Jean and Connie were holding several bottles of wine, clearly having trouble choosing which one to open.

"Niccolo!" Connie yelled out, waving the bottles over his head. "Which one is better?"

"That's not for you, you idiots!" Niccolo snatched the bottles from their hands, his retort vicious— and more shaken than the situation truly called for. Any other day, Hange would have found it weird, would have paid more attention to it. Any day, but not during her bad day.

So she shrugged it off and after giving Jean and Connie a painfully awkward wave, continued following after Niccolo.

Once they were inside, Hange couldn't help but marvel at the amount of people gathered. There were lots of civilians, none of which Hange could recognize. And among them, there was a sea of green, representing the members of Survey Corps. Most of these faces were known to her. One of those faces in particular swiftly left the conversation he was having, gluing himself to her side.

"Hange-san? Armin? What is going on?"

Moblit had his mouth open, his eyes shifting between the three of them. Hange didn't know what he had seen there, what face she was making, but Moblit didn't ask another question, silently falling in step with them.

Sensing the change in the room, Jean and Connie hurried to do the same.

They all stopped in front of the table in the corner - one near the window and with a nice bouquet standing on it. The table was occupied by two - giggling Sasha, who was retelling some story in a rather animated fashion, and Historia, who listened to her friend with a joyful smile.

Looking at her, Hange couldn't help but be amazed. Last time she saw the girl, she had just become a Queen, still doubtful and unsure in her position. And, although, the woman before her eyes didn't look exactly royally – what, with her simple dress and long, loose hair - but Historia had certainly grown, become tougher, more confident in her abilities. However, she was still as pretty as a picture, and the motherhood had enhanced her beauty even further.

"Your Majesty," Hange was the first to take the word, but after that she faltered, not sure how to proceed further. Should she bow? Kneel before the Queen?

She was spared from making that decision. Because right in that moment, right when she was meaning to open her mouth and explain everything to Historia as curtly as was possible— her day turned from simply bad to straight up shitty.

"You!"

Familiar voice. The anger in it wasn't unusual too. Never before it was directed at her but—

Hange recognized the pride of Marley, the future Warrior right away. It was all she was allowed to do before getting promptly tackled to the ground.

"Traitor! Liar! How could you do that to us! How could you side with the devils?"

Gabi kicked and punched anything she could reach, accentuating her every word and accusation, but the blows were barely registered by Hange. She felt no pain, only huge amount of relief.

Gabi was furious, Gabi was loud. Gabi was alive and well.

A month, a whole month she spent worrying about these kids, only to have fate throw them back together in the most ludicrous way possible.

“Gabi,” despite her kicks, despite her loud shrieks, Hange smiled happily. She pulled the girl closer, wrapping one arm around her, while her other went to softly brush the girl’s hair. “Gabi, are you alright? You’re not hurt?”

“And why would you care?” Gabi suddenly sniffled, voice muffled by Hange’s shirt. “You never cared about us, did you? Only about those devils!”

“Gabi…” Hange sighed, finding herself at a loss of words. How could she explain something so complicated? Something she couldn’t understand herself?

Luckily, an unexpected help arrived.

"Don’t judge too harshly, child. You may not understand it yet, but humans' hearts are tricky things. No rules apply to them, they never listen to reason. They don't act like we want them to. They create emotions, make our lives brighter, and at the same time... So much more confusing. And accusing someone of caring for the wrong person… it’s just not right."

Hange looked up, surprised to see a middle-aged man standing before her. She was fairly sure that she had never met him before, but his eyes, his manner of speaking... Somehow, they were familiar.

Before she could connect the dots, however, her attention was ripped away once more, this time by Niccolo's deep voice.

"Eldians, Marleyans," he scoffed. "All of us are vile, devil is in each and every one of us. We're all imperfect, but all of us yearn to find the place where we belong, where we're loved. We don't choose who these people would be, we love others for what they are, not what they represent, or what side of the conflict they come from. And if loving my enemy is treason, I’ll gladly go down as a traitor."

Niccolo glanced back, meeting the eyes of the one he had dedicated this speech to. Hange caught Sasha’s bewildered, loving look and smiled, feeling her eyes go misty.

So, Marleyan and Eldian? Was a union like that even possible? Four years ago, on the dawn of the day when she left the one she loved the most behind, she'd say that it would never work out. But... times were changing, right? For the better, or so, at least, Hange hoped.

"Hange-san..." Moblit crouched beside her, painfully awkward. "Erm..."

Oh right. Only now, Hange realized that she was still lying on the floor. And that in on itself wasn't so unusual, but most of the times... she didn't have a ten or so pairs of eyes watching her.

Hange cleared her throat. Then, as absurdity of the situation caught up with her, snickered quietly.

"Hey, Gab," she stroked the girl's side. "Would you mind letting me get up?"

Gabi rose on her elbows, considering Hange. The frown on her face didn't vanish, but— her eyes weren't so full of rage anymore - clearly, the speeches had left an impression on her.

"I'm still mad at you," she said, lip stuck out petulantly. "But... I'm glad that you're here. Because it means they're coming for us, right? Commander Magath and Reiner— Reiner will save us, right? We just need to wait for a little longer, until they arrive."

They're already here, Hange wanted to say. If Pieck came, there was no way that Reiner would want to sit that one out— or be allowed to, anyway. Marley was coming, their guns blazing. But in the room full of members of the Survey Corps and Queen herself, Hange couldn’t say that, wasn’t yet ready to betray her country like that. She could only kiss Gabi's brow and promise, "You will be alright."

Reassured, Gabi nodded and let Hange get up. As soon as her feet had touched the ground, Hange found herself with someone once again wrapped around her. This time, however, the embrace was that much warmer and a lot less violent.

"Falco," she carded her fingers through his sandy blonde hair. "I take it you've missed me too?"

"You can't imagine," he spoke, his face pressed to her stomach. "Going on missions with Gabi is a torture! I could barely keep up with her!"

"You'll learn with time," Hange looked back, exchanging a look with Moblit. "It's not that hard to deal with annoying shits like us, right, Mob?"

He tugged at his collar, strategically evading her curious eyes. "Perhaps, after a very long while..." he reached out, patting Falco's shoulder. "And with the help of a good alcohol stash."

"Oi!" Hange slapped his arm. "He's only a kid!"

Moblit shrugged. "He has to know what is waiting for him."

"Don't listen to him," she gently consoled Falco. "He's joking."

Although... Hange had to agree with Moblit on that. If Falco continues running after Gabi like that, he'd have his first grey hair by the age of fifteen.

With the boy still clinging to her, Hange surveyed the room, swiping her gaze across Sasha and Niccolo, who stood side by side, wearing identical, enamored expressions, to Connie and Jean, who were whispering something to one another, and finally to Mikasa and Armin, who hid Historia behind their backs.

Right. She didn't come here for a cheerful reunion. The fate of the world was at stake. Hange pulled herself together and— pulled Falco away from her.

"Sorry, dear," she fondly ruffled his hair once again. "I need to go now, but I'll get back to you."

Could she do, though? Could she return to these kids, ask them to be placed under her care? Should she do it, considering that she didn't even know what was going to happen to her, where would she be one hour from now? Was it wise then to drag kids along with her? They were sharp and strong, more than capable, and they did survive on their own for so long— wait.

How did they manage to survive on a foreign soil, all by themselves? And why they were here today, in Niccolo's restaurant of all places?

"I guess these ducklings are yours?"

Oh. The familiar man that Hange had never seen was back, now standing in front of Hange, showing her a kind smile.

"We haven't been introduced, but it's hard to mistake you for someone else. Hange Zoe, right?"

"Right," Hange shook his warm, calloused hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Braus."

"The accent was a dead giveaway, huh?" he laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He had a nice laugh, Hange decided, deep, heartfelt and genuine. She liked Mr. Braus, just as much as she liked his daughter.

"I understand that you're the one who had taken care of my ducklings," Hange giggled, catching Gabi's very much unamused look. "Thank you for that."

"And thank you for saving my daughter's life. For that deed I could never repay you."

"That was... that was nothing. I did nothing, just happened to be in the right place, in the right time."

"It's only because of you that we're here, celebrating, instead of mourning. So," he gripped her shoulder tightly, his brown eyes staring into hers intently. "Let me express my gratitude, for that is the smallest thing that I can do."

"I think," Connie inserted himself between them, his mischievous smile lighting up the room. "This calls for a toast!"

No more than a second later, Jean had produced a bottle of wine, opening it swiftly and skillfully. Once the bottle was dealt with, he filled a glass with wine, thrusting it to the person standing closest to him. Which— happened to be Gabi.

She took all but a tentative sniff from the glass, before it was roughly yanked out of her hands. The drink splashed everywhere as Falco hurried to finish it, before Gabi caught up and took it away from him.

There was just as a couple of droplets left, everyone watched the scene in amusement, until—

Until Niccolo screamed.

He pounced from his place, wrestling the bottle out of Jean’s hands. “It’s not for you, morons! I told you not to touch it!”

Ice spread through Hange’s veins, as she heard the desperation in his voice. If her first thought was the right one… she had to make sure of it immediately.

“Who that wine was meant for?” she seethed, grabbing Niccolo by lapels of his shirt, suffocating him in her white-knuckled grip and currently not caring about it. Everyone in the room tensed, Sasha jumping closer to them, but Hange didn’t care, ignored all of them completely. “Who that wine was meant for?” she shouted, shaking the boy like a ragdoll.

“F-for the military officials! It’s the good stuff, expensive, it was meant only for them!”

The good stuff, the best one they got, Hange reasoned. The next question was pointless, she knew the answer already, was the one who came up with this idea in the first place, but— Niccolo was a good guy, a sweet boy in love with a kind girl. Hange wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“What’s wrong with the wine?”

And that was it. That’s all she had to do to get to the bottom of it. One short, simple question, and Niccolo crumbled. He didn’t try to fight her, made no attempts to protect himself. He hanged his head in shame, avoiding the dozen pairs of eyes that now were boring into him.

“They made me do it,” he whispered, his hands, his lips— his whole body shaking. “I had no choice, you wouldn’t understand—”

Oh, but Hange did understand. Better than Niccolo knew. She knew how it felt to be forced to follow the current, accept every cruel tide. She knew just how frustrating, how painful it was to lose control.

So yeah, Hange understood. But she could not excuse.

However, she had no place to judge as well, she herself was a reason for so many tragedies and disasters. She couldn’t judge, and she didn’t have the time for it. The deed was already done, now they had to try and undo it.

“Who gave you the orders?”

The spine fluid, injected into wine, came from Zeke, that Hange had no doubt about, but Zeke was far away, deep in the forest, under Levi’s watchful eyes. So who had redistributed the wine? Who was the betrayer, the real culprit?

“It’s—”

He didn’t get to finish. For only now Hange had realized what had happened moments prior. Falco drank the wine. Falco. Drank. The. Wine.

Her heart thumping, Hange pushed Niccolo away, grabbing Falco’s hand instead. Armin, Mikasa, the Queen, let someone else deal with that shit, for now she had to try and delay the inevitable. She looked around, her eyes wild, mind racing. “Where— where is the bathroom or— or a—”

“I’ll show you.”

It was Moblit’s quiet, reassuring voice. He gripped her elbow gently, taking her away. Hange let herself be led, rubbing soothing circles into Falco’s palm all the while. She didn’t know what do, wasn’t even sure that spinal fluid can be taken out of someone’s system, but she’d be damned if she wouldn’t at least try. Falco, sweet, smart Falco, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be turned into a Titan, a mindless creature with no loyalties and feelings. Hange wouldn’t allow it, she was ready to do the impossible and then more to save the little boy.

Once they reached the bathroom, Hange set out to work - took off her coat, rolled the sleeves of her shirt, sat Falco down on a stool, pushed his head under the faucet, instructed him to try and rinse all the wine out.

It was possibly entirely pointless, Hange was pretty sure of it— but. What else could she do? Sit tightly and wait for the young life to vanish?

"That thing in the wine..." Moblit spoke up - calmly, but defeated, as though he had already surrendered to whatever tragedy that would befall him. "It's bad, isn't it?"

Hange tensed. Hange jumped to her feet, fisting her hand into Moblit's shirt so desperately, the fabric creaked in protest.

"Moblit," she croaked, her voice shaking, broken, eyes begging him to say that he was joking, that his inquiry was simple curiosity. "Moblit, did you drink that wine?"

"It was served at every government meeting. I couldn't refuse."

No. No. Hange couldn't believe, didn't want to believe it, Moblit— not Moblit, she didn't want him to fall victim to this, become another casualty in her long, extremely bloody career. Anyone else, but not— not him.

"It's the same tactic we used in Ragako village," she explained numbly. "Back then it was gas, this time the fluid that turns people into Titans was added into wine. It activates after Zeke screams."

"Ah," Moblit shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "If - when - I turn, you could experiment on me. Just— don't give me a stupid name like Sawney or Bean, I'd like, I think, I'd like to be called Moblit. If I'd still have some semblance of consciousness by that time, if not - you can call me whatever you—"

"Shut up." Hange choked, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She ignored them, glaring fiercely at him. "Shut the fuck up, Moblit, you will not turn into a Titan, I will not allow it, I'll do whatever I can—"

"Hange-san," he smiled, and it broke her heart. "It will be okay."

It won't. Because it was her damn creation, made to defeat faceless, unknown enemies. And now it was used against people she cared about.

She had to do something about it. With a start Hange realized that the solution was... fairly easy.

"Avoid Zeke at all costs." She told Moblit, urgency turning her speech more frantic. "Don't go near him, try— try to get away if he gets into city—"

But Zeke couldn't get into the city. Zeke couldn't get out of the forest at all, couldn't make a single move without Levi knowing it.

Levi was the solution. He would keep Zeke under his guard, he would keep Moblit, and the rest of them, safe. Hange finally could take a breath.

But the calm didn't last for long.

As soon as she returned to Falco's side to check on the boy's condition, a loud crash came from somewhere deep within the restaurant. Hange heard the sound of hurried footsteps, then a concerning scream.

She exchanged a look with Moblit. Both of them started running at the same moment.

When they tumbled inside the main room, they froze in shock.

Sasha's family, members of Survey Corps and among them— soldiers with rifles. Hange scanned the room once more, her eyes travelling further, to the table by the window. She breathed out in relief - Historia was guarded by Connie and Jean. At least, the Queen was safe.

But not the rest of them.

"Squad Leader Moblit," the ginger head took a step towards them, a too wide smile plastered on his face. Hange didn't like that man and his smile. And the gun in his hands. The gun that was now aimed at the ceiling but could be very well aimed at Moblit, or anyone else in that room. “You’re the one I need.”

Moblit inched closer too, his chin held high and eyes defiant. Hange didn’t miss the fact that his movement hid her behind his broad shoulders. Oh, loyal, caring Moblit. How could she leave him to his fate?

“I’m here,” he leveled to the redhead. “What do you need me for, Floch?”

If it wasn’t for the gun in his hands, or the smile on his face, the way Moblit spelled his name – the obvious aversion, unhidden contempt was enough for Hange to understand that this Floch guy wasn’t very nice. And, despite the Wings of Freedom on his back, he certainly wasn’t Moblit’s friend.

So. That was one of the famed Yeagerists? And the rest of them, the ones that held civilians on gunpoint were the part of the same group? Hange was so not impressed.

“You’re buddies with Captain Levi,” Floch continued. “That means you know exactly where he is hiding.”

“Perhaps.” Moblit nodded. “But what makes you think that I will tell you?”

Floch’s smile grew, and the gun that was held lazily in his hand, pointing at the empty air, moved. It was lowered down, its barrel now staring right at Moblit. But the gun didn’t stop there, it moved again, shifting just a little to the side. To where Hange was standing.

“Hange Zoe, right?” Floch tilted his head, so he could look straight at her. “I didn’t have the pleasure to make your acquaintance before, but I’m glad that life threw us all together. Especially now, for you see…” he lifted a hand, and a soldier took his place, his rifle raised, while Floch paced from side to side. “I’m not allowed to hurt them,” first he pointed at Jean and Connie. “Or her,” now at Historia. “I’m, however, allowed to do with the others whatever I want. And since hurting our dear Squad Leader Moblit wouldn’t bear the needed results…” he spread his arms, shrugging helplessly. “No one would miss a traitor, right?”

“Don’t you dare!” Moblit surged forward, shoulders shaking from the unbridled fury. But he made no more than a few steps, before he was immobilized, two soldiers coming from behind to grab his arms and twist them painfully. Moblit didn’t back up even then, continuing his fierce resistance. “Leave her out of this!”

“Ah, yes,” Floch chuckled to himself, observing Moblit’s struggling with morbid fascination. “The luck is surely on our side today. You will be useful after all, Hange Zoe. We will take you with us.”

No sooner than these words left his mouth, Hange felt a pair of hands around her, subduing and enabling to make a single move. She thrashed, she kicked, but to no avail.

“Floch—” Moblit grounded, pulling on his restraints.

“Don’t you worry,” Floch squeezed Moblit’s shoulder, showing him a look of feigned affection. “No one is going to get hurt, if you cooperate.”

No. They couldn’t cooperate. Cooperating meant leading Floch and his bunch to Zeke, and that meant leading them to Levi.

“Mob! Don’t listen to him! We can’t–” instinctively, momentarily forgetting about the arms that held her down, Hange reached out to him, trying to catch his eyes.

But Moblit turned his face to the other side, avoiding her gaze. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I can’t let you get hurt.”

Ah. Hange’s heart sunk, while Floch clasped his hands in delight.

“I’m glad you’ve made the right choice! And now,” he raised a finger, and Hange with Moblit were forced to move forward. “Let’s get going!”

___

Outside, the weather changed. The sun hid behind the heavy, grey clouds, the rain was now steadily falling down, creating puddles under their feet.

The gloomy weather further enhanced the trepidation inside Hange. The feeling, the certainty that something was going to get very wrong and very fast persisted, forcing her to grab the reins of the horse tighter, in vain hope of providing some miniscule outlet to her ever growing anxiety.

Despite the fear, Hange spurred her horse forward, doing her best to ignore the rifles pointed at her back. It was proving to be quite a vexing task, when the said rifles kept pushing her to move even faster but— it wasn’t the worst situation Hange had found herself in. That time when she and Zeke were captured by the enemy forces and put inside a fortified prison was so much worse. The prison had anti-Titan artillery surround the perimeter, they were alone and cut off from their allies. And still they managed to escape. Compared to that, a few Yeagerists were nothing.

Although, Hange had to admit – the stories did them no justice. In reality they were a lot more vile and disgusting.

But, apparently, Levi still trained some of them. And, boy, did he teach them well. One soldier behind Hange kept huffing, cursing the weather under his breath. Hange waited, and when he once again got distracted by the mud that splashed on his boot, she thanked Levi for his absurd obsession with cleanliness and acted, stealing that little moment for herself.

“Hey,” she leaned closer to Moblit who was riding right beside her, and whispered to him in a voice just slightly louder than the sound of the rain. “Remember that thing we did during Erwin’s coup-d'etat?”

Moblit winced, anxiety reflecting in his eyes. “When we punched people that were armed with rifles?”

Hange grinned. Atta boy, of course, he remembered. “I’ll give you a signal,” she nodded discreetly and returned to her previous position, now directing all of her attention on their fearless, redheaded leader.

“So Zeke is your main goal, right? You don’t actually need Historia?”

Floch scoffed, rising his nose up in distain. “The Queen is a back-up plan.” Wow, getting information out of them was that easy? Some devoted followers they were. Hange continued listening, eager to know what else Floch would reveal. “We’re not sure what exactly is going to happen, and Eren… doesn’t like hurting his friends.”

They weren’t sure what was going to happen. Only for these words Hange was ready to throttle each and one of them. What was going to happen? Mass destruction and death, a lot of unnecessary deaths.

But did these children care? Of course, they didn’t.

And would Zeke care about it? Hange wasn’t sure. Zeke was many things – cruel, violent, heartless, he never cared that much about other people. However, he was his father’s son, and, as much as he had loathed Grisha Yeager, Zeke still carried around the hero complex that his father fought so hard to plant inside him. Was it possible then that Zeke would be against the rumbling? Was it possible that he didn’t know of Eren’s true intention, that he blindly trusted his little brother?

Was it possible that their goals didn’t align? If so… then Zeke was a key player in this game of chess. He was a powerful figure they had to get on their side. If Hange could talk to him—

A loud sound, a crashing bang interrupted the flow of her thoughts, making her jump in the saddle.

That noise, it was similar to a thunder, but not quite. Hange knew that sound all too well, was the one who created the devise that was activated with the very same sound.

It couldn’t be— that noise couldn’t come from a thunder spear explosion. But… what other explanation was there?

“Let’s head there!” Floch commanded. “Something must have happened.”

Hange’s heart raced as they inched closer and closer to the place where the sound had come from. It wasn’t hard to find, the gory sight of the poor, wounded horse and the blasted cart was easy to spot.

They approached it slowly, and suddenly Hange froze, her eyes landing on something near the riverbank. Something that looked a lot like a body – a short one with strong stature and black hair—

“Moblit,” she whispered, begging him to clear her suspicions, to reassure her that she was mistaken.

But Moblit pursed his lips, and shook his head – brief, but resolute.

For a second, Hange froze, overcome with desperation and fear. Her heart stopped too, if just for a moment.

Levi, he couldn’t— but what if he did?

Ignoring the insistent shouts and strict orders to come back, Hange jumped off the horse, scrambling to get closer to the riverbank and to him.

She fell into the mud, uncaring of her clothes, of the mud she was splashing around. She felt nothing, the rain, the river, her captors, it all faded into background. She cared for nothing else, except the limp body in her hands.

Oh, please, please, please.

Her hands trembled as she turned the body to face her, careful as she could be. A bloody mess, her personal nightmare stared right back to her.

And in that moment— Hange felt her heart break, ripping, shuttering into thousands pieces. She thought she knew loss before, she thought she knew what pain was.

She was so wrong.

[dreaming-about-fanfictions]

Choose Me Instead II Draco Malfoy x Reader II Chapter 5 of 27: You

Summary: Pretending to be in a relationship with Draco Malfoy to get back at your ex might have not been the smartest idea you ever had. Especially during your last year of Hogwarts where you should be focusing on exams and your future plans. However, you were just pretending. There was no way in hell you could actually catch feelings for someone like Malfoy. … Right?

CHAPTER 4

A/N: A chapter from a different perspective! I hope you all like it <3 And thank you so much for your support!! I love you all so muuuuuch!!!

Words: 2300 Pairing: Draco Malfoy x female!Reader, post-war Warnings: none

Draco Malfoy wasn’t easy to impress. Being bored quickly by other people was one reason why he never had many close friends – and yes, he knew how utterly arrogant that sounded. It was the truth however. He was friendly with most of the Slytherins but his mother always taught him “Quality over quantity” and he agreed. Draco went so far as to apply that mindset to his love life as well. Yes, before the sixth year of school, he used to like to flirt and he had dated the occasional Slytherin girl. He was also very aware of the fact that there had been quite a few girls with crushes on him. In some cases, he even reciprocated them, however, those feelings faded quickly.

So you couldn’t imagine how much it bothered Malfoy that he wasn’t able to stop thinking of you. Not even in his dreams did you leave him alone and so he kept on going back to that evening on the Quidditch field. Until today, it was entirely unclear to him why he told you all those things. He didn’t know anything about you yet speaking to you left him feeling … good, almost. After a year of trials and coming home to find his family and life in shambles, there was no one left to talk to. No one he wanted to talk to. To whom was he going to turn? His friends which were all coming from the same pureblood Death Eater families? Yes, of course, they understood – and also they didn’t. Not quite. Did you understand him? Probably not, he guessed. After all, you were a Gryffindor and fought on the right side of the war. The winning side. But talking to you felt different, almost easy. You grew up in another world than him and maybe that was the key to it all.

Obviously, Draco didn’t plan on repeating that evening. You were friends with the whole Potter and Weasley bunch. It made it even harder to trust you – how could he be sure you hadn’t already told your Gryffindor friends and were laughing about him behind his back? It was possible. A part of him didn’t want to believe this possibility and another part reminded him of all the times he was disappointed and got hurt by the people around him. It was probably for the best to stay away from you.

Yet he didn’t stop thinking of you. He saw you looking at him in the Great Hall during meals, watched you from walk away when you passed him in hallways and the library. Without noticing it, he always chose a place behind you in class. Draco didn’t understand the urge to be close to you. It was utterly ridiculous for Merlin’s sake. You were a Gryffindor; one of the good ones. He wasn’t. Not at all.

Maybe it was because of the kiss, he wondered at some point. Maybe you hexed him in this moment. Draco knew this theory was very far-fetched but it was the only logical explanation fin his mind. Why else would he keep thinking back to that moment in the storage room? He didn’t deny that you were witty and smart and very beautiful – he wasn’t blind after all – but so were lots of girls. What the hell was so special about you that you wouldn’t leave his thoughts?! It couldn’t be your taste in men as you obviously didn’t have any. At least there wasn’t a reasonable explanation for him for why someone like you would get with someone like the Weasel.

“Draco,” Blaise’s voice pulled him out of this thoughts. “You coming?”

Draco nodded. “Yeah, just a second.”

He got up from the table in their shared dorm, putting his notebook in the drawer of his nightstand. Two months since school started and he had almost filled in all of its pages. Draco started writing during the first trial of his parents last year. It kept him focused and helped him put his thoughts in order. It soon became a daily ritual which helped him stay grounded. Draco carried it around in his bag during the day, using it in between classes and meals. His friends caught him doing it a lot and he was sure they had already guessed what it was. He was glad when they didn’t say anything because in the end, Draco would have rather died before admitting that he was using a diary.

“You’re not wearing a costume!”, Astoria exclaimed when he joined the others in the common room. Pansy, Blaise, Theodore and the Greengrass sisters were already waiting for him.

There was a Halloween party happening in the Room of Requirements tonight and his friends had convinced him to go even though it meant more awkward conversations with Astoria.

“I thought we’re not doing muggle traditions. What are you supposed to be?”, he asked instead, taking in her revealing outfit.

She giggled. “I’m a healer. Or ‘nurse’ as the muggles call it.”

“Ah,” Draco made, thinking that she didn’t look like a healer at all. “I thought Halloween was supposed to be scary?”

Astoria rolled her eyes, before linking their arms with each other. “You’re no fun. Don’t you think I look pretty?”

“Astoria, you can wear a potato sack and still look absolutely stunning.”

That answer seemed to satisfy her and they started making their way towards the exit of the common room. Draco glanced at her from the side. She was, objectively speaking, the perfect match for a Malfoy. Coming from a well-respected and wealthy pureblood family combined with her intelligence and beauty, she was everything his parents could have wanted for him. Especially now.

You had told him what to do. It was such a simple solution to all of his impending problems. However, it had been the moment where Draco had realized that you grew up differently. Not a day went by where he didn’t receive a heartbreaking letter from his mother. He knew, she just wanted the best for him and she didn’t want to manipulate him; she was simply desperate. Desperate for the live they used to have – a husband at home, a son with a promising future, money and a respected place in society.

Draco had asked himself countless times what the marriage would truly mean. His family would have another chance. Together with Astorias family, his future was secured. A good job, maybe even in the ministry if he was lucky. Enough money to take care of his mother. Who knew, maybe his father would be out of Azkaban sooner? Draco marrying Astoria would lessen his families suffering, that was for sure. But did he want that? Did he want a simple and easy solution to make their past crimes … disappear? His family was far from innocent. They had committed horrible crimes in the name of the Dark Lord – and a part of him knew, they deserved everything they got in the end. Hell, he wouldn’t have been surprised if they sent his mother and him to Azkaban as well.

When thinking about the engagement, another thought popped into his head. Could he learn to love Astoria? Would he be happy with her? Maybe. Maybe not. Draco knew only one thing for sure – there was a reason why he kept resisting to the whole idea. Giving in felt like sacrificing another part of himself to something his family had burdened him with.

“And Astoria, I disagree,” Blaise once again disrupted his train of thought by joining in from the right. “Draco can quickly make his costume appear. Just roll up your sleeves, Dray, and the Gryffindors will shit their pants on the spot.”

The rest of the group snickered but Draco didn’t react. Instead he suppressed the urge to touch the mark on his left arm and shoved his hand deeper into the pocket of his pants.

 ***

The Room of Requirement was absolutely crowded.

The Slytherins were surprised by how many people had actually appeared. Almost everyone from the sixth and seventh grade was here, wearing mostly ridiculous costumes. Music roared from invisible speakers, students were dancing and talking loudly.

“I’m surprised that the teachers didn’t already break this up,” Blaise almost had to shout. “Or Filch.”

Draco shrugged. “I feel like they stopped caring this year.”

“Maybe they feel responsible for all those deaths,” Theo suggested.

“So to make up for all the trauma, they allow us to party?”, Blaise concluded with an amused undertone.

“It’s good for us though so stop talking and start drinking,” Pansy chirped and grabbed Draco and Theo by their arms, pulling them towards the table with a few questionable bottles.

When his friends started chatting about the usual Hogwarts gossip, Draco’s eyes started to wander. He was searching the crowd for someone. You. Were you here? Did you even like parties? Draco had no idea. You always looked quite social from what he witnessed.

And there you were – standing in a group of people, listening to Granger who was gesticulating wildly. You were holding a drink and laughing at whatever the other girl told you. Draco noticed from across the room how your eyes were gleaming, your face red from the alcohol. You looked so careless. He swallowed hard at the sight.

“He’s either staring at Weasley, the mudblood or Y/L/N,” Zabini said to the others in that moment. “Don’t know what’s worse.”

Draco needed a second to understand his friends were talking about him. “What did you just say?” He turned to them.

Zabini grinned widely at him. “I said, you’re staring at the Gryffindors again, Draco. It’s fucking weird. What’s your sudden obsession with them?”

Draco quickly glanced at the rest of his friends. Daphne, Theodore and Pansy watched the two of you with a smirk on their lips, maybe even suppressing a giggle. Astoria looked at Draco with a worried expression.

“No, what did you just say?”, Draco repeated his question, straightening up slightly. “What did you call Granger?”

Blaise snorted. “What?”

Draco just stared at him.

“I called her a mudblood,” Blaise gave a half shrug.

“Yeah, what the fuck, Blaise,” Draco spat out.

“Come on, Dray,” Theodore tried to intervene. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is!” He looked at him, visibly disgusted.

“What’s your problem, Draco?”, Blaise raised an eyebrow, shifting from one leg to another. “You called her a mudblood for years and now you suddenly have a problem with it? You’re acting so weird this year, seriously.”

Before Draco was able to reply, Astoria carefully placed her hand on his arm. It took all the strength he had, not to immediately shake her off. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get you a new drink and calm down.” She pulled him a few steps away from the group.

Draco gritted his teeth, remembering what he had thought about not being able to talk to his old friends. They understood – and also they didn’t.

“Are you okay, Draco?” Astoria asked, still looking slightly alarmed.

Draco looked at her. Did she want to hear an honest answer? “Sure,” he finally said.

She didn’t buy it. “You’ve been acting strange for a while now.”

“I’m really not.”

“Draco,” she reached for his hand. “I know you.”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Can we … can we not talk about this now? Here? With all these people around us?”

“There’s always a reason not to talk so we might as well do it here,” she pressed on.

Draco could think of a thousand different things he’d rather do than talk to her right now. “I’m … I’m not acting strange. It’s just a lot. With my parents and all that.”

Her smile changed from worried to pity. “I understand.” Did she? “That’s why I think we should move on.”

What kind of weird reaction was this? “Move on?”, Draco frowned.

“With our engagement.”

“Right.”

Astoria squeezed his hand. “I don’t see why we can’t just make it official.”

Draco looked at her fingers as if he was searching for a ring that he had forgotten existed. “Because the whole thing isn’t official yet,” he slowly said.

The brunette let go of his hand. “It’s going to happen anyways. My parents won’t stop talking about it and I bet it’s no different for your mother.”

Draco just wanted to get out of this situation. He got dragged here and now it was just one big argument. Why couldn’t they have stuck to gossiping and partying? “Why during school though?”

He saw how Astoria stared at the ground for a moment. When she started speaking again, her voice had become a little colder. “You know, there are a lot of men who would jump at this opportunity. My family is well respected and yours is …”

Draco let out a short whistle. “Thanks, Astoria,”

Astoria was visibly uncomfortable and Draco wondered if she regretted what she had just said. “That’s not how I meant it and you know that, Dray. I just don’t understand why this takes you so long.”

Draco put his hands on hips, pushing his jacket back. “Excuse me if I’m wrong,” he started, “But I’m not exactly your first choice either, am I?”

The girl didn’t answer right away. When she did though, Draco wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what my parents want. Pureblood marriages will happen less and less in the future so we will be a good union.”

“Right,” Draco mumbled with a sad smile. It’s all about the family.

Astoria cleared her throat. “Well, are there any reasons why we shouldn’t move on?”

“Yes, there are.”

This didn’t come from Draco or Astoria. Irritated by the sudden interruption, he turned around to see who had so rudely eavesdropped on the conversation.

You.

***

A/N: Even though I wrote this, I really felt for Draco in this chapter. His life (like so many other characters lives in HP) is so f****** up. Sorry but I can’t find a better word for it. Poor Draco. Anyways - I hope you liked it!! I’d love to hear what you think <3 I love reading your comments *-* (if you don’t comment or do anything, it’s fine, don’t worry, I just love to read your thoughts <3)

CHAPTER 6

“Choose Me Instead”-Masterlist HP-Masterlist

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[ficcrimes]

junctures

Fandom: Helluva Boss Characters: Blitzo, Stolas; mentions of Stella, Octavia, Moxxie, Millie and Loona Ship: Stolas/Blitzo A/N: this is my piece for the Stolitz zine, Seasons, over on twitter! My bit’s finally been released, so I can publish this here now!  Summary: To everything, there is a season. 

——————————————————————————

i. summer

It was supposed to be a one night stand, and nothing more than that.

When presented with the opportunity to get his hands on that one particular grimoire, Blitzo didn’t think twice about worming his way into the Geotian Prince’s bed. What was one hot night with an ancient, entitled demon? Of course, he hadn’t stopped to question just why it had all happened the way it had, either. Whatever made Stolas not only agree to but pursue this whole lewd affair was really none of Blitzo’s business. Maybe he had a thing for imps, or some sort of weird, classist fetish. It really didn’t matter. At a glance, and that was all Blitzo had allowed himself to take when it all started, it seemed simple enough.

But it didn’t quite turn out that way, did it?

What started as something that had been meant to be short and sweet and fleeting turned into much more than Blitzo had bargained for. It’s nothing he can’t handle, of course, but Stolas calls on him frequently and comes on incredibly strong. It’s a little jarring, to say the least, but Blitzo can’t bring himself to outright turn the advances away.

He needs the book, after all. And, all things considered, this isn’t the worst possible thing he could have been doing to keep it. This is what he tells himself, anyway.

It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that, for all the fuss he puts up whenever Stolas calls, at least Stolas makes him feel… something. Wanted. Needed. Even if it’s only physically. Even if it’s only temporary.

But then Stolas makes the once-a-month arrangement with him, and an already hazy situation becomes a little hotter and a little heavier. Their meetings are no longer quick and to the point. Suddenly Stolas wants to have fun with it; he incorporates games and costumes and silly little things into the affair that Blitzo’s not above or below doing. He’s a performer, after all - and at least Stolas seems to be enjoying the act.

He spends the night and wakes up in Stolas’ bed more times than he’d like to admit. Most of the time, he’ll leave before Stolas wakes up. But there are some days when he wakes up to Stolas propped up and leaning over him, all four of his red eyes heavy-lidded and bleary with something Blitzo pretends isn’t there.

He also pretends the rush of heat that surges up his spine isn’t there, and that it doesn’t count for anything.

As sleazy as it all is, it’s a good business deal and he wants to milk it for all it’s worth while it lasts - because he’s sure that it won’t. Nothing that burns this hot for too long is meant to last.

ii. fall

There is something so incredibly and unconventionally charming about the little imp.

It’s not every day someone like Stolas came across someone like Blitzo, and he’d been intrigued almost immediately by him. He was crass and rude and didn’t seem to think twice before speaking whatever happened to be on his mind in the moment, and Stolas found himself liking that more than he should have.

So, when Blitzo made his interest in the grimoire known, and it was evident all he had to offer in exchange for it was his own body, Stolas didn’t put up much of a fight or fuss. He knew he shouldn’t have been traipsing about behind Stella’s back and closed doors, but the supposed-one-night-stand promised to be the most exciting thing he’d experienced in a long, long while.

That first night with Blitzo had been unlike anything Stolas had ever had before, with his wife or otherwise. The sheer amount of skill the little creature had was surprising, and the way Stolas’ body had ached for him after he’d gone spoke in volumes.

Maybe it’s not in his best interest, or even in good taste, to start calling on Blitzo whenever he feels himself craving what only the imp can give him. And maybe he should learn how to properly manage and articulate the desperate desires he feels, instead of going off on long, unfiltered, filthy rants.

But Blitzo never explicitly tells him to stop, and so he doesn’t.

There’s a part of Stolas that understands Blitzo seems to merely put up with these antics so he can continue to use the book, and that’s alright. For a while, anyway. The more Stolas finds himself thinking about that, the more he can feel something creeping up on him, slow and steady. The ache he feels for Blitzo starts to change, and it’s not just his body that needs him.

He doesn’t really notice at first, continues to mistake the desperate need for the imp’s attention as something carnal and older than even himself. How silly to think his entire foundation could be shaken after so, so long, and by such a small and silly creature. And yet, eventually he catches himself drawing silly little caricatures on important papers of the two of them. Or he finds himself staring longingly at his phone when he can’t seem to get a hold of Blitzo.

By the time he’s suggesting they make their meetings a little more frequent and planned, Stolas realizes he’s in over his head. Or, perhaps he’s just head over heels. There’s really no difference here.

The whole situation is a little messier and more complicated than he would have liked it to be, but Stolas tells himself it will be worth it in the end. Until then, though, even if it’s only once a month, he feels like his walls can come down and he can be himself while Blitzo shares his bed.

He doesn’t mind when he wakes up to find the imp’s already left him. He understands. But it’s when he wakes up to find Blitzo still in bed beside him that makes his heart swell with something unspeakable.

He thinks, if things were just a little different, he could have this feeling always.

But Blitzo always leaves, and Stolas is always left with the weight of this feeling that’s too big for either of them.

iii. winter

Blitzo is right in thinking that things couldn’t stay so simple forever.

An already complicated situation gets that much worse when things like feelings and wives and daughters get caught up in the mix.

When Stolas calls him up out of the blue one day and says, very quietly, very seriously, that they “need to talk,” Blitzo almost wishes it had been one of his usual calls. Something cold and dreadful shoots up his spine by the time the call ends, and he’s already preparing himself for the worst. His mind is already racing, torn between coming up with some other lucrative back up plan and trying to persuade Stolas not to do this.

However he chooses to define ‘this’ in the moment, he doesn’t spend too much time thinking about it.

Stolas is quiet as Blitzo lets himself into his office space, book tucked under one arm. There’s no coy smile tugging at his beak.

Blitzo knows, and so he drops the book onto the desk that separates them. “I figured it’d only be a matter of time before you called this shit off,” he says through a sneer.

Stolas winces, and draws the book just a little closer to himself, fingering the crescent moon. He can’t bring himself to make eye contact.

“It’s not - You wouldn’t understand,” he sighs quietly.

“Oh, you’d think so, huh?” Blitzo replies, because he understands more than Stolas thinks. Stolas doesn’t know anything he doesn’t want him to know - and maybe this is happening because of that. Maybe if he’d been just a little less guarded and a little more obvious, things could have been different.

However… None of that would have changed the fact Stolas was a Prince, with a wife and child. And Blitzo understands that, too.

“No, no. I get it,” Blitzo starts, and waves Stolas off with one hand. “You got your weird royal bird shit to do, and fucking an imp on the side’s getting in the way.”

Stolas wants to say something else, Blitzo can see it in his eyes when all four finally meet his, but what actually comes out of his mouth is a quiet, “...that’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

“Yeah, yeah. Quit looking like some sort of kicked hellpup. It’s not like you’re losing anything by taking the book back.” Blitzo almost regrets those words the moment they leave his mouth, but decides maybe they’re for the best. If Stolas is angry instead of just sad, it will make this easier.

But Stolas doesn’t get angry; he just looks all the more hurt. He sighs and steels himself. “I’ll see what I can do about loaning you my grimoire in the future, Blitz,” he says, “but for now, I can’t allow it.”

Hearing Stolas call him by his name instead of ‘Blitzy’ is what turns that cold trickle into a flash flood of ice. Something cold and hollow fills him, and Blitzo wishes it didn’t sting the way that it does, wishes he could feel anger instead of this.

“Sure thing, Your Highness,” Blitzo mumbles back, flipping Stolas off with one shaking hand. “If that’s all you got me penned in for today, I’ll see myself the fuck out. Thanks.”

Blitzo slams the office door on his way out, and Stolas can hear Stella screaming after him as he leaves. It’s only a small relief to hear Octavia chime in, telling her mother to leave him alone.

“At least he’s leaving,” Stolas hears her say, and he wishes she were just that little bit older so she’d understand this situation better. He had ever slept with Blitzo because he didn’t love her, but because he’d long since fallen out of love with her mother - but a royal marriage was not so easily left behind.

He sinks back in his seat and sighs heavily, pinching the bridge between his eyes. His heart no longer feels airy and light; instead it feels heavy, like it’s sinking into the pit of himself and weighing him down.

iv. spring

It’s weeks later and well into a work day when Blitzo emerges from his office. The first thing he notices is that his employees all seem to have disappeared, though he doesn’t have much time to wonder about that. His foot catches on something, and he stumbles forward, barely catching himself on a nearby desk. He twists around to look at the offending object that he knows should not be there, and sees that it’s a package of some sort. Brown paper-wrapped and addressed to him, and distinctly book-shaped.

He groans inwardly and hefts it up, the weight familiar, and the scent clinging to the wrapping even more so. Not that the break had been clean, but of course Stolas would have to go and try and make things complicated.

He doesn’t know if Stolas dropped it off personally or had it specially delivered, but he understands why the others left when it got there. Had he been in their shoes, he probably wouldn’t have wanted to risk it, either.

There’s no call or warning before he shows up at Stolas’ mansion, book in tow. He doesn’t use the front door, because he knows other, quicker ways to get to Stolas personally. And, surprisingly, none of those ways have been deterred or altered. It’s almost like Stolas had hoped he wouldn’t actually stay away.

It doesn’t take him very long at all to find Stolas, in his bedroom and lounging about as though he hadn’t just tried to lay some sort of intricate trap. It says something that the Prince’s surprise is entirely feigned, and there’s a grin tugging at his beak as Blitzo kicks the bedroom door shut.

“Ooh, what a surprise~” he coos, and Blitzo rolls his eyes.

“Cut the crap,” Blitzo mutters, dropping the book heavily onto the bed.

Stolas smiles and shrugs his shoulders. The robe he’s wearing slips from one lithe shoulder, and he doesn’t bother to adjust it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. That,” he gestures to the book, “is just a gift. Circumstance aside, I’d hate to see your business fail.”

Blitzo snorts and grins in a way that shows his teeth. “Don’t you worry about I.M.P. We’re doing just fine without your borrowed little magic tricks.”

For just a moment, Stolas seems to falter, frustrated - not with Blitzo, but the situation itself.

“You really couldn’t think of any other way to get my attention, besides throwing me your scraps?” Blitzo presses on, crossing his arms over his chest, one brow raised.

“I didn’t think you’d return a call, or want to see me,” Stolas admits, and makes a vague gesture to the mansion. “And inviting you back here seemed… uncouth, at the very least.”

“Never stopped you before, did it?” But now Blitzo’s grin seems a little less antagonistic, a little more playful.

Stolas lets out an airy, half-laugh. “You’re not wrong.” He finally adjusts the shoulder of his robe, and rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “I’ve just spent a lot of time thinking about… Well, us. And I was thinking that, maybe we could… I mean, to start, we never should have - but…”

He sighs, and offers Blitzo a weak smile.

“I’ve missed you, Blitzy.”

It’s short and sweet and simple - just like this whole mess should have been from the start. But it’s not, and it never will be, because those three words and that sickeningly sweet rendition of his name coming out of that horrid bird’s mouth send that familiar warm rush right through Blitzo’s entire body.

“I see what you’re doing,” Blitzo says quickly, narrowing his eyes.

Stolas chuckles, shrugging. “I’d like to try again. Only no strings attached this time.” To make his point, he raises one hand and urges the grimoire over to himself, letting it hover between the two of them. “You’d be free to use this whenever you like, and though I would greatly appreciate your… company, there’s no need for a strict schedule.”

Blitzo eyes the book for a moment, and then shoves the magically aloft object aside. “And what about your ball and chain? You sure you wanna put up with her conniption fits?”

“You let me worry about Stella,” Stolas waves the thought aside. “A very serious discussion is long overdue, anyway.”

“And your kid?”

“Via will be okay. She’s young, but getting old enough to understand, I think.”

Blitzo looks the owl demon up and down, then shrugs a little himself. “Not the freshest start of the ages, but I’ll take it.”

Stolas smiles and breathes a sigh of obvious relief. “I’m glad,” he says quietly and moves closer. He lets one hand wander admiringly over one of Blitzo’s horns - and, for the imp’s sake, pretends he doesn’t notice the way he leans in to the touch.

“I have to wonder, though,” Stolas says after a moment, before the quiet becomes too much too soon, idly stroking the inner curvature of the horn, “how did you manage to keep I.M.P afloat without my grimoire?”

Blitzo leans away from the taller demon, and he grins again, wide and sharp. “I copied the spells out of it ages ago,” he admits, shrugging one shoulder. “Just in case this whole shebang went down the shitter.”

Stolas stares at him, a grin of his own tugging at his beak. “Oh, you clever little thing,” he muses, reaching out and taking Blitzo’s face into his hands. One thumb moves gently over where white meets red.

Blitzo has a nasty habit of speaking before he thinks, and Stolas has to wonder if he realizes what he’s admitted to. If he’d had the pages copied this whole time, either he’s a very dedicated actor and didn’t want to tip Stolas off - or, perhaps, it was all just a very convoluted excuse to keep coming back.

A blush starts to bruise the bridge of Blitzo’s nose. Stolas smiles.

“And here I thought you’d needed the book,” he says. “How silly of me.”

[tommodirection]

Can you write one where you surprise Niall on tour? like its Niall's birthday and yn said he couldn't come bc of work you can do whatever you want at the end maybe put a smut 💗

Heylo! Thank you for sending in a request! Sorry this took so long! I hope you enjoy! Also, I don’t write smut, so it’s more implied at the end!☺️

Surprise

Niall Horan x Reader

Warnings: swearing, innuendos, spelling errors, brief mention of coffee addiction

Word Count: 2.1k

Masterlist

—

“Niall, I’m so sorry I can’t make it,” you apologized over the phone, probably for the thousandth time in the past week.

“Love, listen, it’s okay, you have to work, I understand, it’s not your fault,” Niall reassured you.

“I just feel really bad, I mean, it’s your birthday! What kind of girlfriend doesn’t make it to her boyfriend’s birthday?” You asked, clearly panicked.

“A girlfriend whose boyfriend has an abnormal job that requires him to travel around the world,” he said and you groaned. “Love it isn’t your fault, we can still FaceTime after the show, we’ll spend all night together then,” you heard the smile in his voice.

“I guess you’re right,” you sighed. “But I’d much rather just be there with you,” you bit your lip.

“Me too, but it’ll be okay, we can just celebrate when I come home, it’ll only be a few months late,” he joked and you giggled.

There was a knock on your bedroom, it opened a little to reveal Hailey, your friend.

“Listen, I have to go, but I’ll definitely call you tonight, okay bubs?” You asked, trying to hurry.

“Alright, love you,” he sang through the phone and you bit back another giggle.

“Love you,” you said, quickly hanging up and setting your phone down.

“You ready to go?” Hailey asked, a suitcase in her hand.

The truth was, you weren’t really going to miss Niall’s show. It was meant to be a surprise. You were going to fly down the night before his birthday, and then you were going to surprise him on stage, sounds simple enough to plan, right?

Not when your boyfriend’s show was in London, and you were in your shared LA apartment. Not when it was a ten hour flight.

It took off at 8 am in LA, so you’d arrive at 6 pm, LA time, but 4 am London time, so you’d basically have major jet lag and you’d get little to no sleep, but it was fine.

You grabbed your bag from under the bed, where there was no chance Niall could’ve seen it.

You popped up, grabbing your phone and carry-on bag.

Hailey practically shoved you into the car and hit the gas before your door was even closed.

You glanced at the clock, it was only 6:45, you had plenty of time.

“Hailey, why are you in such a rush?” You asked, shoving your bag in the backseat. You buckled your seatbelt and she huffed.

“This is why I’m hurrying,” she grumbled and gestured to the road. LA traffic.

Sometimes you forgot you lived in one of the busiest cities in the world, and not a small suburban area where there was rarely any traffic.

LAX was only a ten minute drive from your house, but the traffic tripled the time, you got there thirty minutes later, both of you running to the security check-in.

After clearing security, Hailey dragged you to the gate, clearly agitated. She stopped in front of the gate, seeing you had fifteen minutes left to board. She mumbled something under her breath and threw herself down in a chair.

You sat next to her, hesitant to touch her, but you still placed your hand on her arm. “H, are you okay? What’s going on?” You asked, keeping your voice low.

She looked away, clearly embarrassed. You tried to catch her eye but she kept looking away.

“Hailey,” you demanded, and she finally looked at you.

“I haven’t had my coffee this morning,” she admitted. You chuckled and stood up.

“That is definitely something we can fix.”

About fifteen minutes later, you were on the flight. Ten hours after that, you landed in London.

You and Hailey treaded into the hotel, both exhausted. Hailey could never sleep after drinking her coffee, so she didn’t sleep. You didn’t sleep because you were still a bundle of nerves.

It was mostly irrational fears, just little things that didn’t make sense, but still made you bite your nails. Your head was mostly just filled up with thoughts of him not wanting you there, but you knew Niall, and you knew he wasn’t going to be upset.

You and Hailey decided to book one room, you’d share with her tonight, and stay with Niall the rest of the time, she claimed you needed time alone, something you agreed with.

You settled into the bed, burying your head in the pillow. Excitement overwhelmed you, but your body was too tired to respond, so about three minutes later, you were out.

—

You woke up about four hours later, much more sleep than you thought you’d get.

Hailey was already up, sitting on her bed with a plate of food, her cup of coffee on the nightstand. She looked over at you, smiling when she saw you processing the surroundings.

“I got you breakfast,” she said, leaning over and grabbing another plate from the other side of the nightstand.

You groggily thanked her and began eating, the burnt toast leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, “Did you purposely burn the toast?” You asked.

She let out a low chuckle, “No, a little girl, a little toddler, insisted on making the toast, and I didn’t want to break her heart. Just eat the fruit when you’re done, it’ll cancel out the taste,” she suggested, and you squinted at her.

You didn’t think that was accurate, but you shrugged it off.

While you ate your burnt toast and bittersweet fruit, Hailey explained the itinerary for the day. First, you’d order lunch, and eat in the hotel room. Then, you’d stay in the hotel room until around five, then you’d drive to the stadium, Niall’s show started at five thirty.

You had to remain in the hotel room so your surprise wouldn’t be ruined. Dating a celebrity, meant you became a celebrity. You couldn’t go out in public without being recognized, so if someone had seen you, and posted it, word would’ve gotten to Niall that you were in London.

The day was pretty boring, Hailey ordered Nando’s, claiming she’d never had it before. You watched a few old rom coms on the cable television in your room, there weren’t many options.

Around four thirty, Hailey began getting you ready for Niall’s show.

You had chosen the look, and she was there to help you complete it. She had allowed you to get dressed in your own (thankfully) and even let you put on your mascara.

Instead of a fancy dress, you decided to wear a nice pleated short-skirt, a plaid black and white one. You’d chosen a red turtleneck, knowing Niall loved that color on you.

You stepped out of the bathroom, quickly taking a seat in front of Hailey. She grabbed her makeup bag and got to work.

You had told her to go light, it was Niall’s birthday, not a wedding, but Hailey liked to over exaggerate things a bit.

She had already put on the basics, including a perfect Smokey eye, something you still couldn’t accomplish. She had chosen a bright shade of red lipstick, one that matched your sweater perfectly.

After about six different styles, she decided to put your hair half up, curling it towards the ends.

You were surprisingly patient through the whole thing, humming and nodding when she spoke about nonsense at work, trying to hold still as much as possible.

She stepped away, a satisfied smile on her face. You stood up, and gave her a little twirl. She tapped her finger against her chin as if she was thinking.

“You know who you remind me of?” She asked, and you shook your head. “Heather Chandler,” she said confidently.

You have a confident smile, placing your hand on your hip. “Listen, if I look like the sexiest woman alive, I am completely okay with that,” you shot back and Hailey giggled.

She glanced down at her watch, her eyes going wide. “Shit! It’s 4:55! We were supposed to be on the road at 4:45!” She exclaimed, gripping your arm tightly. “Grab your shoes! Put them on in the rental!” She ordered, and you scurried to do what she said.

You both ran to the car, and you climbed in, not even getting buckled before she pulled onto the street. You looked around the car, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“When did you have time to pick up a rental car?” You asked, looking at her profile.

“I woke up two hours before you did, grabbed some good coffee from a café down the street, and ran back to the hotel. My cup ran out, so I grabbed a shitty hotel cup. That’s when I grabbed breakfast,” she explained and you nodded, then realizing what she had meant.

“You only got two hours of sleep last night?” You asked and she shrugged.

“Eh, I’m fine, just a little tired, but one more cup will help with that,” she said, and you shook your head firmly.

“Hailey, no, when we get there, I’m making you take a nap, and don’t even try to argue with me!” You ordered, pointing a finger at her.

She gave you a fake pout, then an exaggerated sigh, “Fine.”

You thanked her, and waited while she drove there, turning on her playlist. A few One Direction songs came on, ones she claimed she didn’t know how they got on that playlist, but you loved it.

About fifteen minutes later, you pulled up near the back of the arena. Hailey parked the car, shutting the engine off. She turned to you, “Got your ID?”

You nodded, pulling it out of your purse to show her. She stepped out of the car, you followed shortly after.

It was weird, having her take the lead, you were the one who planned it, but she did a much better job of running it, she was in charge of executing it.

You both made your way to the gates, ringing a buzzer. The man requested to see your IDs, and let you in after clearing you.

Niall’s manager ran up to you, giving you a quick hug before instructing you where to go. You told them what you had told Hailey, and you made sure someone was making sure she slept.

You stepped onto the platform, waiting for your cue. Niall was performing right now. It was a small show, so he didn’t bother with any openers, giving them a paid night off.

He was talking to the crowd now, meaning you were about to be lifted up. Your palms began to sweat, so you resorted to wiping them on your skirt.

“Thank all of you so much for coming out tonight! As many of you know, today’s my birthday, and it means the world to be celebrating it with you all!” He shouted into the mic.

You adjusted your mic, clipped to your collar, and braced yourself when the platform rose.

Niall and everyone else must’ve noticed, because he went silent, the crowd roaring in confusion.

The smoke cleared to reveal you, an extra effect Niall’s manager insisted on having.

“Speaking of who you get to spend your birthday with,” you said, smiling at Niall.

His jaw dropped, and he stood frozen for a few seconds. The audience was cheering, screaming and you swear you heard someone in the first few rows crying.

Niall nearly dropped his guitar, deciding to gently set it on the ground instead. He ran over to you, immediately sweeping you up and spinning you around.

He set you down and pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your neck. “You actually came,” he said, and you nodded.

“Of course, I can’t leave you all alone on your birthday,” you bit your lip, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “Happy birthday, bubs,” you placed your hand on his cheek, and he leaned into it, beaming at you.

“I love you,” he whispered, and you smiled back at him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“I love you too,” this caused the crowd to let out a collective ‘aw’, making both of you blush. You gently massaged his scalp, pulling away from his embrace. “I’m going to go backstage now, you finish this concert strong, I’ll be waiting,” you had taken off your mic, and whispered the last part in his ear.

He grabbed your arm and pulled you back to him, “Don’t you dare start without me,” he growled and you smirked, pulling away.

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,” you bit your lip and he let out a small groan, “I’ll see you backstage,” you sent him a wink, making your way back to your platform, where you were lowered back down.

You were in for quiet the hell of a night.

———

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[whump-town]

See, How The Most Dangerous Thing Is Love

Where you go I'm going So jump and I'm jumping Since there is no me without you

She can’t stop running and, like an idiot, he keeps chasing. 

warnings: i don’t think there is anything to warn against which seems odd... considering... but I did use some weird fucking metaphors and I don’t know if they make any sense... 

Hotchniss

If the tension between Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss wasn’t apparent upon their reunion following Elle’s leave, it was painfully clear after Tobias. Eggshells be damned. He inquires around her compartmentalization, tone dark, and judging where JJ had just meant to build a bridge. He had aimed to tear one down. To remind her just how out of place she is in this unit.

There can only be one lone wolf in the pack.

“You came off of a desk job--”

She narrows her eyes, feet shifting. He’d come out of nowhere, as she’s finding he often does, and that just aggravates her even more. She’s a trained spy and Interpol agent, he shouldn’t be able to sneak up on her. The shield she throws between them does nothing when he already has his own firm in place. Feet planted in preparation for her attack.

Her revenge is sweet.

It starts with the way her back draws tight as a bow.

“No, stop. Stop. All right everybody right now-- what’s my worst quality?”

The flip of her dark hair, drawing the limp branch of a tree towards her chest. Poised ready to strike out towards him and the tight coil of childish glee derived from mischief in her chest. Her words the fiery snap of its release, the edge catches his cheek to leave an open, jagged wound. “You don’t trust women as much as men.” The room’s attention lays in the silence of that lashing. Their eyes watching the dark crimson of his blood trickle down his cheek.

And he wipes it away. Unflinching as he powers on. He can see it in their eyes, the way they keep looking back at the wound on his cheek. Thinking about the words and their implications. How they each drew back and laid into him with their strikes.

He can see it in Emily, the way she awaits her second chance. She’ll draw that branch back again. There are more branches, he suspects, in her forest of mistrust and impatience with him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a few branches of his own he’d like to hit her with.

It is only in the most fundamental way that they trust one another.

“Don’t get me wrong, Johnny.”

A drop of sweat runs along his hairline and down the back of his neck. The heat of Alabama in August is worse than Virginia and even stripped of his suit jacket, the weather is insufferable. The rickety old pisshole of a house groans under the weight of the four adults standing in the attic. With no draft and dust covering every visible surface, it smells like something’s crawled up here and died. He suspects, if he were to look hard enough, he’d find that to be true.

Johnny and Mark Wrights have been murdering and raping teenage girls from the local high school. Grown men covered in grim and old denim-- the epitome of the white trash that comes to mind when they set out to solve these kinds of cases. It makes Hotch feel a deep shame for being raised anywhere near the south. Now, as he stands pinned to Johnny’s chest, the heavy scent of pig shit and sweat covering the man, he feels deep condemnation for the south.

He wants to get as far from this town as possible.

Prentiss’ gun is steady. As far as agents to come to have his back, he’s lucky that it’s her. Her brows raise a fraction when she steps into the room, surprised that it’s him. It takes him off guard that she’s choosing empathy with these men. She repeats her earlier statement. “Don’t get me wrong, boys,” she shakes her head and her eyes flicker to Hotch. “That’s my boss you have there.”

Johnny digs the barrel of his gun into Hotch’s face, the metal biting his flesh. He’s antsy. Emily must see that… surely, she must know that she won’t be able to talk her way out of this.

“Now,” she smirks. Her inflection has risen to nonchalance as if talking to a friend. Her shrug of indifference makes his chest feel dangerously tight. “He’s a dick,” she informs them. “Makes my life a living hell.” His eyes glued to her index finger. She’s talking and moving and if she’s distracted him with her words then she’s distracted the Unsubs too. “He’s got a little boy at home though,” her eyes flick to him.

He’s hit with a sudden understanding.

“So…” he watches her back once again. A bow, bending to snap. He ducks, this time, when her branch comes flying back at his face. Throwing his weight to the side, he takes Johnny by surprise, and before he can blink there are two quick shots that ring the end.

For a stunned moment, he’s laid out on his back. His eyes are on the ceiling just breathing and shaking.

She comes to stand at his side, offering him a hand up.

He takes it.

“Don’t,” she says before he can thank her. Her eyes are dark. She’s displeased. Not only with him and the stupidity that got them in this mess, to begin with, but for the girls. Emily had wanted to bring those girls justice. To sit at Johnny and Mark’s court hearings. To drink herself numb and to see them thrown in jail so they’d never see the light of day ever again.

Executed in the attack of some rickety old house just isn’t the same.

He nods his head.

They part ways.

But he can see her back.

And she sees his hands.

She lashes out and he pulls scabs apart. He agitates old wounds. His thumb works across his finger, picking at a scab, and then he draws blood and she watches as he dumbly looks down at his hands. As if he’s confused at why it would bleed.

A serial arson typically leaves little room for emotional collateral but, of course, he makes an exception. He digs his thumb into his finger, rubbing back and forth, voice breaking, and attention split as he makes connections that no one else sees. Gideon steps to his side, calming Hotch and stopping the trickle of blood over his callused hands. Holds his own hands over the wounds.

She sees that day, the scars that litter his ledger. The scabs… Aaron Hotchner is an open wound. He can’t let anything go. Won’t let the wounds heal. He needs the pain the way she needs the bows. She hates that she’s starting to understand this man that she hates so passionately.

Hearing him shout, the pain in his voice as he tears viciously after Evan Abby makes her falter. There he goes again, picking at wounds that should have healed. Who exactly is he saving? It’s not Abby. The man is a walking corpse, riddled with cancer. Watching as Hotch sinks into Morgan’s arms, his dread and hopelessness bringing him to his knees.

The blood falls down his hands.

But he picks at a wound that makes her bow and all is right, once again, in their little world.

“I want you on that plane with me.”

She finds him on a bender a few days later. The case is solved but that doesn’t mean she feels any better about the way that they left things. A boy swept up in their carnage-- “the boy brought me this last one. Didn’t even ask him to.” She sits down one barstool away from him and wonders if he’s thinking about that too.

But he’s scratching. Not at his hands but at the tumbler he twirls lazily around, mesmerized by the amber liquid in it. He throws what little is left into his mouth and grimaces, not at the taste but at the scab he’s just pulled free. She watches the blood fall.

He gets good at stopping her attacks.

“There’s nothing we could have done,” he breathes, the hurt in his voice the only reason she doesn’t shoot him down with a scowl. For some reason, he takes the seat across from her and pushes a coffee to her. She looks at the mug and then at him. His head dipped, eyes on the sludge he’s calling a peace treaty.

She wraps her hands around the mug. The effect of the warmth is immediate. “I know,” she admits, sipping at the liquid. God, that pisses her off. He always makes the coffee perfect. She can’t even make her coffee the way she likes.

He hums, shaking his head. “I think…” he glances at her and looks out the window. “I think I’m still trying to convince myself that.” The soft admission is so… unlike him. Where is the gruff push? The fire in his eyes. She finds only hard truth. Standing rooted where he is, he frowns with something he can’t convince himself isn’t worry.

Where does she go? Tonight, he will go home and find it empty. Which is fine because he can’t be around Haley and Jack on a night like this. He is no husband. No father. He needs to remind himself of the emptiness that is Aaron Hotchner. The pain and the torture. He’s not meant to be a father and he pushes his father’s legacy a little harder each day he pretends his marriage is a happy one.

If she can not get lost in these faux realities… What does she do?

Him. She does him.

For a month he convinces himself that he can fix the little pieces of his marriage but finds his hands covered in the jagged wounds of the glass carnage. As it turns out, some things simply refuse to go back together. He bleeds and bleeds and Emily, of all people, comes to mend his aches. Moving him away from the fragments, forcing him to let go.

The sex is harsh. He’s rough and she lets him. Urging him on with the roll of her own hips, his hair gripped tightly in her hand. They’ve hurt one another gravely and to know his weaknesses makes her that much better at drowning out his pleasure. She’s surprised to find that his mouth isn’t just good for smart ass remarks.

It sparks something deep within them both.

“Garcia thought she heard…” JJ tightens her mouth, forcing her smile down. She glances over at Garcia, the two sharing smiles that can’t be hidden. For the first time in a while, Garcia came with them on a case. Meaning their usual splitting of the rooms didn’t work so Emily, instead of rooming with JJ, roomed with Hotch.

Garcia smirks at Emily, “I just heard someone up last night.”

Emily knows exactly what they heard. She feigns innocence none-the-less. “Late?” she asks. “I was in bed as soon as we got back.” Which is true because she had Hotch pinned to the wall with a hand down his trousers before the door could swing completely shut behind them. It didn’t take long for him to flip the script and have her on the bed. “I doubt it was anyone from the team, weren’t you all exhausted?”

Garcia accepts that as an answer. For now, that’s reasonable enough. It’s rather silly, is it not, to assume something is going on between Hotch and Emily, of all people. They really sell their pitch with the heated, just under their breath, argument that they have only an hour later. Though it isn’t to save face but because he’s an asshole sleep-deprived and she’s, truly, exhausted for the same reason. JJ and Garcia both feel rather stupid for having thought the commotion the night before could be them.

Six months later, it happens again.

“We were arguing,” Emily offers with hefty-sigh. She’s not just selling her role. Lately, they’ve had to repeatedly come to a heated, uncomfortable debate. Their relationship, what it is and what is really isn’t, is being questioned. Are they enough to power through the last year? Should they be something that makes it through the next?

She rubs at her eyes, careful to keep her hair brushed over her neck. While she’d checked and double checked this morning for any marks on her neck, Hotch has been rather nippy (in all sense of that word) and the last thing she needs is explaining some rogue hickey he’s placed. Unlike him, she doesn’t have a high collar to hide behind.

JJ raises an eyebrow but says nothing. The two of them are going through something, the whole team has noticed. Though, if they’re honest, they don’t suspect the rocks and tumbles of a relationship getting onto its feet. They’re waiting for one of them to snap. Whether it be Emily, who will likely pack up her belongings and leave. Regardless of her love for the team. Hotch… well, he’s losing his grip on his so solidly built and reinforced shields. His pain and discontent are slipping through his armor.

“Arguing?”

Emily sighs, nodding. “He’s an asshole,” she mumbles. “What do you want me to say?” Her tone, tense and defensive, raises a little more attention than she meant it to. Lowering her head, she digs her fingers into her temples. She’s not sure if it’s better or worse that Hotch notices immediately as he walks into the room. There’s a tense moment, the two of them just staring at each other, before he clears his throat and jumps right back into the problem at hand.

The case always comes first. Their relationship after every other conceivable thing.

It makes sense, for them, until it doesn’t.

“This isn’t what you signed up for.”

Up until that moment, he’d considered himself hiding fairly well behind his scowl. Aaron is safely nestled where Hotch can’t hurt him and, what scares him even more, is how protected he is from Prentiss. Because Emily might have tears streaming down her face right now but he knows he’s looking at Prentiss. From the steel in her dark eyes to the conviction that feels, and is, so misplaced.

He swallows around the stupidity that tries to come fumbling out of his mouth. Something sentimental, foolish. “I don’t understand,” he manages. It has taken him his entire adult life to admit to that. To find the courage to say when he doesn’t follow and all for what? To sit here, at her hospital bedside, and grit out the confession. He can’t fucking say I love you but he can consume the poison of letting go.

To succumb where he should fight.

“Please,” she whispers, softly. But she hadn’t been the other half watching. Unable to do a damn thing while her screams, the muffled sounds of her body hitting the walls, had filled his head. He’d listened as Cyrus beat her. In a way, no he didn't sign up for this. No one in a relationship wants every thought about their partner to be about the end. Will it come soon? Leaving one partner to grieve the other longer than they knew each other? To answer to that mourning call-- what is left when all you are is taken? What parts of him are really her?

“If it’s what you want.” he rasps.

She turns her head, barring to him the sight of the bruise that takes up the right side of her jaw. That’s answer enough.

Dave takes her home from the hospital that evening, wondering what exactly it is that’s happened. He noticed the two of them today. He’s not stupid. “How are you feeling?” he asks, looking over at her on his passenger seat. Getting hurt happens but this is the first time she’s ever had to call someone to pick her up. Dave knows, in that way a parent knows that the silence of their children spells encroaching doom, who was supposed to drive her home tonight. One might call it, also, parental intuition.

She doesn’t lift her head from the window. Doesn’t even look at him. “Fine.”

Dave knows Hotch will answer with the same answer Monday when they return from the office.

Calling the two of them tense is an understatement.

Emily returns to work and they steer clear of her. The whispers follow her weary body around like a cloak. That she can manage. That is nothing.

It’s his absence that she feels.

Her coffee tastes odd. She’s grown used to the way that he makes it. Too strong and with no creamer but no matter what she does it just doesn’t taste the same. He’s even ruined tea. His mouth always tasted of Earl Grey or the bitter remnants of his coffee. Now, even smelling Earl Grey twists a knife within her. One she buried herself.

He’s fucking everywhere.

It’s driving her mad.

The worst part is that he’s not there.

In her bed, she rolls over. Throwing a leg over where his hips would usually be. She finds nothing but soft, used cotton. Not even the pillow carries the lingering scent of him.

His sweater hangs over a chair in her room but it’s absent of his warmth. She’s worn it too often and now she can’t even bring it to her face to pretend he’s here.

Nightmares plague her sleep and she wonders if this is penance for breaking his heart or if he’d just kept them away.

She watches, one night, as her nightmares crawl out of her ears sneer right back at her.

“Where’s Hotch?” Emily falls into step with JJ.

The blonde shrugs, “I called him twice. He’ll just have to meet us here when he wakes up.”

Though she falters, body stiffening and pausing, she tries to carry on unbothered. Seemingly unbothered by this progression. Hotch never lets his phone go to voicemail.

She’s the one that finds him four hours later. Lying supine, unresponsive in a hospital bed. The doctor’s words roll right off her, she takes in only that he will, eventually, be okay. And she wonders what it would have been like to really lose him. Not to just yearn for him but to not even avoid his eye in the hall. To hover with her finger over his contact and for there to be no possibility that he’ll answer.

Dead.

He could have died.

Stupidly, foolishly, she takes his hand. His eyes crack open and she pretends she doesn’t see his immediate relief followed far too closely by the pain. Physically brought on by the wounds of both her hands and Foyet’s.  “I almost lost you,” she says.

He closes his eyes when she kisses him but when they pull apart he grimaces. Consciousness is painful, miserable. Her hand clutched by his, he manages a few weak breaths. Each one builds the strength to speak. “You can’t lose what you never had,” he answers, a moment later. By the time the cruelness of his truth has hit her, he’s slipped back under the drugs. His hand limp and clammy.

He’s right, though.

They both knew where he was coming in. The ins and outs of his embrace. That he’d pull her in and push her away in the same breath. Afraid, too afraid, to try at this again and, yet, he’d tried. He might not have had the strength to manage love but he’d held her through the nights. He knew her favorite foods and was never shy about tearing her apartment apart for missing the heating pad if she needed.

And what had she done for him?

She’d tricked him. Lured him in with the lies that she could do this. But she’s still drawn tightly. A bow that lashes out. Hurting others before they have a chance to hurt her and, as a result, she’s killed him more than Foyet could have dreamed.

Mostly, what he means is that she never allowed herself to have him. She never had him and, yet, she misses him every step of the way.

They have one another one last time.

She settles her hips over his and looks everywhere but the agitated, raised scars across his chest. He’s not cleared for strenuous activity but if he can’t have her, can’t feel her lips moving up his jaw and her fingers snaking up his side he’s certain that will kill him far sooner than any strain to his body. He’d rather die by her hand anyhow.

After that, there is no more, but it lingers thickly in the air.

She’s still Emily when her name comes out of his mouth. She still watches his lips, wondering if she were to capture them with her own if they would still taste the same. He looks for her first when things get dangerous and it’s his name she wakes up crying.

Haley dies. Emily puts distance between them but he still looks for her first.

“Please,” she places her hands on his chest. Forcing his body away even though just the feeling of her palms pressed to his chest sends yearning straight down her spine. “Aaron,” his name comes choked. “Please, if you knew me, if you had any idea of the things that I have done you’d run. I need you to run, don’t you understand that?”

He looks down at her, mouth open. Can she not see him? That he is a man made up of scars and scabs. A wound that bleeds. He picks and pokes and he bleeds all over everything. “I don’t run,” he says. He hadn’t run from the carnage of his marriage. Can’t she remember picking him up after that whole affair. Digging the glass from his hands where he’d stabbed and ripped himself to shreds to catch the falling debris of a life he thought he still had.

She deflates, sinking into the realization that her love is the worst thing for him right now. It’s a drug to him and she’s given him far too much. “I know,” she says, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Because you never know what’s good for you.”

His fingers ghost over her cheek and holds her face in his hand. “You let me decide what’s good for me,” he whispers. “I can protect myself, Emily.”

Not against this, she thinks. Not against her. He’s never known when to pull away and when to fight harder. It’s going to get him killed.

But it’s her laying on the ground, impaled, gasping for breath.

Hotch sees her blood all over Morgan’s hands. The hitch in the younger man’s choked breath as he recounts what happened. Attempting and failing to keep the details straight as he tells Hotch, in great detail, what happened. The way she’d lost reality for glimpses. Asked for him. Called out for Aaron, not Hotch, but Aaron. And Hotch doesn’t know what to say when Morgan rises to his feet and challenges-- “What the fuck was that about? What did you two do?”

But it’s fine because JJ comes out and places Morgan right back into his chair, silencing him with seven words. All hitting a little harder, too solidly across his shoulders. “She never made it off the table.”

Emily Prentiss never let herself love Aaron Hotchner but that never stopped him. And, in the end, she’d been there. Through Foyet, she’d been there. Where was he when she needed him?

He sends her to London with JJ, his goodbye rushed, and guilt.

She’s in London. He goes to Afghanistan. Neither make it home entirely alive.

She should have known. 

Admittedly, she is a little wine drunk. Tipsy, really. Inhibitions lowered in the warmth of Dave’s living room. She’s missed them all so terribly that the ache of their absence being lifted has left her exhausted. She’d been in a near daze when she’d taken her wine and moved to the couch. Leaning into Dave’s side when he’d taken the seat beside her. While Jack and Henry recount the events of every day she’s missed according to their greatest accuracy.

Their silly little stories are well worth the soft laughter it draws from the others.

“Where are you going?”

So now, as she stands and leaves Dave’s side cold-- she’s not sure what she was expecting to find in the depths of his eyes but the fear is startling. “Water,” she says, holding up her empty glass. “Water and to pee, I’ve had way too much wine.” She tips the glass and winks at Jack. Trying her best to lighten the mood she hadn’t realized she’d tank just by standing.

Garcia peels herself from the chair she’s sharing with Morgan, ignoring the way he seems to startle at the aspect of losing her pressed into his side. “I’ll join you on the bathroom run, pumpkin,” she says, collecting her glass and Morgan’s from the table at their side. “Another drink, my chunky hunky?”

Morgan smirks but shakes his head, “no thanks, Baby Girl. Someone has to be sober for the drive home.”

As good as that plan sounds, Hotch still grunts. The room’s attention shifting to their leader. He’s been startlingly silent, even for him, all afternoon. Seemingly tucked away from every encounter they’ve had amongst themselves. “You’ve all had too much to drink to drive home,” he says. “You should… calls cabs.” The strength of his interjection leaves his voice as Emily meets his eyes. He lowers his gaze and with it, the point of his statement.

Dave does not fail to notice this. Clearing his throat, he agrees. “I’ll go call your cabs.” He stands, rubbing a hand down his face. Fingers working into the creases of his lips. “Aaron,” he nods his old friend over. “Give me a hand?”

That sets about the motion of the room.

Emily’s making her way down the hall when Garcia catches her. “What is it,” Emily asks, playfully. She waits for Garcia to catch up to her, holding out her hand for what she’s expecting to be a trip full of the secrets of her and Derek’s relationship. Something good. A win.

“Can you make him stay?”

Emily desperately wants to pull from Garcia’s hold. Her grip is intense, desperate. She tries to pull away from Garcia’s hold. “What?” she asks softly, looking over her shoulder for some help. “Who? Who needs to stay?”

The desperation in Garcia’s eyes is unsettling. She lowers her voice even more pulling them closer. Her voice breaks as she says it. Tears swelling and running against the mascara over her eyelashes-- “Hotch.” She clenches her teeth, showing the most self-restraint Emily’s seen since they stepped foot in this hall. “He left us,” she breathes, sadly. “A month after you were gone. I went to his office--” her eyes dart as she speaks. “I started bringing him coffee every morning to cheer him up.”

Emily swallows thickly around the guilt that creeps up. Her death had broken them. She’d known that, of course. She just hadn’t considered Hotch. Brave and strong and it’s so hard to tell when he’s hurting. Then to bare her lie? Another cross on his back. More weight on his shoulders.

“I went in--” the tears fall as Garcia’s voice shakes. “He wasn’t there. He’d cleaned his office up and you know how he is.” That big oak desk is always littered with paperwork. One side to the other. He stacks it everywhere. Leaving pens from one end of the room to the other. You can’t even sit on that old couch of his without getting stabbed in the ass by a pen he’s lost. “Clean,” Garcia whispers. “He just left, in the middle of the night. By the time we came in, by the time we could find him he was already over there. Afghanistan.”

The word makes Emily’s chest tighten. What the hell could he be doing over there? That station is always looking for profilers but it’s a death trap. Hotch had said it himself, warning her when they’d sent her the special request. They’ve been operational for five years and gone through seven profilers. All of which have died. No one makes it out of that station alive.

And he’d gone.

“Why would--” she doesn’t even want to finish the question. Doesn't want to put the truth into action. Admit that she knows exactly why he did it.

At least over there he’d die a hero. Leave his son a flag and another parent to bury.

It’s faster than anything he could swallow over here.

Garcia squeezes Emily’s arm, bringing her back to the present moment. To the thing in question. “Can you bring him back,” she whispers frantically. “Can you make him stay?”

Emily doesn’t honestly know. Has she ever been able to make him do anything? “Garcia, I--” Her mouth snaps shut as the man in question steps into the hall. His eyes dart between them and Emily feels rather like a mouse caught in a trap.

He clears his throat and scratches uncertainly at the beard he’s let grow back in. “I was just…” he looks at Garcia and then back at Emily. Clearly caught off guard. “Dave-- I… You’re, ah, the hotel is close to me. I thought I’d save you the cab fare if you wanted to ride back--”

“Yes.” Emily nods, far too quickly. “Thanks,” she says, looking anywhere but at him. “I’d, ugh, I’d appreciate that.”

Hotch looks between Garcia and Emily, before nodding and ducking his head. He leaves the hall, with a slightly awkward nod and steps out. Hands going to his pocket. Hiding.

“Will you try,” Garcia whispers.

Emily watches him walk away. The apprehension in his hesitant movements. His hand scratching at the back of his head until he can hide behind the shield of Jack’s eager talking. Sinking down beside the boy on the couch and hiding himself there. “I don’t know,” she admits, honestly.

The only person that can pull him from the ledge is Hotch and she’s seen him toe it once before.

Packing things up is simple enough.

Hotch stands towards the edge of the hall, Jack slowly falling asleep in his arms.

“Sleepy,” Emily asks Jack, running her fingers through his soft brown hair. Jack shakes his head but doesn’t raise it from Hotch’s shoulder. Hotch has wrapped him in his jacket rather than choosing to fight the boy into it. It’s more a blanket. She pulls it up around him a little better. “You’re not tired,” she asks. “I am. I can’t wait to get to bed.”

Jack smiles but doesn’t admit to the exhaustion weighing his little bones down. “Are you gonna sleep with us?” he asks. He looks down at her with the soft of his father’s. Same impossible depth is hidden behind light brown iris’. It breaks her heart to see the turmoil within him.

Emily frowns but she’s not forced to tell the little boy no. Instead, Hotch’s hand comes to the back of his head. Cupping his neck as Hotch turns to face her. “You don’t have to do anything,” he clarifies with an all too familiar look in his eyes. Mischief. A plan. “We do have the guest room. With clean sheets. You could come home with us.”

Home.

To a real bed.

“I…” she can’t force out the polite no her mother has solidified in her mind the answer to be. No because that’s not fair or right or-- she really wants to sleep in a normal bed.

He bumps her shoulder, “just say yes.”

She looks at him and then at Jack. It’s not a hard thing to want to go home with the two of them. After Foyet, she’d spent many nights camped out on their couch. Waiting for father or son to wake in a panic. He’d done the same in the hospital after Doyle, sleeping on an uncomfortable little cot just so the first thing she saw each time she woke up was someone she knew.

Now it’s different. The dynamic has changed. While he might not know the course of the night has changed, she does.

She just doesn’t know it’s a futile battle.

There is no use fighting over stupid things like sleeping. He tucks Jack into his bed and meets her in his room. She’s already pulled on his shirts over her head. Refraining, forcing herself from burying her face in the material.

It doesn’t stop her from curling into bed beside him. Pressing her face into his shoulder and focusing solely on his hand slipping under her shirt. “You tired…” he asks. She shakes her head. He hums as he thinks. Dragging his thumb over her hip bone, stroking the soft skin. “First crush,” he whispers, ghosting his lips over her neck.

She laughs at that, twisting in his grip to tilt her hips across his. Settling closer to his chest. Drawing her hand up she draws against his skin. “This girl named…” she taps at his chest as she fails to remember the girl’s name. “I can’t remember her name,” she admits, faintly. Blushing. “Does that surprise you?”

Hotch’s eyes have slipped shut, his face turned into her hair. He hums, scrunching his eyebrows. “Surprised about what,” he asks softly. “That you can’t remember her name or that it’s a she?” He pulls her closer, wrapping an arm around her hips.

Emily just… looks at him. He hasn’t even opened his eyes. He’s not even going to comment? She bites her lip and lowers her head back down. “What about you?”

“None. It’s… I’ve only ever--” he blushes, averting his eyes. “Only Haley and you.” He clears his throat… “That’s why I always tried,” he whispers. “Why I tried so hard…”

“It’s not like I didn’t try,” she defends, pulling away from his embrace. “I was trying to protect you from this whole mess. You’re the one who didn’t know when to stop.”

“I don’t know where you get off blaming me,” he says, pulling himself away. He sits up in the bed, turning himself so she can sit and stare at the wall of his back. Little scars marking up his back as he places his arms on his knees. “You ran, Emily. Every single time, you run. Not me.”

Neither look at the other.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” he announces. “Stay. Don’t make me explain to Jack why you’re not here in the morning.”

She stays where she is. She turns this over in her mind. His words are an open palm slap to the face. She sleeps in his bed, holding onto his pillow and burying her face into the scent. She doesn’t leave but only because she doesn’t want to have to walk past him. This feels like winning so she stays. She eats breakfast with them in the morning, playing and laughing with Jack like she always has.

Like she always does.

“I leave Thursday, if you care.”

She says nothing which is perfect because he’s not sure he can handle anything she might think of.

She knows, without having to be told, that they blame her for not being to keep him here. And, maybe it’s her fault, because she didn’t really try, did she? She did what also does, she hurt him. Now she’s sitting here all alone, wondering what she could have done differently.

Everything.

“We’ll see you when you get home.”

She stands at the back of the group, watching the other’s pull him into hugs. Dave holds Hotch for a long moment, speaking softly so only the two of them can hear what’s being exchanged. Hotch pulls away from that hug with tears falling down his cheeks. “Don’t make me bury another son, Aaron. Please be careful.” And that’s when he sees her.

Derek pushes her forward and she feels all of them watching as she makes her way to him.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he confesses. He doesn’t care that the others are watching. They know enough. They’ve always known.

She feels guilty and she should. “You told me goodbye,” she reminds him. He’d kissed her right before they sent her to London with a packet of new names and passports. To be someone other than Emily. For a second chance. “It--” she looks away. She’s running, again, she knows. And she has to stop running. “It was the only thing that kept me alive, Aaron. I couldn’t let you leave without having told you the truth--”’

He glances up and back to her. Just for a moment, he wonders if the others should be hearing all this but--maybe they’re past all that. Pretending is how people get killed, they learned that with Emily, and he really doesn’t feel like being their repeat.

“I love you,” she confesses. “I know you love me, you always have. I’m sorry that I keep--” fucking it up. “I love you and I need you to come home, okay? So I can stop running.”

He doesn’t believe her. He wants to believe her but everything about Emily Prentiss always hurts and he knows it’s stupid to trust her. “Okay,” he says, afraid anything more will send her for the hills before he can even leave the country. And like an idiot, he bends his neck into her touch. Letting her rise up on her toes to kiss him. “I promise,” he whispers.

Jessica gets the call at midnight. The Bachelor finale had ended hours ago but she’d been sucked into some History channel rerun about ancient Mesopotamia. It’s the haze of the light hour, the warmth of the undertones of sand, the steady deep voice narrating, and the blanket curled around her shoulders that puts her to sleep. She doesn’t stand a chance after the day she’s had.

The call comes at 12:34 and the urgent ringing of her cell-phone makes her heart kick painfully at her chest. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand, she accepts the call without looking to see who it is. Not that her tired eyes would have recognized the caller anyway.

Not serving as a soldier, the process for notifying the family of any health changes requires a different take. For Aaron Hotchner, it’s put into the FBI’s hand. He’s their tool after all, not the US Army’s.

“I’m sorry to wake you, ma’am,” the voice offers.

Jessica scowls at the formality, sitting up on the couch and desperately searching for the remote. She kills the screen and the room is bathed in silence, aiding her ability to understand and think about what’s going on. “Ugh, can I help you?” She pushes her hair up out of her face, searching the ground and coffee table for a spare hair tie.

“I’m calling in regards to Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. I understand this number is supposed to be the personal line of Jessica Brookes? You’re his emergency contact--”

He deployed in October. Giving her only a week’s heads-up. He’d had the decency to look ashamed of himself, of the state of being he’s caused for them all. She’d understood his situation. Losing his friend had broken him irreparably and he’d wanted to talk about that even less than he had Haley. At least he’d warned her, she knows he hadn’t extended his team the same courtesy.

The man on the line goes on. Something about moving bases and a promise to get back to her as soon as possible.

“Thank you for your service,” the man concludes.

Jessica blinks, frowning at the phrasing. Aaron wasn’t serving. He was punishing himself. This was penance.

“Goodnight.”

She sits back on the couch, eyes vacantly taking in the wall in front of her. He’s on his way home. That’s good but she can’t help but… he’s hurt. Hurt enough for them to discard him back here. How bad is it?

Emily can’t deny her horror.

His eyes move to the blanket. To the empty space of where his limb once was. “It’s… It’s just a leg,” he whispers. He blinks heavily once, twice, and sighs softly as he fails to keep his eyes open. Humming, he parts his chapped lips but can’t find any more words. He’s too tired. “Could be…” his voice slurs and he exhales a heavy breath. “...worse.”

Emily wants to hit him but she’s done being defensive. She’s tired of being the first one to pull away. For once, she just needs to be the one that holds onto a hug a little longer. That lingers. “You could have died,” she whispers thickly. Gently, hesitantly she touches his hand. To her surprise he is the one to move, intertwining their fingers. She sits by his side, eyes glued the empty part of the bed. The nothing of where his leg is supposed to be. Does it really matter that much, though? A single leg?

Not to her. She’s had months to pretend. Every night she has escaped to a new reality with him. Come up with every variety of reality that might occur. What she’d do if he’d come perfectly fine and how they’d have kids and he’d never wake in the middle of the night with nightmares because she’d kill his monsters. How she would cope if he came home horribly disfigured or entirely different. Would it matter? They’d still be Aaron and Emily.  

“I’ll never walk again,” he informs her. His head is tilted into the pillows, casually watching his news wash over her. He wants to know if she’ll stay if he can’t go. If all these years were about the chase, would she stay if he can no longer follow?

She sits down in the chair pulled up to the side of the bed. People have been in and out all afternoon but she’s the first one to receive this news. The other’s don’t really matter because he knows the script, can imagine how each of them react. Garcia will cry. JJ will too but not until she’s leaving. Dave will take it well but he’ll utter something strangely sentimental and sober with the realization that walking was never the priority of Hotch coming home. Morgan and Reid are his wild cards and he doesn’t want to tell them at all. But that’s just not how this works.

“At least you won’t go running off on me.”

He knows what she means, the implication and the diversion. With a huff he raises an eyebrow, “I’ve never been a runner, Emily.”

Emily.

No, she supposes, he never has. “If you can’t run,” she says, heart skipping around in her chest. She feels it pulsing in her throat, tossing itself around in her stomach. “If you can’t run then I won’t run.” She stands, swallowing thickly around the swell of fear in her throat. He watches her, looking up at her as she hovers for just a moment. When she kisses him there are no sparks. Something cold, icy runs it’s fingers into the grooves of her spine but she’s not gripped by any startling realizations.

It’s too late for that.

But he tastes like Aaron and to a girl who’s never had a home in one place, she’s only ever running. Here, against him, she knows what people mean they say a person can be a home. Because she wants to curl into him and forget the edges of Emily. Aaron. It’s always been Aaron.

It surprises him that she stays. She waited until things got hard.

“I’m going to have to go to physical therapy every week.”

She shrugs, “I’ve got a library of books waiting for me to read them. I’ll tackle my reading list.”

“I can’t walk,” he reminds her.

She raises an eyebrow, “so? I didn’t love you before because of your ability to walk.”

“Emily--” he needs her to understand this isn’t as easy as she’s making it. Using the bathroom, showering, sex isn’t even going to be easy. She can’t just brush it off like it’s not going to bother her. It’s bothering him! “Emily, I can’t hold your hand when we go downtown. I’m going to need your help taking a shower and getting to the bathroom. I’m going to have to look for a new apartment because the one I have, there’s no way I can work a wheelchair around in it. It’s-- I’m not the same! We’re not the same!”

She knows. Yesterday she asked Morgan to rig up something in the bathroom. She spent hours with Morgan trying to put a handle or a rail in beside the toilet without ruining the wall. Ordered a shower chair last week that Morgan is probably putting together right now. Garcia and JJ are looking for apartments with larger floor plans because she doesn’t want to be presumptuous and assume he’d want to move into a house with her. But she’s waiting for the right time to bring it up.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” she says. “That we’re not the same. I’m different too.” Does she need to create her own list? Dedicating it all to words for him to comb over. She can’t sleep through the night. Even though it had been a wooden stake that had “killed” she can’t hold a knife. Her hands tremble, this weakness she can’t explain. Her abdomen is just scars, riddled with ugly skin hardened by trauma. Is he prepared to see that?

“Look at me,” she says, squeezing his hand. “It’s been me and you for years. You’re the only thing I really know. So, I’ll take you as you come. However you come. You loved me when I ran, I can love you with a little baggage.”

He frowns, trying to find an out. Not or himself but for her. But she’s unwavering. “Baggage,” he finally caves. He smirks, shaking his head. “Of all the words in the language you know and you pick baggage?”

She cringes, shrugging, “I didn’t really think about it. It just came out.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

She smiles, “you love it.”

He hesitates for a moment but nods, “I do.”

[renegade-skywalker]

still living rent-free in my head at all times are Atton and the Jedi Exile...

---

It was strange being on a ship like this - small, cozy, meant for shipping cargo instead of armies. Eden's room on the Harbinger had been devoid of any home-like comforts, and while this hunk of junk lacked any finesse, something about the ship’s exposed parts grounded her, settling her nerves. She ran her hand along the vessel’s unfinished walls, almost tasting its metal tang in her mind, as she made her way back to the cockpit, comforted by its imperfections.

The ship was modest, boasting only two dormitories and a cramped common area that also shared square footage with the ship’s lone refresher. Something about it seemed familiar, lived-in, though Eden knew she had never been on a ship like this. It was as if she had seen it in a dream.

“How’s she doing?” Atton’s voice crept from the cockpit, sensing Eden’s presence as she approached. Eden smirked, wondering if her footfalls were really that heavy as she daydreamt.

“Surprisingly well for someone who just lost a hand,” Eden said as she entered the cockpit proper, watching her own left hand as she flexed it in and out of a fist. “Not like you’d care, though. Right?”

“Heh, true,” Atton mumbled, still fussing with the ship’s controls. “Of course the only space-worthy ship on that sorry ball of magma would be twenty years old, and rigged to boot. This thing is a relic, you know that?”

“What makes you say that?” Eden asked as she sidled up alongside the navigational chart, glowing white-green as it enticed her towards its map. The display was outdated, she had to give Atton that, but nearly everything she’d come into contact with on Tatooine in the last few years would have been considered ‘old’ by industry standards. “Rigged, I mean, not old. Old is obvious.”

Atton glanced at Eden over his shoulder, his eyebrows shooting up across his forehead, disappearing into his hair, as he allowed himself a brief moment of surprise. Eden smirked. She’d only known the guy a few standard hours and already she had developed a hobby of catching him off-guard.

“The commands, mostly,” he said eventually, turning back to the console, “Most ships have standard commands depending on the make, but this one seems to have been coded in a specific key. It’s not impossible to decipher but it’s annoying, to say the least.”

“Coded?”

“Common in drug-running, it’s a defense tactic of sorts. Instead of an alarm system to alert the authorities, it's meant to dissuade anyone from flying it at all by making it complicated. That, and it’s meant to reroute system logs so it’s harder for anyone snooping around to access the ship’s navigational history. Hey, while you’re over there, do you mind-?”

“On it,” Eden confirmed, already keying in a sequence. But the map before her only jolted, as if glitching momentarily. She tried again. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Atton affirmed, turning full in his chair this time. “Have you tried-?”

Eden typed in another sequence and looked at Atton again, shrugging more emphatically.

“Like I said, nothing.”

Atton slumped in his chair, looking at the screen from his vantage point, baffled. “Weird.”

Turning around again, Atton began typing furiously away at the pilot’s console, muttering to himself as he made quick calculations and tested other sequencing commands, inputting codes and apparently coming up empty judging by the unintelligible syllables that escaped his mouth in response.

“I thought you said it wasn’t weird for drug-running vessels to do that?”

“It isn’t, it’s just… the system would have given you an error code, or something. The fact that nothing happened is weird. We’ll have to try some back-end codes if we have any chance of unlocking the nav chart, but we can worry about that later. Or not at all, since I plan on taking the next transport off Telos as soon as we land. If that’s even an option.”

“You and me both,” Eden said, still playing with the galaxy map, marveling at the expanse of it all. It had been a while since she’d traveled, and longer since she considered how big the galaxy even was. “Any idea where you’d want to disappear?”

“Disappear?” Atton tensed at that, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he adjusted his ribbed jacket. Eden expected Atton would want to leave as many lightyears between him and whatever had landed him on Peragus as he could manage, but maybe there was more to the story.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said after a few beats, trying to act cavalier. “I have a few places in mind, though sharing them with you kind of defeats the purpose of vanishing without a trace.”

Atton glanced back at Eden, his eyes wide before he snapped his attention back to the console computer again, muttering, “No offense, or anything.”

Eden laughed lightly, the feeling almost alien given everything that had happened of late. Quickly quieting, she bit her lip and allowed herself a breath before picking up the conversation again, oddly at ease.

“None taken,” she said, “No witness, no crime, right?”

“Something like that,” Atton laughed, though a clear sense of uncertainty laced his voice. “Though I’d argue all three of us are just as guilty of blowing up the entire economy of this sector. I flew the ship, sure, but it was only to save all our skins.”

“I appreciate that,” Eden said, “Though I’d counter and say that Kreia’s assailant is to blame more than the three of us.”

“Hah, right. Try telling that to the Republic officers that eventually arrest us at the ends of the universe for the impending fuel crisis of the century.” At this Atton truly laughed, the weight of what had just happened finally sinking in. “Shit.”

“Well, it’s not the first time I was responsible for something that would affect the entire galaxy for decades to come,” Eden sighed, her finger lingering over the green dot the chart labeled Dxun - moon, quickly changing the subject before Atton could question whether she was being earnest or not. “So what do you think this ship was used for before we hijacked it?”

“Drug-running, I’m guessing, but I doubt Kreia had anything to do with that. Though I’m curious…”

“Curious about what?”

“How someone like her would acquire a ship like this.”

“I don’t think it’s that weird,” Eden shrugged as she finally abandoned the navigational chart and sunk into the co-pilot’s chair. “An old woman looking for any means of solo transport with little money? You see the way she dresses, I doubt she has a fortune at her disposal. I’m sure a spice runner with a price on their head would part with as few credits as they could spare if it meant an easy way to dispose of their crime-history-addled ship.”

Atton made a face at this, considering her logic, but did not tear his eyes away from the pilot’s console as he continued to type away.

“I guess the only thing I’m left wondering is whether Sleeps-With-Vibroblades was on her tail before or after this ship’s acquisition,” Atton laughed at his own joke. “So… what happened?”

Atton didn’t tear his eyes away from the screen but only gestured to her vaguely. Eden paused, looking down at herself, confused, and back up at Atton again.

“To what?”

Atton tsked.

“Don’t give me that. There were plenty of times back on Peragus where a lightsaber would have been helpful. So - where’s yours?”

Eden narrowed her eyes, shaking her head in utter confusion as she wondered how Atton went from how Kreia came in possession of this ship to… lightsabers. The fact that Atton couldn’t see her facial journey to better understand her bafflement didn’t help, either.

“Let’s leave my lightsaber out of this,” Eden sighed, “It’s a long story.”

“Oh? I thought a Jedi was supposed to be married to their lightsaber. Guess I heard wrong,” he quipped, acting coy.

Eden rolled her eyes.

“So, were you a single-hilt or one of those double-bladed Jedi?”

Now Eden knew that Atton wasn’t only preoccupying himself with the ship’s unique code language for the sake of deciphering it but was also using it as a means to avoid her gaze while he asked the usual questions other spacers did upon suspecting her affiliation with the Order. Typical.

“Double,” she answered dishonestly after a beat, watching Atton side-long for his reaction.

“Hm,” he said, unexcitingly, “I hear the twin blades are harder to master, but they can make enemies stampede over each other running for cover.”

Eden crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes now as she watched Atton do his best to appear nonchalant, truly annoyed with him now.

“You know quite a bit about Jedi for being so averse to them,” Eden accused, but Atton only snorted in response.

“I fought in the war, remember? It was hard not to notice,” Atton said, “I saw a lot of Jedi use double-bladed sabers first-hand, gave them more slaughter per swing.”

Eden winced, unhappy to have the memory revived in her mind’s eye at the mention of it.

“You didn’t go red, did you?”

Eden wanted to roll her eyes again, but instead she paused, a wicked smile taking over her face.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, doing her best to sound sincere. "Redder than a laigrek’s eye.”

Atton jolted out of whatever he was doing to avoid her gaze and actually jumped in his seat, and Eden couldn’t hold her serious expression long enough to relish in the longer con she’d planned the moment the words passed her lips.

“Maker, you’re pathetic,” she laughed, “What color saber do you think I had? I’m curious if you can guess correctly, Mr. ‘I Drink and I Know Things’”

Atton smiled unsurely, trying to appear in on the joke despite the fact that Eden had actually managed to startle him.

“Lemme see,” he said, affording her an honest glance after gathering his wits. Atton looked her up and down, assessing what he could of her upper half that was visible to him from the pilot’s chair with an expression of mock intrigue, an idle hand stroking his non-existent beard in thought. “I’d say green, but that might just be because your eyes are green, so I’m gonna nix that guess and say… blue. No - yellow.”

Eden only raised her eyebrows in response, crossing her arms even tighter over her chest.

“Purple? Violet? I dunno, those colors are the same, right?” Atton asked, shaking his head. “Are there… more colors? Sith are easy to guess, but Jedi--”

It’s was cerulean, she thought with an internal laugh, realizing the inanity of it. Neither blue nor green, but pale and somewhere in between. Single hilt but dual wielded. Both her long and her short sword were the same shade of pale seafoam, wanting to emulate Kavar’s blue saber, truest blue as the Guardian he was, but also green in honor of her brother and her then-Master, Atris, the only Master willing to teach her then, even if it was as an Historian, a role that wholly did not suit her.

“Wouldn’t you know? I thought you fought alongside the Jedi.”

Eden was calling him out now, but Atton only laughed, trying to buy himself time while he thought of another witty comeback, ultimately failing.

“Well, whatever color it was, sure would be nice to have it now. Might make those Sith think twice before coming after us.”

Eden shook her head, even if she understood where a spacer like Atton was coming from.

“A lightsaber wouldn’t make a difference, trust me,” Eden relented. “Sure it’s better than a blaster, but it would only put more of a target on our backs.”

Atton paused, really considering Eden now as he soaked in her words, perhaps surprised by her response.

“Fine, forget I said anything.” Atton turned away from her after a moment, shaking his head. “Better get comfortable, though. It’s a few days’ ride to Telos. We’re not out of this just yet.”

Eden nodded, turning the co-pilot’s seat all the way around to view the hallway behind her. Her eyes traced the piping on the walls as they led into the dark, where the passage turned slightly before opening up to the security room, wondering what Kreia was doing now in the dormitory she had claimed.

“No, we’re not,” Eden affirmed, her eyes still fixed on the shadow of the hall, but her mind far away, stuck somewhere between the past and present. She wondered what had become of her twin sabers, if either still remained. One, she’d left at Alek’s feet. The other she’d staked into the hideous statue at the center of the Coruscant Council chamber. “Not by a long shot.”

[zet-sway]

Spiritual Shrios Summer - Release

This is a prompt fill for @rosenkow's Spiritual Shrios Summer! Prompts | release | oasis | moan | delirium | pray | sweat | whisper | afterlife | contaminated | skin | worship | incense | godless | petals | taste | nectar | caress | mirage | ripe | sundown | hallucinate | salt | intoxicated | soul | embrace | hunger | wet | adrenaline | breathe |

PROMPT WORD: RELEASE - | - WORDS: 2686

Rated: "E" for Extremely Spicy - not for children AO3 Link: "Singing Southward" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: "But her blood is singing southward, and that's a good thing, right? A reassuring, human reminder that maybe she's still Shepard - a woman - not just a Cerberus machine."

Full disclosure, this prompt fought me and kicked my ass the whole way. I can't look at it anymore. I hope it's more enjoyable for people who haven't been looking at it for like two weeks lmao. Many thanks to Rosenkow for that excellent playlist that really inspired my Shrios muse.

The heavy thrum of battle is where she loses herself. Shepard would take sweat and the pounding pulse of combat any day over the silence between stars.

Swirling winds whip sand across her face and body. It crunches in the joints between her armor and she hates the sound but it's easy to ignore as she slams another heat sink into her shotgun and charges into the last remaining crawler. It's thrown by the impact, the momentum of her body splits the carapace against her armored fist. The smell of viscera in the air, the humming of biotic barriers. Her body sings. She feels untouchable. The keystone slams the ground again.

The ground beneath her feet rumbles and she hears an unholy sound. A thresher maw. Her battle-lust is broken instantly and she snaps to attention, every sense laser focused.

Her shotgun and fists will be little help to them now. She exchanges glances with Grunt and Thane, waving them toward cover while she hunkers down on point, grenade launcher at the ready. It's not the biggest thresher maw she's ever seen but their size isn't the only thing that makes them dangerous. Positioning is critical when fighting something that can burrow and spit. Her combat HUD tracks its movements through the ground and she directs their movements, their gunfire to its next point of exposure.

But there's a problem. Her visor's sensitive electronics were never meant to be used in a sandstorm.

The maw dives again and this time the data is wrong, pinging across the arena, indicating wildly different trajectories that conflict with the laws of physics. Not great, but there's nothing she can do about it now. Adapt, improvise.

She tears the headset from her face and makes her best approximation of where it's going to appear next, signaling the team. They open fire, it dives again. Then the rumbling stops. Her best is not enough. There's a split second of silence before the beast bursts forth not twelve feet away from her position. Dust and debris erupt in a disorienting cloud and she can tell by the shadow cast over her that she's in deep shit, struggling to find her footing on the fractured, quaking ground.

A scorching heat envelops her and her vision goes dark. There's a shout in her comm, a weight pressed upon her, and the grenade launcher is wrenched from her hands.

Then a burst, an explosion, a blinding flash of light. Acid sizzles against her barrier and it pops, the sound rattling her ears in the darkness.

The orange sun of Tuchanka blinks back into existence as the dust begins to settle.

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

Thane slumps into the stinking puddle of meat and organs, still clutching Shepard's grenade launcher. His scales are stinging and the pain is growing more intense by the second. Beside him, Shepard is calling in an evac while she rips at the panels of her hardsuit. Her under armor is a patchwork of holes beneath, and her skin is a frightening shade of red where the fabric is being eaten away. Thresher maw bile.

He's never actually seen a thresher maw before, much less fought one - he's more shaken than he would like to admit. Her voice is his anchor. By the time she's done shouting for Grunt to maintain a defensive position, she's torn the suit at the waist and stripped the top half from her body. She uses it to wipe the viscera from his head, chest, and hands before tending to herself.

Her ease of determination has him transfixed. He's trembling from their encounter, but Shepard- he's never seen her more focused. Brows knitted in concentration, voice firm, but calm. Her chest rises and falls with each measured breath. Wearing only her belt, legplates, and a black compression bra, she's slathering herself in medigei, a whirlwind of sand and dirt sticking to exposed burns across the hard expanse of her body.

Her skin is so vulnerable compare to his scales that she should be shrieking in pain. Instead, she seems completely unfazed. Adrenaline, perhaps. Or maybe she's every bit as otherworldly as he's coming to understand she is.

Their evac shuttle arrives and they pile on. Grunt is the first one to break the silence.

"Quick thinking back there, Krios."

Grunt looks at him with the same piercing gaze all krogan seem to have. Thane has always found them hard to read.

"Never thought I'd see a drell dive into the mouth of a thresher maw. You're tougher than you look."

He smiles, then. And Shepard smiles with him.

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

Doctor's orders: 24 hours rest.

Shepard's armor clatters to the cabin floor and she strides into the bathroom, trying not to itch the scabs tightening over her skin. The burns are superficial - irritating, but not serious. In the mirror, they look worse than they feel. The sting is enough to drown out the other weird pains that live inside her reconstructed body. Her ears hurt. Her tear ducts feel swollen and pressurized. Her fingers are sore. There's a constant ache in her sternum and a soft wooshing in her ear. It's from her synthetic heart, and the abundance of blood it requires. But it means she'll heal faster, too.

The water hisses out of the showerhead and she sets to work cleaning the caked on grit and viscera from her skin. When she's focused on herself like this, it's hard not to think about all of the ways her body has changed.

On the SR1, she'd been in shape, perhaps even proud of her body. She'd thought of herself as a well oiled machine. She watched her nutrition carefully, spent just as much time honing nerves as she did strength and endurance. Her body, a product of her own work and service.

What she sees now is not what she remembers.

Notably, she's about 70 pounds heavier, almost exclusively due to her implants and the additional muscle she's put on to carry them. Adapting to the added weight of cybernetics and artificial bones had been an uphill battle since she rolled off that Cerberus operating table. Even her breasts are one cup size larger, and that one change carries perhaps the most bitterness. Her body is no longer her creation.

She sees herself as though through a stranger's eyes - a construct. The Commander they wanted. Not the woman she remembers.

Her new body is all about performance, both in the public eye and on the battlefield. Miranda had already told her she should be grateful for her various "upgrades." Her titanium fingers that never tremble, her artificial eyes that can see colors and details normal human's can't. Heightened olfaction, improved hearing, even joints with a higher range of motion.

A superhuman.

No, she corrects herself, with no small amount of vitriol.

A supersoldier.

The trouble is, being a soldier is what she wants. Control over her body is as much a necessity as a beating heart, and she demands it of herself every way she knows how. The problem isn't the upgrades. It's the autonomy ripped from her hands as soon as she was too dead to spit in their faces.

But this is the hand she's dealt, so she works with it, even if learning how to use her own body is still a learning curve. Testing her limits, evaluating response times, and sometimes... trying out shitty supplementary tech that can't stand up to a little bad weather.

Outside the bathroom door, the remnants of her visor are crumbled together next to her terminal. Thane had crushed it underfoot when he dove between her and the thresher maw. That split second confusion in the field could have cost her life if he hadn't intervened. She hadn't expected a lone wolf assassin to mesh so well with the team.

She towels off and stuffs her armor back in its locker. The automatic cleaning cycle hums to life, and her thoughts whirl with it.

Thane's opened up a bit more since the night they spoke about Alchera. He has a surprising way of coloring the air with his words. And, perhaps most alarmingly, the more time she spends with him, the time she wants to spend with him. She tries to chalk it up to regular team synchronicity, but there are moments she catches herself wondering him on more than just a professional level. Tiny curiosities slither into her brain. Does he kiss like humans do? The very notion warms her blood.

How long has it been since she'd kissed someone? It feels like a lifetime.

And then - just one impulsive little thought, summoning the things she's not even dared herself to think. Does he fuck like humans do?

Almost timidly, she allows her imagination to wander.

Greeting the morning together in the shuttle bay, the harsh fluorescent lights casting dramatic shadows over his body as he bends through another impossible stretch. All that tension coiled within him, the hard planes of his torso, those absolutely delicious ass-kicking thighs...

For a moment, she feels as though he's close enough to share his heat. There's an old, familiar warmth in her blood - exquisite, tiny shivers flickering just beneath her skin - arousal.

Her eyes drift closed. She owes her XO a mission debrief, and she owes her pilot new destination coordinates. But her blood is singing southward, throbbing between her legs, and that's a good thing, right? A reassuring, human reminder that maybe she's still Shepard - a woman - not just a Cerberus machine.

Maybe those obligations can wait a little bit longer.

Scooting up her unmade bed to rest against the headboard, she tentatively rests a hand against her belly and traces a line from her navel to the juncture of her legs, almost as if she's afraid of what she'll find. Her flesh is reassuringly warm, and she passes over her center, teasing and smoothing back over blood-warmed skin, testing its sensitivity. At least here, her body feels like she remembers.

Thane's unfamiliarity excites her. She's never spared much thought for bunking with another species before, but he's more than handsome. Shepard wonders if drell are as introverted as Thane. Likely not, but his guardedness only intensifies her intrigue. The idea of touching him seems forbidden, like a closely guarded secret. She wants to run her tongue over the darkened skin below his lower lip, wants to trace the ridges down the back of his neck and feel the warmth of the flushed skin at his throat.

Her mind fumbles with the thought of him, unclothed and willing. He could be any number of iridescent shades of green under that tight leather getup - by the tantalizing gradient of color across the firm swatch of his exposed chest, he must be. Those dark stripes down his shoulders are trails she's hungry to travel, winding paths across the exotic unknowns of his body. Her fingers itch to follow them wherever they lead - with any luck, all the way down.

And down to what, exactly? For a moment, Shepard considers pulling up the extranet to satiate her curiosity and then decides against it. If he's not biologically equipped the way she hopes, better to find out later, when she's not vividly imagining the shape and color of his erection. Maybe green? But then, he hopefully isn't packing scales down there. No, more likely a familiar blush of color, like the frills of at his neck, or the inside of his mouth.

Her fingers brush carefully over her clit at the thought of his mouth, those gorgeous clit-sucking lips. An excited chill zips down her spine, settling - picturing him in this exact spot, head bowed reverently between her legs to worship her with his tongue. It's been so fucking long since someone ate her out.

The memory is old and faded - breaking fraternization rules with a youthful dark-haired recruit in the barracks. They hadn't even finished basic yet. Shepard had come harder than ever before in her life, only to later discover that recruit had told nearly everyone that they'd hated every second of it. She wouldn't have been upset if Cerberus took that memory from her.

But there's something about Thane. He's nothing if not a gentleman, she likes to think he'd be wickedly good at this. Warm, firm lips, an agile tongue... those fused fingers edging her on.

She uses her own to test that hypothesis, biting her lip at the familiar slick of arousal concentrated in her core.

There was a time when she'd rather be incinerated than suffer gentle lovemaking. She wanted it hard and fast, pleasure so blindingly hot she'd sneak out to the airlock for a cigarette in the afterglow. But her new body is a labyrinth of unknowns. Sex in this new skin, not knowing her limits, how much she can take. She wants to take her time.

Middle finger first, then following with another, she tests her reconstruction. Maybe she's just imagining it, but she feels a bit stiffer than she remembers.

But in the blurry comfort of her fantasy, Thane is a gentle lover. He's slow and patient, giving her ample time to acclimate both her body and her racing thoughts. Her fingers slip inside as far as they'll reach, leaving her palm to flex against her clit. She sighs, luxuriating in sensation.

It feels so good to be touched.

It's been years, in fact, and the roaring flame of her lust is surprising even to herself. To have him here, moving inside her, filling her with every stroke...

When her hand curls against her inner walls, her eyes roll back and an unholy sound leave her throat. Holy shit. Either this is the pleasure time forgot, or Cerberus spared no expense reconstructing her nerve endings. It wipes every other thought from her mind.

She's lost in the fantasy now. Hopelessly spellbound beneath the roll of her own hand - Thane's hips - languidly pushing the heights of her pleasure in body and mind until she's deliberately edging her orgasm because it seems a damn shame to end it so fast. Her head is swimming, discomfort collecting dust in the rational corners of her brain until her nerves are burning with adrenaline and wanting. Scattered thoughts come in incoherent bursts. All that matters now is the caldera of pleasure between her legs. Her mind. His body.

She can almost feel his voice. The words are lost but the sensations are loud and clear, encircling her, flowing through her, filling her. She wants to feel his desire, wants him to come undone inside her, calling her name, riding the high of his climax and all but demanding she come with him. In her mind, they gasp together, his arms tightening around her, his face buried in her neck, her walls clenching around him.

The electricity of release pulses through her nerves - organic, synthesized, and everything in between. For one sweet second, she's weightless. Then the spots are clearing from her vision and she's floating down from whatever far flung corner of the galaxy her soul's been launched to.

In the silence that follows, the gentle hum of the ship is the only sound.

"Fuck," she breathes out into the empty room. He's gone. The reverie slowly evaporates, vanishing into the metal bulkheads of the hull.

The familiar guilt of indulgence tugs at the edges of her fading euphoria. She hadn't banked on masturbating to her crew, but here she is.

It's just a daydream, no harm done.

But as she gets dressed, she asks herself why it's been so long since anyone's crept into her mind like Thane.

Shepard shakes her head, straightening her back. A little movement to clear the errant thoughts trashing her rationality. Her scabs itch. Her mouth is dry. There are more important things to be doing. Things that will quiet the tiny voice in her head that whispers 'no one wants your weird cybernetic body.'

At least she can still show herself a good time. Small victories are perhaps even sweeter during wartime. Maybe she feels just a little more human than she did an hour before.

[demonsonthemoon]

Standing on the Edge / We’re Already Falling

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton Word Count: 3499 Rating: M Summary: Clint doesn't do romantic relationships. Bucky doesn't do sex. But they do do something together. One night, Clint has a request. "Do you mind if I jerk off?" Featuring akoiromantic!Clint. Notes: If you are here expecting smut you might be disappointed because the smut I was planning to write disappeared in between whole paragraphs of introspection. STORY OF MY LIFE. This fic has been sitting in my draft for more than a year and I STILL had to rush it to post it in time for #AggressivelyArospecWeek, so apologies if it is super wonky and there are typos everywhere. This is vaguely inspired by personal experiences and fantasies, because relationships are fascinating and I like to self-reflect. Also please note that I'm allosexual and the perspective I have on asexuality is totally external. So if you have any comments about the way I wrote it that might further my understanding of asexuality and help me write it better, let me know! Content warnings: Bucky's asexuality in this is explored partly in relation to his history of abuse so if that sounds squicky or triggering to you, be careful!

Read it on AO3.

The feeling of Bucky's lips on his wasn't anything new to Clint. That didn't mean that the pleasure of it was wearing off, far from it. First kisses were never the best. No, the really good one only came after, when you knew what the other person liked and they knew your preferences as well. When you could play each other like finally tuned instruments to elicit your favorite sounds at will. Those were the best kisses.

The one they were sharing now was quite high-ranking on that scale, at least according to Clint's opinion. They were both freshly clean from a shower, and Clint was quickly letting go of all the tension from the mission he'd just come back from. He was finally reaching the good side of pent-up where sensations were pleasurably heightened but not making him paranoid. Then there was the fact that Bucky was softly biting on his lower lip and had a hand in Clint's hair. Yeah. It was a pretty good kiss.

“Fuck,” Clint whispered at they broke apart for hair. They didn't go far from one another, just hovering on that edge of kissing again. Clint had a hand on Bucky's face, softly running a thumb over his stubble, the other over his hip.

Bucky smiled, then kissed him again. It was funny. Clint swore his lips tasted different when he smiled. It was one of his favorite flavors.

This thing between them hadn't always been that easy. There had been a time when Bucky's only two moods were “shadow in the corner” and “murder glare,” which had not been conducive to much physical intimacy. (Not that Clint had been unwilling. Everyone who knew him was aware of his attraction to danger.) It had taken a while for Bucky to become comfortable, both with himself and with the people also living on the Avengers compound. Clint had understood that. The guy had been through a lot. He'd still barely remembered who he was when he'd turned himself in after a year of leading Steve and Sam around on a merry chase.

But he'd gotten around to it. The whole being a person thing. Being something other than a weapon.

Yes, Clint had been a little protective of him. Still was. He could relate to the guy. A few days of alien brainwashing was obviously different to a few decades of being Hydra's puppet, but it still gave them more common grounds than most of the other Avengers.

They'd started getting along, and then they had started getting along, and now Clint was shirtless and kissing Bucky in his bed and it all felt really nice.

Really really nice.

“Shit, fuck,” Clint whimpered against Bucky's mouth, drawing away slightly. “Wait a sex- sec. I have a question.”

The beginning of their relationship (Clint always made a face at the word, but he hadn't found any other one that fit) had involved a lot of awkward conversations about boundaries. Clint had been on the verge of e-mailing his therapist about it several times. She would have been so proud. Clint wasn't ready to admit that, but it had felt nice for once not to be the only one tiptoeing around a minefield. That's what it had felt like in a lot of his other relationships, and most of his other partners hadn't been subtle in letting him know it was his fault.

Bucky didn't make him feel like it was his fault. He had plenty of minefields of his own and seemed grateful to have Clint here to help him figure out their layouts.

It had almost been funny when they'd realized how little they matched one another.

Clint didn't do romance. He'd learned the hard way that however much he liked the person at first, and even continued to like them, in a way, he couldn't sustain romantic attraction for much more than a few weeks into a relationship. And the pressure of a romantic relationship was just too much for him to handle. After a series of self-sabotaged messes and a divorce, he'd been forced to admit that it wasn't worth trying anymore. He'd mostly resigned himself to one-night stands and the occasional cuddle with a friend. Wanting regular physical and emotional intimacy outside of a romantic relationship just wasn't something he figured he could get.

Bucky, on the other hand, was totally open to the pursuit of romance. At least as much as someone with such severe trust issues as he had could be. But he didn't really do sex. At least not for now.

It had been kind of funny to find all of that out, but also not at all. Clint was very happy that they'd decided to figure something out anyway. He'd been even happier when the something in question had turned out to involve having a close friend he could regularly make out with but who didn't pressure him into being with each other all the time, being wooed or going on dates.

Their relationship probably looked like weird and misshapen from any outside perspective, and sometimes even from Clint's, when his nerves were too raw or his mind was too numb and he looked at the universe and only saw the result of his failures. But it was theirs, and whenever Clint felt like his skin was his own again, he found he was willing to fight for it.

It was a weird yo-yo motion, with a string that threatened to snap every so often, but so far it was still turning.

Clint couldn't help himself, and he gave Bucky another peck on the lips. Just to erase the frown that had formed on his forehead as he'd pulled away from their kiss.. “Don't worry. There's no good or bad answer here.” He tried to keep his tone confident and casual. Spy training came in handy in these kinds of situation. Of course, the fact that Bucky was just as well trained meant he could usually read through Clint's bullshit, but well. One had to try.

Clint took a breath, and smiled. “Do you mind if I jerk off?”

Bucky froze against Clint's hands. His eyes widened just the slightest bit.

And then he looked down at Clint's crotch, and the blond bit down on his own lip to avoid letting out a thoroughly undignified squeak. The outline of his erection was clearly visible through the worn material of his post-shower sweatpants. Bucky somehow seemed surprised by it, even though there was no way he hadn't felt it rub against him at any point of the previous proceedings.

Clint felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He wasn't embarrassed about sex. He didn't think that was what it was. He was just very aware of the request he'd just made and the fact that Bucky's attention was still lingering on his cock.

“You don't have to say yes. I really don't mind if we just make out some more and cuddle. I just thought... Well. I just thought that if you didn't have to... participate, you might still like to watch?” The blood in his cheeks was quickly approaching boiling point. “Or not. I don't know. I just thought I'd ask.”

Clint forced himself to close his mouth and stop talking before he fell into a spell of ill-advised chatter. For a few excruciating seconds, Bucky stayed silent. At least he was looking into Clint's eyes again, instead of at his dick. Small mercies.

“Is that something that you would like? If I watched?”

“Um.” Clint swallowed. The fact that Bucky's gaze followed the movement of his Adam's apple was enough to force him to admit he didn't want to lie. “Yeah. Yeah. I'd... I think I'd like that a lot.”

Clint didn't know what reaction he'd expected at that. A joke perhaps. Or at least a raised eyebrow. He hadn't expected Bucky to move forward like a hunting animal jumping on his prey and kiss him. Clint opened his mouth and let the kiss deepen. He wasn't an idiot, he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to get kissed passionately by Bucky just because he was confused. So he moved one arm over Bucky's shoulder, found a better angle and kissed back, giving as much as he got.

He hadn't lied when he'd said he could do just this for hours. Who cared if it made him feel like an awkward teenager again, one who was all too happy to agree to “no sex on the first date” because he didn't know how to tell his at the time girlfriend that he hadn't ever touched a condom in his life.

Clint wasn't frustrated. He jerked off a healthy amount, and in the time between he got to hang out with Bucky and get kissed senseless. There was really no drawback to this situation.

And sure, Clint had desires. Fantasies. There were many things he thought about while he jerked off, and quite a few of them inlvoved Bucky in different stages of nakedness and with various amounts of their naked skins touching. But he also had fantasies about a lot of people he had never had and would never have sex with, and that was fine. He was friends with Bucky, and his comfort whenever they spent time together was a lot more important than Clint's libido.

But he had wondered if maybe... If there could be a way to get more of what he wanted without pushing any of Bucky's boundaries. He already felt bad for not being able to give Bucky everything he wanted, everything that he deserved. Bucky should get to be with someone who would go on dates with him, who would kiss him in the rain and hold his hand it public, and whisper I am so glad that you're my boyfriend against his ear. After all the ways he'd been used and abused, Bucky deserved the certainty of someone who loved him in all ways, all the time.

And Clint wasn't that someone. Clint couldn't give himself to someone in that way without feeling trapped, without tainting the beauty of every gesture with his own fear of being controlled.

Asking for this, for this selfish thing that wasn't sex but was so so close, it was a dangerous thing. It felt like taking something more, and Clint had never felt like he deserved anything in his life, not most of the bad, but not really any of the good either, and he didn't want to be that person who just took and took from someone who had already lost so much, but Bucky had always told him to just ask and he had, and Bucky was still kissing him like there was no other way to say what he meant to say and-

“Okay,” Bucky panted when he finally pulled away far enough to form words. “I think I want to see that.”

And, fuck, this was definitely something that Clint had fantasized about before, that's why he brought it up, but his imagination paled before the real thing, before the livewire tension all across his body and the way Bucky looked hungry in a way he'd never had before, and then Clint was being pushed back against the pillows of the bed and Bucky was slowly peeling off his sweatpants to expose the boxers underneath and this was all too much already. Bucky looked so smug about it too, like this was a perfectly normal things for them to do, like anything below the belt wasn't an entirely new territory for them. Bucky settled cross-legged on the end of the bed opposite to Clint, and tilted his head in a sort of go-ahead gesture. There was such open curiosity in his eyes, and Clint hadn't known that that was something that did it for him, but it really, truly was.

In all of his fantasies, he hadn't had to think about how to jerk off, he'd already been doing it as he set the scene in his head. He had felt a certain thrill at the idea of being watched, but none of the nervousness that came from putting on a show. And that probably wasn't what Bucky even expected from him, but Clint still felt weird. It felt like the worst case of stage fright he'd had since his first performance in the circus when he'd been a teenager.

Clint took a deep breath. He looked up into Bucky's eyes, carefully trained on his, and slowly pulled his boxers off.

*****

Bucky could tell that Clint was nervous. He wanted to so something about it, but he had no idea how. Clint had been the one to offer this, to ask for this, and Bucky was just along for the ride. A ride he definitely thought he would enjoy, but he also couldn't be sure, and he didn't want to push Clint but didn't want to stay totally detached either and...

And Clint was now touching his dick, hand in a loose fist around it, going up and down, thumb brushing over the head to gather a few drops of precome. And he was staring at Bucky as he did all that, worrying his bottom lip and staring at Bucky like he held all of the answers in the world.

He was surprised at how big the urge to touch was. He wanted to put his mouth on Clint's and bite down, bite properly instead of whatever Clint was doing to deal with his nervousness. He wanted to put a hand in Clint's hair and lick along the side of his neck and then look down at where his hand was still moving on his cock.

But he didn't do any of that, even though he had before (except for the looking part), because if he did he might trip on his own boundaries, might trigger that trapwire inside himself that made him retreat.

So he just watched instead, held Clint's gaze when it met his.

This was a new things for the two of them, but at the same time... it wasn't. Not really. Because this wasn't about sex. Sex was something that Bucky felt totally detached from on a good day, and on a bad one it was something that made him nervous, made his stomach twist and weigh heavily.

He couldn't explain why, because he hadn't ever had a particularly bad experience with it. At least he didn't think so. (He hated that he still wasn't sure, couldn't be sure, because so many memories had been taken from him and he couldn't ever know if he had gotten all of them back.)

What he remembered, at least, wasn't bad, although it wasn't good. Bucky could see himself, another person in another time, lying in fresh grass with a girl, her perfume just heavy enough to make him slightly light-headed, to take the edge off the feeling of wrongness he was experiencing as he touched her, let her touch him. He could feel the purely physical pleasure of the act, perfunctory, but nothing else.

This thing right now with Clint was nothing like that, because it wasn't about the sex. It was about Clint and it was about pleasure, but physicality was only one tiny part of this equation.

Bucky watched Clint's hand run up hand down his cock, and he didn't wish that it was his instead, but that didn't stop him from being fascinated by the movement, by the way Clint's dick responded, hardening further, and by the quiet sounds that caught in his throat.

A thought crossed his mind, and Bucky stood up. The fact that Clint immediately stopped moving made him feel... something. It reminded him that, yeah, Clint was masturbating, but this thing still actively involved Bucky. And Bucky let himself be involved, since he ruffled through his nightstand and threw Clint a half bottle of lube. Clint's eyes widened even as he caught the bottle easily. A soldier's reflexes. “You-”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“I don't have the same libido as you, but I've still got enough experience to know it's better when it doesn't chafe.”

“Right,” Clint replied, scratching the back of his head in an embarrassed gesture. The combination of that and his erection sticking out made him look completely ridiculous, but Bucky only smiled in endearment.

He settled back at the foot of the bed, crosses his legs and make a vague gesture with his hand.

“As you were,” he said with a smirk.

Clint stared, mouth agape. “You...” He chuckled. “You are such an asshole.”

Bucky didn't deny it, but he also noticed that Clint wasn't too bothered, pouring lube into his right hand and carefully warming it up. He looked slightly uncertain again, slowly touching his own dick. Bucky didn't say anything, but he watched. That's what Clint had asked for. That he watch.

Clint worried his lower lip and hummed in his throat as he worked up a rhythm again, and Bucky watched.

He liked Clint's hands, the calluses on his fingers, the various scars from knife fights and careless handling of arrows. He liked them for the stories they told, the one that had been erased from his own fingertips by serum and metal. It was something he kept to himself, unlike Clint who took great pleasure in telling Bucky how hot he looked and which pants he should keep wearing because they framed his thighs just right. Bucky didn't look at Clint's hands like Clint sometimes did his, with a far-away intensity in his eyes and his mouth just the slighest bit open. But that was okay.

Clint didn't look at him like he wanted to be what made Bucky happy, his everything, his forever, with a yearning to share as much of the other's life as he could. But Bucky...

Bucky looked up into Clint's eyes, scared of everything his own could say, but it felt like the other man could hardly see him, too caught up in the movement of his own hand and the sensations that ran through his body. It didn't make Bucky feel alone, though. Quite the opposite. Clint was including him in a moment that could so easily have been private and it was thrilling, it made Bucky feel powerful and wanting. Bucky could have touched, Clint probably would have liked him to touch him, and Bucky felt his arms strain towards the other man, but stayed still. This made the moment feel purer, safer, better somehow, and Bucky didn't get it, not really, but then again, there were so many things he didn't get about Clint and his relationship, this was just one more thing on the list.

Another fragile compromise, another precarious equilibrium, just like everything that had followed that fateful “Can I kiss you?” during a conversation that had felt half like a fight and also like the most comfortable Bucky had been in years, because Clint hadn't been scared of him and he hadn't been careful, and he had asked to kiss him and Bucky had said yes.

And barely seconds after their lips had touched, Clint had said “Okay, this doesn't have to go anywhere, but in case it goes anywhere, we need to set boundaries,” and Bucky had thought “I think I might love you.”

These days, he tried his best not to say it aloud, but he thought Clint still understood it sometimes, like right now when Bucky had finally reached out and kissed Clint one more, and the other man's hip had thrust up twice before he came, one hand grappling at Bucky's shoulder and gripping his shirt. He was panting into Bucky's mouth, eyes wide and a little scared, and Bucky kissed him again until Clint whined, louder than any sound he'd made as he orgasmed, and Bucky couldn't help but be selfishly pleased by that.

He felt warm and relaxed. For once, the arousal coiled in his gut didn't feel uncomfortable, there was no pressure for it to go anywhere.

He pulled away, and watched as Clint carefully got his breathing back to normal. “Thanks,” the blond said, a slightly pathetic attempt at filling the silence between them.

“You're welcome,” Bucky replied, too quiet and not snarky enough, but they both smile and pretended not to know what had been said behind the word. They didn't destroy the balance.

Clint looked at his hand and made a face, and Bucky pushed him out of bed with a laugh, telling him to clean up. He chucked off his own shirt, which was stained by Clint's come and oh, what a strange thought that was. And then he settled into bed.

He was pretty sure Clint would join him, tonight, though he didn't always. If he was lucky, they'd have breakfast the next day. He didn't expect to see much of Clint for the rest of the day after that though, but that was okay.

It was an equilibrium.

[soukokuwu]

DAZAI OSAMU

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐈 𝐌𝐄𝐓 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍

》 angst, unfortunately (dazai x reader)

》 trigger warnings! suicide themes, death

》 word count: 2.3k

》 notes: you saw him for the exact opposite of what he was. he did you a favour, but everything has a price. and now he has come to collect.

》 a story where Dazai is an angel

The ring of the shopkeeper’s bell. The smooth wood of the door. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The taste of baked ham. The sun illuminating the alley right outside the cafe.

There he appeared again. After ten years.

He looked just as you remembered. He didn’t age. Bandage over his right eye. Black hair a mess, covering one half of his face. Deep brown eyes as alluring as ever, piercing into your very soul. Black tailored suit, black tie, white dress shirt, same as the last time.

Although, there was one thing different about him.

Black feathered wings that used to be almost miniscule compared to his person— no, could you even call him that? Body. The wings that used to be diminutive compared to his body were now thicker and wider, standing even taller than his frame.

You were painfully aware that only you could see his beauty. Everyone else walked past him without regard. You strolled over to the figure, aware that he saw himself far from what you made him out to be in your head. That wouldn’t deter you from believing that of him though.

Your guardian angel.

»»-------------¤-------------««

Scribbling.

Sound of pen against paper had been all you could hear.

The pen had been discarded and you felt a pat on your head. You had looked up into his eyes. Empty. Vacant. Hopeless.

He had grabbed your hand and led the way. Something had been weird about the route he took that day. That had not been the usual way the two of you took to your school.

A left instead of a right. A bookshop instead of a cafe. The hustle and bustle of people instead of the usual seclusion. Yet you never questioned him. He had been the adult after all. Maybe there was a special event today that you had forgotten about. Yes, that could be why he hadn’t taken you straight to school.

The two of you had finally reached the train station. It had only been on rare occasions that you would step foot there, given that your family hardly ever went out. Even at twelve years old you could tell that your parents were struggling financially. In spite of that, though, you were all happy together. As long as you had each other, your mom would always say.

It had been a windy day. The sky turned a darker shade of grey. It had not been too crowded for a weekday morning in the subway station, so you could see the sky clearly even though you had been a short little child back then.

An announcement played, saying the train would be delayed and it would take a while longer. You looked around, trying to find the display screen that estimated the next train’s arrival.

However, something moved past you and caught your eye. A single black feather fell in front of your face and you eyed it until it touched the ground. You gripped your father’s hand tighter out of fear, but it barely registered in your father’s head. He was much too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Scared as you had been, curiosity got the better of you and you looked around for the source. It could not have been a crow, so where could the feather have come from?

Just as you were looking, you spotted him there, near the front of the platform, facing your direction. A general disinterested look, blank chocolate eyes looking straight ahead at absolutely nothing, dark brown hair and small black wings floating in the breeze. Even all those years ago, he looked breathtaking to you. Something that was supposed to instill fear intrigued you instead. He spoke of something in a soft murmur, in a voice low enough you couldn’t make out what it was.

A pair of watchful eyes followed him as he walked toward you, looking around at everyone on the platform. As the creature passed by you, he stopped in his tracks. His body stiffened and he slowly turned to look at you, who had been blinking up at him skeptically.

“This human is creeping me out,” he had murmured to himself, gulping and then bending his knees to get leveled with you. His eyes had then seemed alive for that split second, filled with intrigue. “It’s as if she can see me.”

“But I can,” you said, almost causing him to stumble over.

The creature blinked in succession as he tried to register what you had just said.

“You can... see me?”

You nodded, attention completely focused on the peculiar being in front of you. He had ominous black wings, but you didn’t feel scared of him at all. You then proceeded to question him about why it was that nobody else could see him. But everything he had shared with you about the different dimensions and how it worked were too complicated for you to remember. Being the inquisitive child you were, you kept interacting with the being. Banter and jokes were all you remembered sharing with him that day.

“You’re funny,” you had told him, laughing at the stupid joke he shared.

The creature had laughed too, before his expression shifted slowly into that of hesitance. You had asked what was wrong, but he shook his head, claiming it had been nothing. He was seemingly looking at something past you, but he hogged your attention by asking if you wanted to see a magic trick. Excited, you had given him all your focus, and by the time you clapped for him and noticed the absence of your father’s hand, you realised you were someplace else.

It was a peaceful place. The both of you were situated in a meadow, surrounded by a sea of colourful flowers. The skies there were a dark grey too. The only sound you could hear was that of the wind blowing. You were alone there with him, your father nowhere in sight. Despite having been teleported to a foreign dimension with someone you barely knew, all you had been thinking of was how much you wanted to explore this place.

“I can’t see the station anymore,” you had casually remarked.

“Sometimes it’s better to see what isn’t there instead of what is,” the creature had replied, an ache in his tone you didn’t miss.

Before you could ask him what he meant, warm droplets of rain started falling onto your face. The creature used his wings to shelter you from the rain, letting himself get drenched. His wings were too small to cover the both of you at the time. Feeling bad, you had asked if he could take you to his home so that you both would get shelter. The flash of melancholy that took over his face you could not have missed.

“Not now, you have to get back home,” he murmured gently, patting you on the head. You nodded in resigned compliance, catching a glimpse of the words imprinted on his wings.

Osamu Dazai.

The world around you began to shimmer and flow together, the colours of the flowers mixing together in circles. It was all making you sick, and so you chose to close your eyes. Everything was spinning. But as you felt a few raindrops fall onto your face, it stopped.

When you opened your eyes next, you found your mother sat next to you on your bed, crying over your body, hugging you when she realised you had come to.

The creature was nowhere in sight.

And neither was your father.

»»-------------¤-------------««

No one told you what really happened that day until a few years ago, when your mother was on her deathbed. Initially, she had just claimed that your father had to move to another city and wouldn’t come back. You were twelve but you weren’t that stupid. You didn’t believe her, but you thought better than to press her about it.

However as she was dying, she told you the real story of how your father disappeared. She recounted to you his suicide note, word for word. He had had enough of his life. Apparently the happiness you saw in your family as a kid was all a facade. Your father was far from a joyful man. He was beyond depressed, with a shit job and a shittier financial situation. His wife had lost interest in him as a man and his only solace had been you. Which was why he wanted to bring you with him. To die with him.

His plan that day was to jump in front of a moving train with you. But that creature had saved you at the last minute. According to witness accounts, they saw you let go of your father’s hand just as he was about to jump off the platform before you fainted on the spot. There was a small boy who swore he saw a man with brown hair and black wings who pried you away from your father, but of course the authorities didn’t take him seriously.

»»-------------¤-------------««

The city looked so much better from way up high. It had been a while since you were here. The wind blowing reminded you of that day when you were teleported to another dimension. You shifted your gaze from the scenery to the figure beside you. He had followed you here all the way from the cafe. He looked even more mesmerising now with a soft smile plastered on his face.

“Dazai?” You called out hesitantly.

The being nodded in acknowledgement. However, you found you couldn’t quite find the right words to say now that he was here, in the flesh.

“Ask me.”

His statement stunned you. It was a gentle kind of prodding, indicating he understood the situation. You were almost a hundred percent sure by now of his answer, and as much as you would like to confirm it, you decided against it.

“You’re my guardian angel, Dazai.”

It was not what he really was, but it was true all the same. He had saved you as a child even though he had absolutely no reason to. Osamu Dazai saved you even though he had been, and was still, the embodiment of death.

“I’m the angel of death,” he uttered, completely monotone. Dazai looked puzzled now, his lips pressed into a firm line. He shifted his gaze and looked out at the view of the city from his spot on the skyscraper. The streets surrounding this building were somewhat secluded, save for two or three pedestrians walking below. You caught a look of understanding that seemed to wash over him, as though a sudden realisation of your intentions, and why he even appeared before you in the first place.

You thought back to all those years ago, when you tried to convince people you weren’t crazy. In hindsight, telling people about a heavenly creature that saved you from death’s grip wasn’t the brightest idea. It had resulted in years of bullying, several counts of physical abuse and a consequent depression that you wished would go away.

Where you would normally be shut in at home, today you were out and about. You had taken work leave. All your colleagues were stunned into silence yesterday when you offered everyone cupcakes. They should; you usually didn’t even respond much even when spoken to. But the day before, everyone found you pleasant to be around, and you could see the looks of relief on all of their faces. They all spoke of not being able to wait to see you the next day.

Everyone who thought they knew you took it as a sign of you getting better. But no. To you it was a sign of clarity. You felt more upbeat today than any other day. It was because you knew exactly what waited for you at the end of the day: oblivion.

Before you knew it, you were standing at the edge of the building. Your legs trembled slightly when you realised just how high up you were. The fear was taken over by confusion when you felt warmth envelop your right hand.

Dazai’s fingers were intertwined with yours and he offered you the most comforting smile you’d seen in a long while. You were completely perplexed by the words he uttered next.

“I’ve always wanted to commit a double suicide with a beautiful lady when I was human.”

You had expected that he was the angel of death, but you never thought he had been human before. How it worked you would never find out, but there was something you wanted to know.

“Aren’t angels like you immortal?”

“My death was set in stone the moment I saved you from myself.”

Dazai did not need to explicitly tell you, but you deciphered it anyway. It was a simple message: your death would spell his. That’s all there was to it. A curse of some sort, because he had failed his duties all those years back. He forcefully saved a soul bound to death by his own hands. This was his punishment. But he did not look the least bit unhappy.

If anything, he radiated pure bliss. It was a bittersweet moment. The person you had dreamt of countless times in your life, the one you had fantasised finding again and again— he finally appeared but it was on an ominous condition. It only meant one thing: you would not change your mind today.

Your legs stopped trembling. Your heart started pounding faster in your chest. The warmth of the noon sun was getting uncomfortable. Yet you found the warmth of his hand relaxing.

Without warning, you felt your hand being yanked toward him, your body covered in his warm embrace. This time, his wings were big enough to shield both you and him from the outside world. You could see nothing but his face. You were pressed against his chest, foreheads touching and eyes glued to each other’s. You felt any fear you had dissipate into the void.

“Will you meet me in another life?”

You couldn’t help but ask. It was something you were wishing for, no matter how impossible it may seem: to get to know Osamu Dazai as a person. You hoped to find him in that other life, if it was possible at all. You wanted to get to know him, to understand his soul, preferably as equals.

Dazai’s unbandaged eye was clouded with a certain bewilderment before it reverted back to a gentle kindness, one you had seen many years before.

“I promise.”

Deep down you knew it was bullshit. You could sense his uncertainty. But as you both plunged to your death, the words were the only comfort you found, aside from the tenderness of his hug.

You opened your eyes to look into his once more, and then everything went black.

A scream.

And then nothing.

tags: @yokelish

[geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek]

the fate of all things

geraskier | teen | canon divergence, fate/role swap au, druid geralt, witcher jaskier, bard yennefer, canon-typical magic shenanigans, mystery-ish, fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, happy ending

this is meant to be a part of @geraltfluffweek for day 5: magic but the concept i went with is something better suited to a multi-part fic instead of a one shot so that’s what i’m doing!

starts out a little less fluffy than a fluff week warrants, i think, but it’s not going to be a heavily angsty fic and will have a happy end!

—

He wakes slowly, blinking the pull of sleep from his eyes as he lifts his head. The pale rays of morning sunlight pour through the small window in the room, telling him the early hour. His neck aches and he rubs at it, and with a sigh he pushes himself up from his chair and goes to collect more salve.

His hands are practiced and move with almost no thought from him, and he goes through a mental list of tasks to be completed before his mother returns. She'll be bringing back a few of the ingredients they can't grow themselves, but those aren't needed now—witchers heal well enough on their own.

He turns back to the sleeping form on the bed and brings the salve over. The witcher''s bare chest rises and falls in rhythmic beats. With gentle hands, Geralt unwraps the cloth from his wounded shoulder, pleased to see it hadn't bled through in the night.

He dips his fingers in the salve and begins applying it to the slice he'd taken from the wyvern he'd been hunting. Murmuring softly, he feels the rush of his own magic heat the salve, activating its more subtle healing properties, encouraging the wound to close.

He looks up as those blue cat's eyes open, finding his own, and Geralt begins to say, "Relax, you're safe," but the words are stolen from him as the witcher's brow furrows.

"Geralt?" he says, full of confusion, and a strange pulse goes through his head, a flash of blue eyes—without slit pupils; he isn't a witcher, he's a bard—in his mind.

"Jaskier." Geralt tastes the name like a familiar treat on his tongue. "What the fuck."

Just then, the door bursts open, and Geralt turns to watch Yennefer—Yennefer?—storm into the room, purple eyes ablaze. Her dark hair is in a simple braid over her shoulder and she's dressed in a dark jacket and pants, the least refined he's ever seen her. Unobtrusive, even. Completely unlike her, but it's not even the strangest thing.

No, the strangest thing is the lute slung over her shoulder.

What the fuck.

"Who did you fuck?" she demands, eyes on Jaskier, arms crossed. She seems about ready to turn him into an eel, but—wildly enough—Geralt can't feel her chaos stirring the air. She doesn't have any.

Jaskier, for his part, holds up his own arms in a placating gesture, eyes wide. "Why are you assuming it's me who's done this? I sleep with married nobles whose spouses at best want me castrated!" He points a finger at Geralt, who is still standing stupefied at what's happening. "He's the one with the track record of sleeping with mages known for cursing people!"

Yen takes that in, and then Geralt finds himself the subject of that bright, burning gaze as she turns on him. "Who did you fuck?"

It's so weird, so unexpected, so wildly improbable, that Geralt has come right back around to a strange sort of peaceful acceptance. He makes a face at her and snarks, "You're the last person I slept with. Are you admitting this is your doing?"

He can see the way she tenses, the urge to lash out with magic to throw him out the window, but nothing happens other than her fingers tightening their grip on her arms. She tosses her head and looks away.

Jaskier, sitting up, looks between them, then keeps his gaze on Geralt—on his face, on his hair. "That is so weird," he murmurs, and Geralt lifts an eyebrow at him.

"What is?"

"Your—" He makes a vague gesture. "Your hair isn't white. It's strange."

Geralt looks down at himself, catching sight of dark hair from the corner of his eye. He picks some of it up, pulling it around to look at it. Hm.

"I didn't always have white hair," he says with a shrug. "That was the second round of mutations."

"Do I have white hair?" Jaskier asks, eyes bright as he reaches up to his own hair—still the same chocolate brown, if a bit longer, curling around his chin. "No. Only one round of mutations for me. I—"

A strangle look passes over his face, and he shares the look with Geralt. "I remember that much."

He remembers the Trials. He's lived the Trials. Geralt forcefully pushes those thoughts aside—nothing to be done about that now. "Hm."

A strained, awkward silence falls around them, broken only by the sound of birdsong outside. The sunlight creeps further into the room, lightening it bit by bit. Geralt realizes he still has the salve in his hand, then looks back at the wound on Jaskier's shoulder. It's healing even still, slowly closing up. He'll need an ointment to help prevent scarring and make sure he can use the arm properly in the future.

Memories tangle in his mind, ones of helping his mother tend to herbs and make poultices for the town butting up against ones of being mid-battle with all manner of beasts, potions coursing through his blood; days at market buying cloth and fruits warped around gentle hands soothing over wounds on his own skin and a warm, rich voice singing to him in gentle candlelight.

Well. That warm voice is still here at least, he thinks. Jaskier has swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. He looks up at Geralt, and it's so strange to see witcher's eyes in his sweet, soft face, marred only by a single scar through his brow.

His Cat school medallion hangs around his neck, and Geralt instinctively reaches up to his own throat, feeling a sudden sense of loss to realize he no longer has his own medallion. He swallows thickly and blinks away the sting behind his eyes.

"Let me finish patching you up," he finally says, breaking the quiet around them all. Yen seems to snap out of whatever thoughts she'd been in, sucking in a breath and turning to stalk out of the room without another word.

Jaskier watches her go before turning back to Geralt. "Well," he says with forced cheer. "We're really up shit creek with this, aren't we?"

Geralt hums in agreement and moves to finish tending to his wound. The salve is working its miracles, the rough edges of the claw slice not as red as they had been. Satisfied, he applies an ointment to encourage the muscle to relax and then brings over clean cloth, wrapping Jaskier's shoulder with light touches.

"Quite the turning of tables, hm?" Jaskier jokes weakly, and he offers Geralt a small smile. It slips away a moment later. "What happened, Geralt? What's going on?"

It's the question that's been rattling in his brain since Jaskier woke up and called his name when he shouldn't have known it. It shook loose memories of another life—his real life?—and now they need to be shifted through, examined carefully to determine what might be the cause of this.

Magic, no doubt. Chaos is the root of most problems, he thinks. He ties off the cloth and steps back from Jaskier, cleaning up his supplies almost automatically. It's easy, methodical, and he doesn't even think about it. It's his life, what he's always done.

Do witchers ever retire?

Yeah. When they slow and get killed.

"I don't know," he says eventually. "We need to—my memories are...jumbled. Overlapping between this life and—the other."

"Well, I certainly understand that," Jaskier says. Geralt turns and watches him stand and search for his shirt, pulling it on over his head. It still has the remnants of bloodstains in it, though Geralt remembers cleaning it himself during the night. He keeps his eyes on the scars covering Jaskier's skin until the shirt covers them.

Geralt inhales, a deep-seated reflex, and is once again filled with a sense of loss when the familiar scent of meadow grass and wildflowers isn't present, his senses too dull to pick them out from the faintly pungent aroma of the salve. Part of him says of course you can't smell him and another, deeper part of him says you should be able to smell him.

It's confusing, and he rubs his temples at the on-coming headache.

Jaskier's voice is gentle when he says, "Let's...get something to eat, yeah? We can sift through this mess after we've filled our bellies. I've got to get that wyvern head back to town, as well."

"Your reward," Geralt agrees, and that—that feels normal. Perhaps a bit backwards, since he's usually the one doing the hunting—No, you're not. You're a druid, you don't see battle like that—but normal.

Nothing about this is normal.

Jaskier offers him another smile—he smiles quite a bit for a witcher—and Geralt watches as he pointedly leaves his swords and armor against the wall where Yen had tossed them the night before, when he'd told her to undress her wounded companion so he could help.

What the actual fuck is going on here.

One thing at a time, he thinks to himself, and follows Jaskier.

[houseof-harry]

What Happens in Jersey Pt. 5 | G.D.

A/N - listen people, it’s been a rough one. I’ve rewrote and reread this thing literally for days, but she’s finally here to rock the boat. Please enjoy and lmk what you think! Read the last part here

Word Count- 5.1K

Warnings - none

Recap:

You could feel the butterflies in your stomach from the smile he gave you, knowing how into music he is and how difficult he finds it to give up the aux power. You made sure to pick songs you knew everyone would love, lightening the slightly weird mood that had settled over you guys that morning. Maybe today wouldn’t be as awkward as you anticipated.

***

The car ride was nice, Jessie and Ethan filling up most of the time with their bantering. Grayson would look over at you at every red light to make sure you looked okay, not wanting you to feel sick from his driving. You kept your eyes focused out the window, a soft smile gracing your lips. He could tell you were up in your head, but he didn’t want to ask what was going on in front of the guys.

Once you get your train tickets and stand at the right track, Grayson decides to pick your brain a bit while Jessie and Ethan argue about which one of them is better at mini golf.

“Everything good?”

You look up at him, your arms crossed over your chest but your focus instantly falling on his face. No matter how confused or annoyed you may be, he was nice to look at. “Yeah,” you mumble, barely audible.

He rolls his eyes, his hand moving to the hip farthest from him to bring you closer to him. He raises his brows. “So you’re just not gonna tell me? Wanna help you so you can enjoy today.” His tone is soft and meaningful as it matches the concern written in the wrinkles of his forehead. He truly did want you to have a good time today.

You, however, knew that bringing up what was bothering you would totally ruin the day, so you do your best to put on a brave face. “Gray, promise it’s nothing important. Or something you can’t fix right now. We’re gonna have a really good day today.” Your smile is unconvincing as you look up at him, the wind from the train arriving causing your hair to fly all around you.

“Just know that anything that upsets you is important, and if it’s important to you then it’s important to me,” he nearly yells, the sounds of the train almost drowning out his voice anyway.

You nod and follow behind him and Jessie onto the train, Ethan following right behind you. Jessie manages to find four seats facing one another and sits in the farthest seat. Grayson sits across from him, leaving you to pick who to sit next to.

You look between him and Jessie, biting your lip. They are both looking at you, expectant of you to sit next to them and not even realizing the situation they’ve put you in. Before you can decide for yourself, Ethan pipes up. “Sit here, facing backwards will probably make you feel sick, no?” He motions to the seat next to Grayson and you nod, deciding the logic made sense.

Jessie, however, was still disappointed. After a car ride without you, he was hoping to have the train ride to talk about your week apart. He wanted to hear about your appointment and your time with Anna. And more importantly he just wanted some time with you.

Grayson took it upon himself to wrap his arm around your back, pulling you so that your thighs were flush against one another. Your body leaned into him as you watch the world fly past you through the window. Your hand rested on his thigh, the connection between coming naturally, almost like you didn’t even have to think about it when he was there.

Jessie sat opposite you guys, watching while Ethan talked his ear off, the topic of conversation totally escaping him because his mind was clouded with thoughts of you. He regrets ever vouching for Grayson.

Jessie is convinced Grayson is glorifying this whole situation. It seems like a dream now, something he’s always wanted, until it gets old and he moves onto something new. Then, he’s back in LA and you’re alone raising your baby. Well, you wouldn’t be alone because Jessie will be there for you. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt, but he thinks it’s unavoidable. He’s even tried to voice these concerns to you. But you always shut them down before you can talk about it, admitting you worry about the same thing but don’t want to assume the worst of Grayson.

Which is the only reason you’re cuddled up to him now. Maybe he had a good reason for not spending the night with you last night. Maybe tomorrow you’d wake up and he’d stay to cuddle you until you wake up because you don’t have any plans. If he even wants to sleep in the same bed again. Oh my god what if you snore and that’s why he left? I mean he snores, that’s something you found out about him last night so he can’t even-

“Y/N?” His voice pulls you out of your thoughts, making you shake your head and squeeze your eyes shut for a second. When you open them, you look up at him and smile.

“Yeah?”

“Are you gonna tell me what’s happening up there before we get there or are you gonna be out of it all day?” His fingers rub over your side even though you can barely feel it through your coat, but he did more for his own comfort, to feel you next to him.

You press your lips together, looking over at Ethan and Jessie for a moment, catching Jessie’s gaze. You give him a sheepish smile before looking back at Grayson.

His heart sinks instantly. She loves Jessie, he thinks. He feels like he’s spiraling for a second, but manages to keep his cool on the outside. He was starting to question everything you’d done together and what it meant to you. Is that why you were acting like you were this morning? Because you saw Jessie instead of him when you woke up and remembered how you felt?

“Can we talk about it later?” You concede, knowing he won’t give up. He just nods, looking out the window again. You don’t move away from him, which he appreciates because he’s not sure how much longer you’ll let him do this.

The train ride is pretty quiet the rest of the way, Ethan speaking for all of you. Once your trained pulled into the station, you all exit and start to walk to the street.

“So, what are we even doing today?” You ask.

“I was thinking we could walk around Central Park, pick you up a pretzel or something to tide you over until dinner and hit the MnM store on the way to get you some chocolate, know you’ve been loving it lately,” Grayson lists, his hand on your lower back as you walk out onto the streets of New York City. The smell of cigarettes and subways feels familiar, the commotion all around you somewhat comforting. It was so easy to be invisible, going about your day while everyone else did the same. It didn’t matter that you were pregnant because there were so many other pregnant people, and there were definitely people who drew more attention than you and the boys. You guys could just have a normal day.

“Sounds good, a pretzel sounds really good right now.” You smile at him, the aura of the city taking over. It was hard for anything to get to you when you were here, there was always too much going on to ever focus on one thing, whether it be good or bad.

And it managed to distract you from every look you got from both Grayson and Jessie, and ignore the fact that Grayson literally bought you $75 worth of chocolate and then your pretzel (with mustard, he remembered the story you told him once about eating soft pretzels with mustard only), you even were able to act like they weren’t brooding at each other. They reminded you a bit of toads, their chests (and egos) inflating whenever they had your full attention around the other. It was weird and uncomfortable and you didn’t understand what was happening or why, but you hated it.

So you stuck with Ethan for most of the afternoon. He was funny and lighthearted and was managing to even make you laugh despite the lingering thoughts at the back of your brain reminding you of the two men fighting for your attention.

Dinner made it difficult to do so, though. You were all going to be sitting facing one another in one conversation the whole time. You also had to pick your seat again. You even tried to get yourself in the back of the line when you were being led to your table, but they were too chivalrous for that.

When you got to the table, Grayson and Jessie had situated themselves the same exact way they sat on the train; facing one another and leaving you to only pick one of them. You quickly find yourself sitting next to Grayson again, justifying it to yourself by thinking it’s because it was the farther seat, so it was the polite thing to do for Ethan.

“Excited for tonight?” Grayson asks you, his hand falling to your thigh. He’d revealed to you in the park that he got you all Rangers tickets.

“Yeah, haven’t been to a game in so long. It’ll be a lot of fun,” you smile at him before grabbing your menu. Maybe you can hide behind it until the end of dinner.

Grayson had picked an Italian restaurant because you’ve been loving tomato sauce. It was really surprising to you how much he’d remember from all your conversations when you’d say things you don’t even remember.

“Wanna share a fried calamari app, Y/N?” Jessie asks as he also skims his menu. You two would always split an appetizer you both wanted so you could enjoy it while still having room to eat your entrée.

However, the thought of any seafood was really unappealing at the moment, and it was clear by the look on your face that you were uninterested in having calamari.

“How about we split a salad instead?” Grayson pipes up, noticing your distaste for what Jessie offered. You nod, but before you can reply, Jessie is cutting in.

“Oh, you’re one of those guys. Gonna try and make her eat healthy for the baby and shit?” He chuckles, but the undertone of his comment is judgmental.

“No, bro. Salad can taste good. And I mean it doesn’t hurt to eat vegetables no matter who you are, but she’s an adult and can make her own decisions for herself.” They both turn to you, expectant of an answer.

“Salads good,” you murmur, feeling uncomfortable with the number of eyes on you waiting to hear your appetizer of choice.

Jessie rolls his eyes and Grayson has a triumphant look on his face. Suddenly, you stand, putting your menu and napkin on the table. “Gotta use the bathroom,” you excuse yourself, walking away and heading straight for the back of the restaurant. They were fighting over you and it was stupid because they were going to have to get along forever now. Hell, they’re supposed to be friends anyways.

You enter the bathroom and decide to actually go while you’re there, prolonging your stay as long as possible. You guys had an early reservation because of the game, so the restaurant and thankfully the bathroom weren’t packed. You had a moment to yourself while you stood in front of the mirror, watching yourself.

If you were to travel back in time and tell your junior year self you’d be here right now, old you would have laughed in your own face. Not only were you terrified of the fact that you were pregnant, but now some of the most important people in your life were basically fighting and it was over you. It felt lonely, like they didn’t actually care about how you felt like you were some prize they could win at the end of all this.

You decide you should probably leave the bathroom before they come looking for you thinking something is wrong, and when you step out you’re immediately slamming into someone’s chest.

“Sor-“ you stop when you see it’s Grayson, his arms coming to your biceps to brace you. “Sorry,” you manage to get out fully.

“I should be the one apologizing.” The frown is evident on his face as he doesn’t let go of you, bringing you to the side of the hallway so that people can still enter the bathroom.

“No Gray, it’s fine. I just wanna eat.” Your voice is defeated and Grayson can hear it, his heart breaking a bit knowing he played a role in it.

“It’s not fine, Y/N. Are you okay? You were in there a while.” You nod, still refusing to look him in the eye. “Please say it, gotta hear it. I was worried.”

“I’m okay, just needed a second to think,” you sigh out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to leave the table. I could just see you didn’t want calamari but I know you love appetizers and that you’ll probably get pasta and I already was gonna get a salad but obviously I’d wanna share with you so I just wanted to offer it-“

“Grayson.” He shuts up at that, not used to hearing his full name from you after the past few days. You finally meet his eyes, your face serious. “I want the salad, we can share the salad.” This seems to relax him a bit, but his grip is still tight on you, like he doesn’t want you to walk away again. “You and Jessie need to figure out whatever weird shit is going on between you, though because you guys are friends, for starters, and you’re both going to be involved in the baby’s life and I’m not letting my baby be exposed to some stupid ego competition. I hate not being treated like a human being”

Grayson sighs, letting go of your arms just to wrap them around you. He pulls you to his chest, his arms rubbing your back. You timidly accept his embrace, unable to deny yourself of the warmth you’ve missed since last night.

“You’re right, it’s all stupid. I don’t even know what it’s about. I obviously see you as a human being and want to treat you that way. I didn’t mean to make you feel like we don’t, you’re amazing and I was being selfish. I’m sorry we made you uncomfortable, please come back and eat salad or whatever you want, because you’re the one growing a baby so you get to pick-“

“Grayson.” He bites his lip, looking down at you expectantly. “I know I can eat whatever I want. So can we go back and order because I’m fucking hungry.” You smile up at him, rubbing his back. You decide that now isn’t the time to have the discussion you know is coming, you were literally in the hallway of a restaurant. Maybe tomorrow.

He nods, letting go of you so you can both start walking. When you get back to the table, Jessie has a sheepish smile on his face.

You determine it’s best to let him sit in his discomfort for a while because he should have known better. He was your fucking best friend, and he was swinging dicks with the father of your baby. They were both acting childish, and as much as you’d like the practice before you give birth, you don’t need it from them.

The server comes to take your drink orders, and Jessie is the only one who gets a beer. You look between Ethan and Grayson, the question on your face without the words leaving your lips.

“I didn’t drink a lot before, but it feels unfair for me to drink anything when you can’t. Everything’s a team effort,” Grayson explains, and you feel your heart rate pick up. That was something he was doing for you without even discussing it, you had no idea he’d been completely sober this whole time. You look to Ethan, waiting to hear his explanation.

“He’s my twin.” He motions to Grayson with his chin. “Plus, I don’t ever want to feel like I did after New Year’s Eve.” He visibly shudders and you giggle, remembering what Grayson had told you about his brother’s state the morning after you slept together.

“That’s cute guys, you don’t have to,” you say, but you all know you’re really talking to Grayson. You’re sure if Ethan wanted to drink he would, but Grayson is the one doing it for you.

“Okay but I’m definitely doing this with you because it’s one of the few things I can do, and you’re gonna let me.” Grayson’s arm falls on the back of your chair, his eyes unwavering from your face.

Before you can respond, the server is back with your drinks and is asking what you want to eat. You let them all order while you quickly skim the menu for the first time that night. You go for a dish you know and love, not wanting to try something new the baby won’t like when you’re about to go to a hockey game.

“So how into hockey are you? Am I gonna have to hold you back if the other team wins today?” Grayson tries to keep a straight face as he asks you, but the thought of you getting so into the game makes him want to laugh. You don’t come across as an aggressive person.

“Oh, she’s pretty chill with hockey. Don’t ever take her to a Giants game though, she thinks she’s a pro football player even though she’s never played a day in her life,” Jessie chuckles.

“Shut up, I’ve watched my whole life and you know I can throw a better spiral than you. You just hate that I embarrass you at all our tailgates,” you retaliate, the smile unhidden on your face.

“Alright, alright, let me live,” Jessie holds his hands up in fake surrender before sipping his beer.

“Well now I have to bring you to a football game,” Grayson laughs, curiosity written across his face.

“I don’t get that bad, I’m just a bit competitive,” you shrug. Jessie tries to hold back his laugh but fails, his amusement pushing past his teeth that held his bottom lip.

“You’re such a liar. You scare me when you’re competitive. And when you drive,” he explains.

“I drive efficiently, not aggressively. And I like to win,” you defend yourself, your lips in a pout.

“You just wait Gray, it’s like a whole other person,” Jessie jokes, his eyes not leaving you the whole time.

“I’m excited, like a girl with passion.”

“Thank you! That’s a good way to say it, yeah. I’m just passionate, Jess,” you exclaim, flipping Jessie off before putting your hand on Grayson’s thigh. You don’t even realize you’ve done it before your hand is on the fabric of his pants. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, so you leave it there.

“There’s no denying that,” his smile is genuine and before you can say anything, your salad is placed in front of Grayson.

“Ooh, I’m starving,” you mumble, leaning over to move the bowl to be between he both of you. Grayson doesn’t move at first, his eyes still on Jessie as he thinks about what he said. What did he mean? How does Jessie know you’re passionate? Is he overthinking this? 100%. Is he gonna be able to stop himself from thinking about it? No.

“How much dressing?” You ask him, which immediately pulls him from his thoughts, the domestic nature of the question tugging at his heart. It’s just a salad, but he likes that you’re gonna eat it together.

“However much you want,” he smiles at you and watches you pour some dressing over your salad. He was happy to be the reason you were happy, even if it was just because he got you food. You a woman of simple wants.

He starts eating as well, so that you don’t get creeped out from him watching you eat. He’s keeping his cool, not overwhelming you. Maybe that’s why breakfast in bed was interrupted, it would have scared you or something.

Unfortunately, the salad doesn’t last as long as you want it to and it definitely doesn’t satiate you. Luckily for you, the entrees came out soon after and you’re able to finally have your first real meal of the day. It was good, and you all were able to get along and have a good time throughout the whole thing.

“We gotta go if we wanna be on time,” Ethan says after you all had finished eating. You nod standing and getting your jacket back on. Grayson had refused to let you pay for your food (again), so the check had already been covered. You could feel your excitement slowly building inside of you. You loved sports events like this, the energy was incredible and it made you feel like you could just have fun and put your energy into something different than normal.

They were always something you did with your family when you were younger, but they stopped bringing you as you got older. It made you sad, it was one of the few things everyone made time for, but even that became less important than whatever everyone else had going on in their lives. Grayson didn’t even know that part, in fact he knew very little about your family. You hadn’t even told your parents you were pregnant yet, and you didn’t want to explain why to him. So you do your best to talk about them as little as possible. The only thing you had told him is that you used to go a lot as a kid when he asked what teams you supported after the super bowl.

“Ready for the game?” Grayson asks as you walk into MSG, his hand on your hip. The crowd was large as everyone chatted with excitement and he was scared of losing you.

You nod eagerly, smiling at him. “Of course I am. The question is are you ready to experience watching hockey with me?”

He laughs, squeezing your hip. “Of course. Who knows, maybe this will be our thing. We can bring strawberry to games, too.” His free hand goes to your stomach and you feel like you could melt into the escalator. It’s like he always knew what to say even though you hadn’t told him what it means to be here with him now and what it would mean to come with your new family together.

“That would be really nice,” you breathe out, and the emotion is clear in your voice. His brows draw together in concern as he picks up on it immediately.

“What?”

You giggle, sniffling and looking away from him. You refuse to cry right now, not when everything feels good. “Nothing. You just always manage to say the right thing. It would be really nice to do this all with our baby.”

Grayson decides before he gets all mushy to just give you a kiss on the cheek. He could feel the other two watching you and didn’t think it was appropriate to act all couply in public. Especially when he had no idea what you were.

You made that especially difficult when you were watching the game, however, because he thought it was the cutest thing ever. You were animated and excited the whole time, and Jessie had been right you got way too into it, acting like you were a literal hockey player. He couldn’t imagine what you watching football was like if this was your tame self. But he found it endearing that you could get so into something that at the end of the day was just some fun. He admired that about you, how you let yourself have fun. Most people didn’t let themselves do that anymore.

He even let himself have fun too. When you’d grab him and stand, he’d stand with you. He even went so crazy as to share a soda with you even though it wasn’t Sunday. He didn’t care though because the soda made you happy and it tasted really good.

And you really were having a good time. You were in a good section, everyone was super invested in the game and would shout with you. Ethan and Jessie would follow suit, chanting when they were supposed to and booing when the other team scored. It made you feel so much better after your afternoon with them. Maybe it was because you could finally sit next to Grayson and Jessie at the same time, and they were separated by you so they didn’t really talk, but you didn’t care. It felt normal again. Jessie was your best friend and Grayson was, well, your Grayson. Whatever that meant.

All too soon, though, the fun was over. The game ended (the Rangers won thank god, or else the journey home would have been way sadder than it needed to be), and soon you were following the flock of people out of the arena. As he had done all day, Grayson put his arm around you to keep you close. However, the crowd was more intense than it had been earlier, so you held onto Jessie’s hand as well as he held Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan was leading you all, trying to get you out as quick as possible so that you could get to the train station and get home.

Once you get outside, you feel instant relief, the air no less humid or polluted but somehow still refreshing. You’re able to slow down a bit as you let go of Jessie. Grayson keeps his grip on you, which doesn’t surprise you. Not with how he’s been acting all day since you got here.

“So you and Jessie are good again?” You ask him as you walk, making sure the other two are far enough ahead of you so that they don’t hear your conversation.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, I realized how stupid I was acting. I haven’t spoken to him about it or anything, but I never wanna do anything that would upset you like that. Even if I have to put my ego aside,” he chuckles.

“Well I appreciate it either way, I can talk to him tomorrow if you want. Sometimes I truly don’t understand men,” you shake your head, a joking smirk on your face anyways.

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him. Isn’t the first time we’ve done this whole dance.” You raise your brows, looking for more. “You know, the whole fighting over a girl thing. We unfortunately have similar taste in women.”

You nod, digesting everything he said and even more trying to understand what he meant with what he said. Not only was he implying that he would fight for you because he wanted you, but he also thought Jessie was fighting for you.

“Wait what? What do you mean?” You’d rather know what he’s thinking than assume, that’s gotten you nowhere today.

“In middle school we liked the same girl and I even was able to get her on a date first but I blew her off to make vines, so I kinda fucked that one up.” He laughs at the memory, enjoying the thoughts of his middle school life.

“You think you’re fighting over me like that?”

“What other way is there to fight over you?” He asks, genuinely curious.

“I don’t know, just for my attention. Jessie and I aren’t like that, that ship sailed before it even docked.” You look at Jessie’s back, questioning if what you said was the truth.

“Y/N,” he laughs, his body literally shaking against you. “I’m like 85% sure he’s in love with you. Eh, more like 95% sure. I was pretty sure you were in love with him too this morning.” The frown on his face was prominent as he thinks about how you brushed him off at breakfast.

“He is not, you liar. And I am definitely not in love with him. He’s like a little brother to me, sometimes even like a son when he’s really drunk. And this morning I was…” He bites his lip, waiting to hear what you have to say.  “I was just sad at you,” you huff, almost like a child. If they get to throw a fit then so do you.

“Sad at me? Why? Is that even possible, what does it mean to be sad at someone?” You can tell he’s truly trying to figure out what you were saying.

“When I woke up you weren’t there. Again. And I just thought you would be this time,” you try to sound as casual as possible so he can’t see the genuine disappointment on your face.

“Oh my god,” he giggles, gripping your hand that was right in front of him, kissing the back of it. “I was planning on bringing you breakfast in bed before Jessie came, but he got there early and you don’t even like pancakes right now and then they ate them all instead.”

Your cheeks flush as he tells his story, the reality of the situation hitting you. It makes sense with how he acted the rest of the day, back to his usual self. Now you felt bad for assuming he’d done that to you when he knew he wasn’t that person.

“What, you think I one and done-d you again?” He laughs at his own joke, but stops when he realizes you’re not laughing. “Y/N, I wouldn’t do that. Not again at least. I regretted doing it the first time before I knew you were pregnant. I stayed the whole night, and I promise to do it again tonight.”

“Oh you think you’re getting into my pants again tonight?” He’s grateful for your humor coming back, his shoulders relaxing. He didn’t want to hurt your feelings.

“No, just meant I’d cuddle you all night if you’ll let me. Not that I’d complain if there were no pants.”

Your giggles are cut off by Jessie. “Can I talk to you, Y/N?”

Read the next part here!

[furidojasutin]

Title: Demon’s Cove

Pairing: Fraxus (Freed x Laxus)

Universe: Modern AU

Rating: K+

a/n: Fraxus Week, Day 1 - He likes guys. I guess I simply like the idea of Club/Coffee Shop/etc. AUs. I also enjoy either Laxus or Freed having a brotp with Mira and Cana. And I also like having more content of Laxus POV about Freed around, so that’s what I do. I hope you guys enjoy it!!

He always needed a few moments to adjust when he entered the building. From the outside it was a weird but appealing mixture of classy and shady. Or perhaps it was just his own odd taste that classified the look of the building as 'appealing'. Then again, attendances and the overall success of this place entirely spoke for themselves.

The 'Demon's Cove' was a damn popular destination for various night-life activities.

Right after setting foot in the main hall there was an influx of effects. He was right there by the dance floor, neon lights of different colors tinting the area and moving along of the beat of the music. It was loud and drumming on his ears and he knew it would only be a matter of time until his hearing would be duller. The music that the DJ was playing right now wasn't his favorite genre, but it wasn't horrible either. And really, he didn't come here for the music or dancing in the first place.

If he thought about it, it was odd enough that a place with so many people and such a boisterous energy had become one of his favorite places to distract himself at and, occasionally, even relax. Huh.

Laxus didn't linger in the main dancing area for long and instead began to slither through the crowd of people. It wasn't exactly an easy task for a man of broad stature and with people crowded even on the sidelines, but he was kind of used to it by now and could manage. It still wasn't comfortable and he didn't like doing it, but he could handle it better by now. The accidental random touches, dancing bodies, loud and chaotic people.

Yea... it was really odd that he would choose such a place for his free time, voluntarily.

Sweat and alcohol wafted off the people near him and he crinkled his nose at the invasive scent. He would get used to it while being and staying here, and he also fully planned on having the one or other drink for himself.

Once he reached the bar, he immediately spotted the familiar faces that he had come here for. Working here meant busy shifts, a high stress level and exhausting people. And damaged ears, probably, honestly. It meant little free time. That's why he would often come here on Friday or Saturday evening; to visit some of his friends and catch up on some stuff that happened, have the one or other conversation or just listen while he had his drinks. He was really more of a listener than a talker, really.

“Hey, man!” A tall girl with wavy brown hair strutted towards him, a wide grin on her face.

“Cana, what's up,” he greeted back casually, lips barely giving away the hint of a grin in return. Cana Alberona. She had been one of his longest friends and they still had a good bond with one another. They had also been through some shitty stuff together... Her alcohol problem had been one thing. She had made quite some progress and usually, logically one might argue that she absolutely shouldn't be working at a place like this if she wanted to see progress with her addiction. Oddly enough though, working here gave her less time to drink and helped her get a more healthy connection to alcohol. Huh.

Thinking about this kinda stuff gave Laxus the feeling that this night club was some special place for real.

“Been pretty busy.” She handed two shot glasses over to two guys who were laughing loudly before she walked away from behind the bar and towards him instead. They shared a fist-bump and then she brushed some stray strands of thick hair out of her face. Pearls of sweat were on her forehead. “You missed Bixlow, he stopped by here for an hour or so. Said he had some shit to finish until tomorrow so he couldn't stay long.”

Ah, right. “Yea, told me somethin' like that, too. I think it was something for his theater performance.”

“Sounds about right,” Cana agreed with a small nod.”Will you go see it?”

“The play?” Laxus raised a brow.

“No, his stripping performance,” she retorted and then elbowed him in a friendly manner when Laxus gave a gruff huff. “Of course I mean the play.”

“I guess.” He would. He just felt like, for some stupid reason, he couldn't seem all too excited about it. Display of feelings had never been his strong suite anyway.

“He did invite all of us, huh? Anyway, bet it's gonna be awesome. Should be good entertainment. Bix has a fun taste.”

She definitely had a point. Knowing Bixlow, this wouldn't be some boring, old-fashioned play. Theater wasn't exactly his thing but Laxus truly didn't believe that it was gonna be all too horrible to experience.

Cana's eyes darted around the hall, then back to the bar and then to Laxus again. Apparently there was more to take care of. “Say hi to Mira, I bet she's happy to see and talk to you. She's on the other side of the bar.”

With a bump to his shoulder she left his side to pursue her work.

He didn't really know the other three bartenders he spotted on this side of the bar and they seemed distracted anyway. He kept walking around the large, round bar until he spotted the familiar head of white hair.

Much like Cana predicted, Mira's face lit up the second she spotted him. “Laxus,” she practically beamed and waved him over to her after handing two freshly mixed cocktails to a girl and a guy. “I didn't expect you here tonight.”

She was clearly happy to see him, though, and sometimes Laxus wondered how he had even managed to make solid acquaintances or even friends, and such great ones, too. “Yea, had some stuff to take care of,” he explained curtly once he stood in front of her with the bar counter between the two of them. He didn't have to shout here at least, and the neon lights didn't reach this area as strongly. All in all the bar was definitely the more complacent area.

“I see,” she replied and the smile didn't leave her face. “So, what can I get you to drink?”

“I take the usual.”

“The usual it is. And it's good to see you,” Mira added swiftly and then proceeded to prepare his drink.

Mirajane Strauss. She was a romantic and a dreamer... and an aspiring singer. Her voice really was something. But the rational part of her had made sure that she had a secure income, so she finished an education first and had now been working at the Demon's Cove for a year.

Somewhere in the crowd he saw Cana slithering through the people with a tray in her hand and it was so much more skillful than what he would ever be able to do in that regard. Hibiki as well as Eve and Ren and Jenny seemed to be off duty today. And...

“Loke not here today or is he turning innocent people's heads again?”

Loke was probably the biggest flirt he knew and for a long time he just hadn't been able to become comfortable with the ginger. Laxus had learned that he was actually a genuinely good guy, but they would never become best friends, he didn't think.

Mira seemingly hadn't heard him and when he turned his head back towards her she was talking to another customer. His drink was almost ready, though.

Then the next moment happened and if Laxus was to give that very moment a title, then it would get the title 'doom'. How very fitting, wasn't it? He was in the Demon's Cove, after all.

A new guy walked into the picture and his presence immediately caught Laxus' attention. Not very subtly, too. For this entire moment, he found himself unable to rip his orange gaze off this other man. His brain turned off, all noise disappeared into the background. He had never been a fan of clichés and sappy shit... and he had never thought that he of all people would become victim of such a cliché moment. Him. Laxus Dreyar. Staring like some teenage boy.

The moment was over and Laxus blinked once before his expression instantly turned into a frown. Thick but defined eyebrows drew together and he looked over towards Mirajane who was thankfully handing him the drink now. He noticed that he wanted to catch another glimpse of the other bartender again.

He thought he was in full control of himself again and absolutely didn't notice Mira's sneaky, knowing smile.

“So...,” Laxus began, making his best effort to sound as disinterested and casual as possible. “Who's your new Incubus, huh?”

Mira chuckled at that and he really didn't understand what was so funny now. Deciding that she had a moment, she rested her elbows on the counter and leaned in a bit so Laxus could hear her better. “Oh? Do you mean him?”

She nodded towards the man and he just knew that she wanted him to look at him again. Thus, he just grumbled and made a vague, annoyed gesture with his hand. “Yea, Yea. Him.”

“That's Freed.” At least she was really answering now, without more teasing. “Loke will be busy with some traveling for two weeks, so Freed will help us out during that time. He has worked at a bar before and,” She paused. For a split-second there was a spark in her blue eyes. “He's quite popular among our customers.”

“Uh-huh.”

Laxus wasn't sure what else to answer. He wasn't dumb and not oblivious (most of the time) but he had now noticed the little change in Mirajane's behavior and he knew exactly what she was doing.

The thing is, she was right to do so. Because apparently he was already feeling some kind of interest towards that guy, Freed, without even knowing him.

And when he dared to look over a second time, just a quick once-over, he noticed the group of three women practically hanging on his every word. He couldn't hear what they were talking about and he couldn't be sure if that absolutely charming, smirky-like smile on the man's face was real or fake, but... Damn.

It made him feel things and he didn't exactly like it.

Before he could think twice he had already downed half of his drink. It was great but his mind was suddenly too occupied to really enjoy its taste.

“Do you want me to introduce you to him?” Mira rested her chin on her folded hands.

He absolutely didn't like her look and his frown only deepened. He knew he would have to be careful what to say if he didn't want to catapult himself deeper into this situation and Mirajane's possible teasing, so all he did was to glare at her.

Of course it didn't faze her. At all. But he still felt good doing it.

It quickly turned out that 'doom' had been a fitting title for that moment, though, and Laxus was... conflicted. Because suddenly, Freed was near by.

When had he left the bar? When had he walked towards him? Shit, he'd been too occupied with Mira and now she got what she wanted anyway.

Or maybe he wanted this too?

Fuck.

Either way, it didn't look like Freed actually wanted to walk towards him. He was just about to walk past him when Mira beckoned him to stop.

“Freed, wait a second!”

The addressed man turned his head towards Mira's shouting voice and blinked once. Then his gaze landed on Laxus for a brief moment and he demonstratively looked away and grabbed his drink.

Wow, very mature.

“That's Laxus, a good friend of mine,” Mira started to introduce and smiled. Laxus wanted to curse her right then.

Freed's attention was back on him again and he stubbornly took another sip of his drink. It didn't seem to unnerve the bartender.

“Laxus? Well then, it's nice to meet you. Mirajane has told me a lot about you.” His voice was deep and smooth. It was nice to listen to and Laxus almost hadn't heard the second part. Almost.

He threw a small glare at his friend. Told him about him? Did she now?

But much as expected, Mira only smiled.

And Freed was still waiting for a response.

“Uh, yea. Nice to meet you, too.”

He was half tempted to ask what Mira had told him but then decided that he probably didn't really want to know.

Freed was just acknowledging that with a nod and a smile and apparently he was ready to pursue his work again when suddenly somebody bumped into Laxus from behind. The impact was so hard that he stumbled forward against Freed and... spilled the rest of his drink on his white dress shirt.

“What the hell?!” Mira's eyes had gone wide and Freed jumped back in surprise. There was a lot going on in that scene. Somebody was frantically apologizing and then disappearing into the crowd, Freed was cursing under his breath for a moment and Laxus was cursing as well. With his voice. In his mind. He wanted to curse everything. “Fuck!” He shouted and then looked over at the bartender.

After Freed had released his own quick series of cuss words, he was seeming very calm and actually not bothered so much. Perhaps this kind of thing happened often. It didn't make Laxus feel better for spilling his own fucking drink on the man that worked here, was an acquaintance of Mira and the man he was apparently interested in.

He hadn't dared to look before, but now he kind of had an excuse. The white-dress shirt was hugging Freed's body very nicely. The sleeves were rolled up exposing his forearms, he could see arm muscles play under the fabric and overall he looked like a fit and healthy guy. Two buttons were loose. His long, striking hair was tied up into a ponytail and it suited him perfectly. Bangs covered one of his eyes, the other had an intense, light-blue color. There was a mole under it, as well. He was attractive.

That man was hot.

And Laxus probably owed him an apology now. Or did he? Before he even got the chance to say something, Freed was already waving him off.

“It's fine, don't worry. It's not the first time that this happened, after all.” He gave a soft huff as he tugged at his drained shirt but when he looked up there was an assertive, reassuring look in his eye that made Laxus believe that it was fine.

Mira mumbled agreement and Laxus handed over the now empty glass. What a waste.

“I'll go to the bathroom to wash some of it out and then I'll be back as fast as possible,” Freed announced and Mirajane didn't hesitate to give her agreement. He gave both Laxus and Mirajane a nod before already turning around and making his way through the laughing, discussing, drinking, dancing people.

Well, if that wasn't absolutely shitty.

Doom.

Perhaps he should just go home again.

To Laxus' surprise there was a small frown on Mira's face now and he felt a comforting touch of her small hand against his shoulder. “It's like he said, this happens all the time and it wasn't your fault.”

With a snort, he was quick to retort and avoid her gaze, “Don't be ridiculous, I don't care.”

Mira removed her hand and was suddenly out of his sight. He couldn't hear her rustle over all the other, much louder sounds so he was more than a little surprised when she popped back up in front of the counter and had a navy blue dress shirt in her hand. She practically forced the clothing into his hand and gave him a firm squeeze. “I have to keep working. Bring this over to the staff bathroom so he can change.”

He looked at the fabric in his hand, then back up. He really wasn't sure about this. Narrowing his eyes, he studied her face. “You want me to give the shirt to Freed?”

“Yes. It will be more comfortable for him to wear a clean shirt rather than the ruined one, don't you think?”

Clearly, he couldn't argue with that logic. Was it coincidence that they had a spare shirt behind the bar? Did they have multiple ones and Freed just didn't know about it?

One way or another, Laxus knew that he wasn't going to decline. With a remaining spark of undefined resentment he shifted and was about to make his way to the staff bathroom where Freed would be. Fortunately, he had been there once before so he knew exactly where to go. And his known presence wouldn't raise any questions as to why he was entering it. Having friends here did have its perks.

Before he was out of earshot, however, Mira threw a couple of final words at him.

“Oh, and he likes guys, by the way.”

Laxus stopped in his movement abruptly. He hadn't wanted to because that meant Mira would know that he had heard him. Clearly. He refused to turn around, refused to look at her.

But these words undeniably did something to him.

He likes guys...

So entertaining the group of women with his charming smirk had only been part of his job, too, right?

And Mira had introduced him to one another.

He had spilled his drink on the man's shirt and he was now going to supply him with a dry shirt to change into.

His thoughts were a mess but he was moving again. Hopefully, none of those thoughts would show on his face when he entered.

Admittedly, not much of that hope was left when he joined Freed in the bathroom, explained why he was here and handed the new shirt to him.

Because not only did Freed seem much more content with that solution and thanked him for the piece of clothing, but he also started unbuttoning the wet shirt immediately and slipped out of it, revealing his bare torso, and Laxus discovered that he had been correct about the earlier impression that this man seemed quite fit.

He was doomed.

[thesaltyace]

big rant/ramble below, you can safely ignore and move on to the next post in your feed.

Urgh

I shared the results of that autism screener with a quasi-friend who I thought would be "safe" (we used to work together and we connected over his being gay and me being visibly queer) but his response was blergh

Everyone has hints of autism.

okay yeah but this isn't just *hints* of autism. I'm answered yes to symptoms I've had since I was a kid that I've learned to mask or work around as an adult. But I still struggle with them.

He pointed out that he sees me as more ADHD than ASD.

Yeah, fair, and I'd need to see a professional to try to distinguish if my symptoms are ADHD, ASD, or both.

You don't hit the three prongs needed for a diagnosis.

But.... but I do. And the stuff I dealt with as a kid is still stuff I deal with today. I just mask it better. A short and not exhaustive list:

As I kid I had trouble interacting with peers. I didn't have friends, really. I didn't know how to make friends and I didn't try terribly hard to. I acquire friends when someone else "adopts" me and decides that we are friends. And once I became an adult, I have almost never had friends of my own - I share a friend group with my spouse who we're primary connected to through him. I'm okay with that. Maintaining a friendship entirely on my own power sounds impossible and exhausting.

I was okay with not having friends, I liked being alone, but my mom insisted on me being social. She made me join things so that I would have a list of people to invite to parties. I'd honestly have preferred a day of doing stuff I like or just a couple friends. As an adult, I want to be alone on my birthday. I will celebrate with certain friends, separately, usually over a quiet meal. That's it.

I had trouble understanding sarcasm and figurative speech. Like, I understand it now but I still think most figurative speech is annoying. I've been told the way I deliver sarcasm is weird, too.

I liked memorizing movies and quoting them start to finish, I thought it was fun but everyone else thought it was weird. I continued to do this into adulthood but I only quote aloud when I'm alone. Alamo Drafthouse quote-alongs are the BEST. I don't do this with every movie, either, just ones I really like.

Okay actually I also liked to listen to the same album or, in some cases, the same song over and over until I was sick of it (and sometimes even after that point). I mean, just endlessly looping on repeat. Not interspersed with other songs. I do this as an adult a LOT because it's easier with headphones to do this without annoying everyone else around you. Like, often it's fine for me to just put a playlist on shuffle, but I get into Moods where I just want the one album/song over and over. Yesterday I listened to Wellerman about 50 times in a row and only stopped because I had to get up and do something else and that song wasn't "good" for whatever I got up to do.

My special interest as a kid was cats. Literally everything cats, all the time - I sought out obscure facts and could tell you the difference between similar species, and wanted cats involved in literally everything I did. Adults laughed it off as childhood obsession. I was also pretty obsessed with the solar system. I thought asking my peers, as a trivia question, which of Jupiter's moons had its own asteroid (Io, in case you were wondering) was appropriate and interesting and was confused that they didn't know that. That was in fifth grade.

I watched the weather channel for fun. I would watch it for hours and absorb the weekly forecast info just... for fun? I never used it, could never tell you if you should dress a certain way or bring an umbrella or whatever. Everyone thought it was weird.

I was a know-it-all and literally could not stop myself from bluntly correcting people who were wrong. Didn't know or care that it was "rude". I'm still that way but I've learned how to sometimes swallow the urge long enough to find a more tactful way to point it out (but often fail).

I could read on my own before kindergarten, used vocabulary beyond what one would expect for my age, and had a special interest in spelling and grammar throughout my school years. I did not understand how other people weren't interested in learning about it and getting it right. I read at an undergrad level by 4th grade.

I hated loud noises and often covered my ears to block out irritating sounds. I could also hear high pitched noises that even other kids didn't seem to hear (or at least weren't bothered by them). Too much noise sent me into an internal meltdown, I'd just kinda shut down because I couldn't deal with it.

Textures and pressure on my skin bothered the absolute fuck out of me - sock seams, certain fabric materials, socks that weren't equally elastic, one shoe tighter than the other, tags.... all of that. (Also, fun anecdote I just unlocked - when I was 4 or 5 my grandmother started letting me use the soft silk sleep shirt she had as a young woman because I preferred it to anything else. Soft, smooth, no irritating qualities. Bliss. I wanted to wear it all the time.)

Don't get me started on food. Until I was in COLLEGE I mostly subsisted on pasta with either butter or alfredo sauce and chicken. I would eat other things, but pasta and/or chicken was (and still is) my biggest safe/comfort food. I'd eat other stuff mostly if I could control the balance of ingredients, get it made plain, or could confirm the texture wouldn't be offensive (so, like... plain burgers, plain cheese pizza, grilled cheese, mashed potatoes, etc.) I cannot stress this enough - from childhood through COLLEGE I did this. As a kid my mom had to make me a completely separate dish most nights to get me to eat something. My spouse was horrified at what little variety I ate. The only reason I eat so much variety now is that he knows what I do/don't like and tells me in advance if I'll find a texture or taste offensive. Of course, rather than wanting consistent texture like I did when I was younger, I now seek as much texture as possible (so long as they aren't Bad textures) so.... that's fun. But yeah most of my objections to Yucky foods is due to T E X T U R E. Even if I like the taste, the texture overrides it all.

I prefer animals to people. I will seek out animals and interact with them instead of people in the same room. And will pointedly focus on the animal to avoid interacting with people.

I'm perfectly happy with only myself for company. Being with just my spouse counts as me being "alone" though. Always has. I just realized last night that it's because I do minimal to no masking around him because he's a safe person to unmask with and always has been. Never batted an eye at the weird shit I do beyond asking questions about what I was doing or why. And then just "Okay."

Okay honestly just the fact that I want to vent into the void of tumblr instead of actually discussing this with a person - even my spouse! - pretty effectively shows how little it occurs to me to interact with other people directly. o_0

And there are so many more things that I won't list here because I could just go on and on. And like, sure, some of this may certainly overlap with ADHD but my point is that I have enough to point to ASD that it doesn't feel like having a "hint" of autism. And who knows - maybe it is mostly just ADHD and CPTSD stuff interacting in weird ways. Could be!

But just because I can make small talk and make eye contact and do the "normal" shit and I can interact "normally" doesn't mean I LIKE it. I had to LEARN to do those things to avoid having bad social interactions. When I'm by myself or with my spouse, I behave very differently than I do around anyone else. ANYONE. It's not just slightly changing my behavior depending on who I'm with - it's completely suppressing how I naturally would do things if left to my own devices.

Like, the things we recommended to our autistic students who wanted to know how to interact in ways that would help them blend in/be accepted by others ARE THE EXACT THINGS I ALREADY DO. Like, it did not occur to me at the time that neurotypicals literally do not have to think about doing those things. I thought, ah, these students just need to be told what the tricks are. Other people figure these tricks out on their own. It did not occur to me that other people, in fact, do not learn these tricks because they naturally do that behavior. They do not have to actively think about learning the trick, period. I literally thought other people also have to think as hard as I do about interactions. Evidently not.

So yeah, I'm feeling a little upset about the reaction I got from him because I'm like.... honestly, a diagnosis of ASD wouldn't change a lot about how I do things or think of things. But it would make me feel better about interacting with and participating in autism-related stuff if I am actually autistic. I realize I can use the resources and supports meant for ASD regardless, and for formal supports anything I can access due to my ADHD diagnosis likely covers anything I'd need for ASD. But having a diagnosis opens up more community. Right now I'm like yeah I'm ADHD but I totally relate to this ASD content. But I'm not going to interact much because I feel like I don't have the right to join in since idk if I do have ASD.

idk I have a lot of feelings. I had a bad email about the trans insurance coverage thing yesterday and I'm not in a great headspace, but finding out me and my spouse both scored very high on the autism screening stuff was honestly a high point because we ended up sharing a lot of how we view and interact with the world that was very eye-opening about why we interact the way we do, how we relate to others (and how other people think we're weird for how we relate to others), and just...everything. And having someone be skeptical after I've spent a lot of time trying to convince myself that I DON'T have ASD only to conclude that at the very least, I should probably be evaluated because I can't reasonably rule it out. Like, most people do not wonder if they have autism. The fact that I am spending this much time looking into it and trying to find examples to disprove it only to find I overwhelmingly can't in virtually every single diagnostic category.... just..... dismissing it outright is kinda hurtful.

Like, I recognize that ADHD symptoms overlap a fair bit, but seriously. My spouse (who definitively does not have ADHD) scored almost identically to me and we vibed on almost everything when we compared answers. We see most things similarly. We have similar areas of confusion about other people and for fundamentally similar reasons. I can't imagine all of the stuff that points to ASD for me is just ADHD in disguise, not when I vibe THAT HARD with someone else. Spouse does not vibe with me on ADHD content. At all. He can appreciate it since he does live with me, after all, and observes whatever's being discussed. But he doesn't vibe with it. He vibes with autism content, though. And I vibe with both.

idk this rant ended in rambling and I'm just going to go listen to Inside on repeat for a couple hours while I try to calm down a bit. o_0