#love to tap into that vicious angry al

[damnedrainbows]

soooo any valentinos and voxes and maybe velvette’s (but DEFINITELY VOX AND VAL) volunteer to be interrogated by the radio demon for daring to injure husk in regard to mine and @top-shelf-tender ‘s thing?

in what promises to be a very brutal thread? 😏

I may write this man softer with his friends but oh boy. he is still very evil

[sp00kworm]

Who needs lights?

Pairing: Durzub (Goth Male Orc) x Gender Neutral Reader

Warning: Suggestive Themes

This wonderful piece is based off a very lovely OC by @of-devils-and-drawings. Durzub belongs to her and I adored him too much not to make this for him. I’m a sucker for anything scary and/or orc.... and/or metal....and/or goth. 

---

You’d always found a little bit of comfort being in the alternative scene, even when others stared and watched in the street as you went past, going about your business, bundled in black layers or flares and platforms. It was something unique and different and it was very much a part of your life. The bars were always better places too. You laughed at the bar at your friend as the bar tender tied his platinum, lilac streaked hair back and started to mix the cocktail for the jug. It was easier to order in large pitchers and watch the band playing from the platform the bar was on. You watched the alcohol mix as the Fae grinned at you, revealing incredibly dangerous, sharp teeth and placed two straws into the jug before sliding it closer to the two of you.

You paid for it before laughing and turning a straw to the Faun, “To our health! Well, and my new job!” You cheered.

“Oh, for sure, finally you’re not broke and can pay for drinks!” She jeered as she pursed her lips and leaned down to take a few long sips, “Jesus Christ, Flix!” She coughed, “You trying to get us drunk and make us easy, or something?”

Flix rolled his eyes as he flipped a cocktail shaker over and caught it, “You wish Pip. You two haven’t ever been my type.” He snorted as his lilac, gossamer wings fluttered behind his back in irritation. He laid his burning black eyes on a group in the corner, “Though, I like the look of those troublemakers.” A claw raised to point at the group of Orcs who were gathered in the corner.

 Pip’s brown ears flicked before her hooves clicked against the black floor, the sparkly tiles reflecting the strobes from the stage. She grinned and flicked at the ring in her nose, her shaggy black hair flopping back over her dark eyes, “Oh,” She purred, “I didn’t know you were into the rowdy muscle-head sort.”

Flix flipped the cocktail again before giving her the middle finger and moving to serve the cocktail to a woman who had just come out of the crowd watching the band.

“Who are they?” You asked after taking a long drink of the cocktail, “I haven’t seen them here before?” You looked over at the group again before realising how perfectly they fit in here in the bar. All were dressed in a variety of fashion, from heavy leather, to chains, to netting. Others donned fancier items with flowing sleeves and long, tailored skirts and trousers. The majority were green in skin tone, but you looked at a few lighter coloured, grey toned orcs with interest as they were from the mountainous regions of the old country.

Pip clicked her tongue, “Muscle heads and trouble, the lot of them.” She took another few drinks before hopping back onto her bar stool and adjusting her net top over her ripped shirt. Around her waist was a thick leather belt, the studs dripping with thin metal chains that hung around her furry hips, “They come to shows like this and usually start fights.” She commented off-handedly.

 With a frown, you looked from her, to the group again, “They just seem to be drinking and watching?” You commented.

Pip snorted a short bleat again, “Yeah, wait until this gig really kicks off, then you’ll see what I mean. Last time I was here with them one of them decided it would be a great idea to upturn tables, and by that, I mean, upturn my drinks over my new dress.” She hissed venomously, “They’re assholes, the lot of them.”

“They don’t look like it…” You uttered as one of the Orcs stood from the group and dragged his friend up with him to get drinks. The rest of them hollered their orders before some of the group split off to join the crowd watching the band.

“Oh great. Here they come!” Pip cheered before moving two seats down and dragging you along with her.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Pip.” Flix commented with a hiss and flutter of his wings, “They’re all lookers, I don’t see why you can’t look past that.” He shrugged his shoulders before smiling at the two male orcs at the bar, “What can I do for you two handsome fellas?” His eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings at them and you snickered at the scent of lilac flowers that drifted from him like a thick perfume.

 “Come on, Flix. Lay off it for one night will ya!” One of the orcs laughed before he elbowed his friend, “This guy’s new here. Don’t go scaring him off already. You lot need our custom.” The orc leaned back and scrubbed at his mohawk, adjusting his heavy cargo trousers. Fabric belts hung between the legs and down them and he wore a heavy half tartan kilt over the top. His face was littered with piercings and you could see why he looked like the sort to be causing problems.

“You know I love you all equally, Xurek.” Flix laughed, “But I was more excited for your lady friend over there. She’s new too huh?”

“Jesus, you never give up! Anyway,” Xurek took the other orc around the neck, “This is Durzub. He’s new in town. Just moved in from out from the sticks. He might look like a foul piece of work, but you’ve met Rakuh, so he’s not as scary.” Xurek laughed before he let the darker skinned orc go. The other male reached up to brush his black hair from his eyes. Most of his long black hair was braided in tight long threads, the braids sequenced with small beads along them with the rest straight and hanging over his shoulder beneath the wide brim of a black hat, emblazoned with a silver trim around the base. He turned, dressed in a black long shirt and coat, the end trailing behind him as he ducked out of Xurek’s grasp, brown eyes angry.

 Durzub snorted and tossed his head, the braids sliding back out of his way over his shoulder before he reached up to move his tangled chains from the ends of his hair, the necklaces hanging with silver teeth, “Will you stop dragging me around like a child, Xurek!” He snorted as he dragged his arm out of Xurek’s grasp and adjusted his hat again before sighing and taking it off, “Any way I could get you to store this behind the bar for me? Its new and these lot have a habit of throwing beer the later it gets.”

Flix fluttered his eyelashes again, “Sure thing, sweetheart.” He took the hat and turned around to hang it near the aprons, “Just grab me before closing and I’ll get it you.”

“Thank you.” Durzub rumbled before pulling his hair back again, tucking the straight length on his left side behind his ear, revealing rings of silver and studs of obsidian, which matched the rings, linked by a chain, on each of his short tusks.

“Don’t be nice to him, Durzub, he’ll eat you alive given the opportunity.” Xurek snickered behind his hand as he flapped his band shirt, trying to cool himself down, “His family ate children back in the day.”

“That was five hundred years ago!” Flix scoffed as he slammed two, pint glasses down on the bar, “So, was it two ales or two lagers?”

“We were thinking mead actually.” Xurek stuck his pierced tongue out before he played with the bar, “And not that piss water Weldrick buys for the goblins!” Flix ignored him and turned for the taps down the other end of the bar.

 Pip scoffed at the exchange, but you found your mouth opening at the sight of the long-haired orc and his scowl. He watched Flix’s wings before he turned away from Xurek’s chattering and pushed his hand over his mouth. You watched the exchange as Xurek stuck his tongue between the other’s fingers and couldn’t help but laugh loudly as Durzub cringed and recoiled.

“You’re fuckin’ disgusting.” Durzub rolled his eye and took a napkin from the holder to wipe the spit from his fingers and the skull rings which sat above his knuckles.

“Mmm, you taste like fresh meat.” Xurek hissed like a comically bad vampire, and you laughed again, but this time louder. It was loud enough that the two orcs looked down the bar to where you and Pip were sat with your cocktail jug.

“Well done! Now we have their attention.” Pip hissed in your ear before she kicked at your chair with one shoed hoof, clanking the metal with a vicious bang.

Xurek’s smile made you regret everything, as you watched his gaze shift from your face to the larger orc stood next to him, “Looks like we have an audience, Durzub.”

 The other male turned slightly on one heel, looking at you both with a raised eyebrow, looking over the two of you perched at the end of the bar, “Don’t mind this freak. He’s got a way of making everyone hate him.”

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ cold!” Xurek hissed at him, “After I introduce you to those bands too!”

Durzub rolled his eyes again as Xurek slinked around him to laze across the bar on one arm, his head propped up on his fist, “Bands which have given me nothing but persistent headaches.”

“Headaches but three magazine features!” Xurek wound his middle finger up before he smiled at the two of you again, “Ignore him. He was castrated at birth.” The statement earned him another gruff noise from Durzub.

“We don’t want your attention, Xurek.” Pip gave him a sardonic smirk, “Not unless you’re replacing those drinks from last time.” She leaned on her own open palm and bared her teeth at him, her hoof clicking against the bar stool.

“You’re a cold bitch, Pip. You know that was an accident.” Xurek whined, “Highlander honour.” He crossed his heart, “Anyway, why don’t I introduce you to my new friend here?” He wrapped his arm around Durzub, making the other spill mead down his fingers as he dragged him over to the two of you, “This is Durzub. He’s a music producer, and part time good looker.”

 “You’re a music producer?” You asked in awe before you turned and looked at the stage, “Are you here for these guys?” You pointed at the industrial band on stage as the lights went low and they started the intro for their next song. At the back here it wasn’t as loud, and you could readily hear the two orcs.

“Yeah. They’re a new signing.” Durzub rolled his shoulders in a shrug, “I never really sign their sort, but it seems like they have a decent following.”

“Come on, mate, we’re here to chill out, not to talk work.” Xurek groaned and laid against the sticky bar top before recoiling in disgust.

“I know, you great oaf.” Durzub placed Xurek’s drink next to him, “Are you both here to see the show?” He asked, his voice slipping from ‘totally pissed off’ into something that was ‘gruff but polite’. Either way, his soft country accent made you smile before you took a few mouthfuls of cocktail for courage.

Pip answered before you could swallow, “We come on a Friday to wind down. The gigs are always just a bonus.”

 She shot a look at you with her dark, goat eyes, warning you from speaking as she steered the conversation, “What about you guys? You here to bother people on their nights off?”

“Well, we know where we ain’t wanted.” Xurek shrugged his shoulders at Pip’s rudeness, “Sorry to harass you, but you don’t have to be a salty asshole about spilt drinks, you know.” He watched Pip’s temper flare and you ducked back as she slammed her hand against the bar top.

“You listen here you little asshole!”

“Little?” Xurek scoffed, “I tower over you, babe.”

Pip gave a bleat of anger before she swept her leg around you and cracked Xurek in the shin, “It was my new dress you ass for brains!” She hissed at him before she stood up to walk around you and face the orc head on.

“What do you want me to say, huh?!” Xurek goaded, “Oh I’m so sorry that my accident ruined something I couldn’t stop. Get over yourself thinking I did it on purpose!” He fumed with anger.

You leaned back before hopping out of your chair, taking the jug of cocktail in one hand and a tall glass in the other before you turned to Durzub, “Hey come on. They’re going to be screeching for a while. Want to go and sit on the balcony and watch?”

 Durzub seemed a little taken back by the offer, “Oh, sure.” He uttered as he pulled Xurek’s drink away from him and then took his own in hand and following you towards the stairs, leading to the viewing area above the pit. You found two stools and a table and happily placed your drinks on it before leaning on the railing to look down at the band as they headbanged together on stage.

Durzub sat awkwardly for a moment before he coughed behind his head, “So, what is it that you do?” He asked as he leaned over the table, eyeing the mixture of liquor and fruit juice in your jug.

You turned from the show and smiled, “Oh nothing as interesting as music production. I just got hired at a new modelling agency.”

“Do you model then?” He asked with wide eyes, “Because you’re certainly…”

“Oh, God no. Nothing like that. I work with brands and secure deals and shoots. I work with Skull Crusher and Tombstone mostly.” You smiled and sipped cocktail through your straw.

Durzub tucked his hair back again with a sweep of his hand, “That explains the look then.” He smiled softly, “Do you get some sweet discounts?” He asked.

“Like you wouldn’t believe. It’s never been cheaper to be a goth!” You cheered as you looked down at the rowdy beginnings of a mosh pit, then back to the bar.

 You gave a great laugh, “Well, looks like their argument is sorted.” You pointed at Xurek with his bruised cheek. He slammed back his drink before storming away into the pit, rushing through a mosh pit before his eyes caught sight of a human among the others. You grinned at his expression. Dumb struck.

“Jesus. I hope they’re ready to be pestered.” Durzub chugged a few mouthfuls of mead before he scoffed, “Whenever he gets that look, he ends up heartbroken a week later.”

“Well, it might be different this time, you know?” You smiled back at Durzub, “Maybe this is the one!” You cooed.

“You’ve got fairy tales in your head and cotton candy to go with it. He’s going to have a one-night stand then not shut up about her for the next three weeks.” Durzub held up three fingers as he drank some more, “Or he’ll relay every little detail to us on our next outing. He has zero filter.”  

“I can tell that much.” You laughed as you shuffled back in your seat, “What about you then, have you met your one?”

“My one?” Durzub scoffed, “Hardly. How old do you think I am?” He leaned on his fist and pointed back at himself, giving you a curious look.

 You felt like this was a trap, “Are you doing this so you can get mad when I guess wrong?” You asked as you pushed the ice around in the glass.

“Hardly. I’m not sensitive.” He grumbled as his painted fingers tapped against the side of the pint glass.

“Hmm, if you say so.” You leaned over the table to squint at his face. You’d worked with a few orcs before, but most were young models, sharp featured and tall, broad in the shoulders. Durzub was the same, though his face had wrinkles in places which would suggest he was far over twenty years old, “Thirty-six.” You decided with a smile.

Durzub let out a low laugh, “Not far off actually. I’m thirty-eight.” He pointed to the stage, “And I used to do that. Played in a band until about five years ago. Started as a producer then. Never looked back.”

“Oh wow. Who did you used to play with?” You asked in awe.

“A gothic rock sort of deal.” He replied before he looked into your pleading eyes, and relented, “Zi Gijak.”

“No way.” You rushed to stand from your seat as you recognised the Orcish name, “Black Blood!?”

 Durzub ducked his head, reaching for where his hat had sat before he realised, he wasn’t wearing it, “Keep your voice down, please.” He begged quietly, “I don’t need people in this place to recognise me.”

“How could they recognise you now? You look nothing like you did back in the day.” You stated before realising what you said sounded rude, “Not that you look bad now it’s just…”

He laughed at your awkwardness, “I know. I ditched the netting and bones a while ago.”

“You didn’t look half bad in it though, even five years ago.” You winked at him with a sudden rush of confidence, “Though I think this outfit suits you just as much.”

Suddenly, it was as though the intimidating exterior melted, and you watched Durzub’s face go flushed with embarrassment, “Thanks. It has been a change.”

Without making him any more embarrassed you changed the subject a little, “So what bands do you produce for now?” You asked.

“Quite a few. I used to work with SIREN before they got huge, but that sort of metal was never something I could do rather well, I thought.” He shrugged, “They’re with a more focused label now.”

“No way…This keeps getting better and better!” You uttered again.

 “Better and better for you. They were a headache and a half for me!” Durzub chuntered into his drink before he swallowed the last bits of it, “I’m glad they’ve moved up. They were good for business.” He smirked over the edge of the pint glass.

“Only thinking of the money.” You tutted playfully, “That’s no way to treat your bands.” You joked.

“Oh no, but that makes me feel better knowing my weekly migraines are worth the agony.” Durzub chuckled as he watched the band on stage, “These guys ain’t half bad for a show though. I think I picked the best from the bucket.”

“They have an interesting ensemble.” You smirked at the leather clad demoness as she slinked along the stage before she growled from her stomach, a crop landing against the hand of a handsy looking fan in the front.

“Interesting but it’s the sort of thing that gets you recognised.” Durzub noted as he watched, “This place is a refuge for all kinds of people. I’m glad Cal has got this place running with Weldrick.”

 “Who’s Cal? I’ve met Weldrick. Giant bright white minotaur, right? Build like a brick shit house with all the piercings?” You recalled.

Durzub nodded, “That’s him. He’s about eight foot tall too. Scariest mother fucker I ever did meet.” He shifted in his seat, “Cal is the co-owner, but he’s not around that often. He’s a vampire, but he’s not people fond.” The orc shrugged before offering you half a smile, “We all used to work together, believe it or not.”

“Wait…” Your mouth dropped open, “I’m actually stupid.”

“Cal was the singer of Black Blood. Weldrick ran our security back in the day.” He laughed at your open mouth before he leaned over to close your mouth with two large fingers. He brushed his fingers over your chin before leaning back and pointing to your drink, “Do you want anything else?”

“I’m okay thanks. I’ll keep your seat warm.” You joked as he stood up with a nod and grumbled about having something better than ‘shitty mead’.

 “I’ve never seen Durzub ever sit and talk with someone in a bar.” A deep, gravelly voice rang out from behind you. You turned around in your chair to see a tall, human looking male watching you, his sunglasses perched on the end of his nose as he regarded you with a mild amount of curiosity from over the lenses. He reached out a hand awkwardly, “Cal.”

“As in…” You took his hand, and flinched at the stone coldness of his grip, “Co-owner of the bar, Cal?”

“The very same.” He shook your hand lightly before his hand disappeared quickly back into his pocket, “I just came to say hello. I was curious. He hates attention in these kinds of places…”

“Just like you then, apparently.” You observed as you turned on your seat to face him. He was a giant man, but stony cold, and overly pale, looking almost grey around his reflective, steel-coloured eyes. They shone red as he turned, the bouncing curls of black hair spilling over his shoulders before he reached for a cigarette packet and cursed, seeing it was empty with only his lighter inside.

 “Cal?” Durzub returned with a large looking ale in his hand, “Weird time to show yourself. Unless you were planning to steal this one for a snack, hmm? As usual.” He scoffed.

“You know I’ve been off the blood for years…” Cal whispered as he rummaged in his other back pocket, before finding a small, slim packet of chewing gum, “I don’t…”

“Yeah. Save it. That’s what you said last time, Clarence.” Durzub huffed into his drink.

Cal’s back went ridged before he stooped over and unfolded the wrapper of his gum, “You don’t get to call me that.” He whispered again, his gravelly tone rumbling in the back of his throat before he slunk away, back into the shadows, and disappeared in a shadowy wave of his black hair.

“Sorry you had to see that.” Durzub rumbled from across the table, “Its…complicated.”

You span back around and smiled, “Don’t worry about it. I think Pip had more of a fight with Xurek.” You snickered as you turned to spy her sat at the bar, batting her eyelashes at Flix as he served, “Though I think she’s okay now. She’s turned her eyes on a certain someone.”

Durzub looked down at the bar and laughed as well, “Well I guess you know her type now.” He joked as he sipped at his ale.

“Yep. Scary pretty boys, who aren’t part of your friends.” You snickered as you sipped at the last of your cocktail and refreshed the glass.

 The band on the stage purred their final song as you took another drink, and you looked at your phone with wide eyes at the time.

“I have to get up tomorrow for errands.” You lamented, looking at the clock. It was almost midnight, and you knew Pip would be here for hours if you left her to her own devices.

“So, this is where the night ends.” Durzub laughed before he finished the last of his own drink, “Here.” He tugged out his phone, “Let me give you my number?”

You nodded and took your phone out to exchange numbers before checking it was working and showing him the message came through okay.

“Thank you for tonight.” You smiled at him, “We should do this again.” You leaned over and carefully placed a kiss on his flushed cheek, “For an grumpy music producer, you’re funny to be around.” You took your bag and looked at Xurek, who was busy pressing a human against the far wall, “And look after Xurek, huh? Looks like he might just get himself into trouble again.” You descended the stairs just as the orcs started cheering for the male and shook your head.

 After speaking to Pip, and confirming she had a taxi to get home, you exited the bar and shivered in the cold, before you felt a warm presence behind you, and a hand catch your own.

“Hey!” Durzub grunted as he caught your hand, “Let me walk you home?” He asked, “No way in hell I’m staying to watch those lot gawk at Xurek strip a human down.” He sneered. His sneer softened as you interlinked your fingers together and squeezed his hand before looping an arm through his own, leaning into his body heat.

“Sure. You can walk me home.” You leaned into his arm again and smiled, “I live three blocks away, so it’s a bit of a short walk.”

“Better to spend time with you.” Durzub whispered before he looked at the night sky, “I’m still sorry about what happened with Cal…”

“Honestly, it never happened, okay?” You patted the orc’s large arm, “We all have our differences and reasons.”

“Still. I was rude.” He huffed before he reached for his hat and tugged at the brim, “I’m glad I got to meet you at least tonight.” You tried to ignore the way he tugged at his bottom lip before he adjusted the decorative chain over his lip and smiled, still a little awkward.

“Me too.” You purred back at him.

 The messages started off polite between the two of you, but it was quickly a regular thing for you both to message back within a minute or two depending on if Durzub was working in the studio or you were in meetings. You were both enamoured. It didn’t take long for you both to meet again, eating together in a restaurant which was a little bit too expensive for you. It was high end, and suited Durzub as he sat there eating, looking intimidating as he ate couscous and chopped vegetables before smiling and blushing with embarrassment as you complimented him and his outfit. For such a giant orc, with a bigger scowl, he was softened whenever you said something nice. Several nights together on dates lead to this one, finally going to his studio to see what he did, and to listen to something he had been working on. Excitement churned in your gut as you looked at the choker around your neck and touched the spikes around its surface before flicking the dog tag and grinning at yourself before you rushed for the door to meet Durzub.

 “Hey!” You shouted at the orc. He was stood out on the pavement, dressed in an old print of a Black Blood shirt with a screaming orc and vampire on the front, blood dripping from both of their mouths. He was dressed in dark jeans, littered with pocket chains and a heavy leather duster to combat the cool breeze. He looked up from beneath his broad rim hat. Instantly, Durzub’s perpetual scowl turned into a small smile, and you took hold of his hand before leaning up to kiss his cheek before placing a soft kiss against his bottom lip. He was always a little slow to catch up, but he returned the kiss with a gentle rub of his tusks to your chin.

“Hey stranger.” He rumbled before he gestured to the building, “My studio is on the sixth floor.”

“This doesn’t look much like a record label building to me.” You hummed as Durzub led you into the reception. A naga waved him on up with you, looking back at her work with a hiss and a grumpy frown.

“Not yet it doesn’t. Wait until we get into the actual building. This is just the polite front for greeting people.” The elevator dinged as he pressed the button and the two of you climbed inside. He pushed the button for the sixth floor and you jittered with anxiety as it moved upwards slowly.

“I’m excited and nervous.” You whispered as the doors opened on floor two and let some more people in.

“Don’t be, baby. You’ll be fine.” Durzub soothed as you continued up.

 The sixth floor was littered with records on the walls, gold, red, black and mixed dyes. You looked along the walls before Durzub tugged you down the carpeted hall. You followed a step or so behind, trying to read the framed records as you toddled behind him, little out of your depth. Durzub’s coat trailed behind him and you moved to not step on it as he stopped at his door. He unlocked it with a click of an electronic card and you watched the black door swing open to reveal the sound room.

“Wow.” You stepped inside in front of him and looked at the expensive sound equipment, keeping your hands to yourself to avoid being told off or ruining anything, “This is some expensive gear.” You grinned at him, “And pretty.” You peered past the soundproof glass to see the guitars and drum kit in the recording box and smiled at the pointed-v design one, knowing it was from when he played with Black Blood.

“I knew you’d spot that one.” Durzub said mildly before he threw his coat over a speaker and collapsed into his large office chair, the leather making him shiver with the cold against his arms, “This is where I spend most of my life, making kids realise that riffs are stupid in the wrong places.” He scoffed before tugging you a chair from the other soundboard and patting it, “Come sit. I have some things to show you.”

 Carefully, you placed your coat on top of Durzub’s before joining him by the large computers, eyeing the two screens as he logged in, squinting at the screen.

“Fuck. Glasses.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled free a set of circle frame glasses, putting them on before cringing and looking back at you, “Not as young as I used to be…”

“You look cute in them.” You gushed as you scooted the roller chair forwards and made sure to sit as close to him as possible, “Being able to see is important, even if you don’t look as scary with glasses on.” You teased.

“Yeah…” He let the words drop off as he found what he was looking for and pulled free two sets of expensive headphones. Durzub leaned over and gently tucked them over your ears, holding them and holding up an ‘okay’ sign before he donned his own and pressed play. He leaned back in his chair and you sat impatiently before the noise of a gentle synth graced your ears, opening with a gentle melody before a guitar followed the same rhythm before chugging to life with slow riffs. It was gentle somehow still as the guitar started on a slowly moving rhythm along into the beginnings of a verse, sung by a vocalist you recognised as Durzub. The lyrics lilted about roses on a hill, growing in a graveyard around a forgotten tombstone before you grinned at the references to old vampire movies that the two of you enjoyed. The chorus was met with a litany of soft guitar and synth before a drum solo full of soft cymbal carried on. It was something made for the two of you, and you wondered just how long Durzub had spent making this song. Looking at the poorly hidden bags under his eyes, you figured it had been most nights after work.

 In the closing synth of the son, you laid your head against Durzub’s arm, against the tattoo of the roses around the gravestone. You pressed your lips to his skin gently before smiling and tugging the headphones down to around your neck, smiling up at the orc. Durzub copied the motion with another small smile, reaching to stroke at the top of your head

“That was beautiful. It’s hard to believe you made that just for me.” You whispered against his warm skin as the orc flushed with embarrassment, “Did you mean the part about making love on graves?” You teased gently before you slipped from your own chair, and into his lap, your fingers sliding up over the tattoos on his arms, tracing the thorns of the roses down before you traced the edge of the stem curling over his collar bone.

“Maybe not. Stone gives you a bad back.” He rumbled as his pupils went wide, watching your fingers as they slipped under the collar of his t-shirt, “But I would worship you just the same.” His hands moved from the computer to your hips, his fingers pressing into the meat of your backside before he leaned forwards to kiss you. You gladly accepted the advance, kissing the orc back, your tongue licking at his lips before you traced the rings around his tusks and wrapped your arms tighter around his neck.

 A soft moan escaped Durzub’s mouth as you pulled away. His lips were puffy and you leaned forwards to bite his lip, enjoying the second croak that escaped him as you leaned back on his thighs.

“What about this desk?” You asked under your breath.

Durzub grumbled, “There’s a lot of…” Your hand meeting his crotch shorted his brain for a moment, “I can make room.” He grumbled before he pushed the keyboard and monitor aside, leaving the desk free for you both. You laid back over the wood and grinned as you tugged on one of his tusks, forcing his face down so you could lay another kiss on his lips. Durzub moaned again as you reached up into his dark hair, tugging the braids at his scalp.

“Maybe you should make good on your song lyrics.” You purred as you kissed his cheeks and then bit at his neck before sucking a mark under his ear.

“Fuck.” Durzub hissed before he leaned over you, his fingers tugging at your clothes before he admired the collar around your neck and gave it a tug, “I hope you didn’t have any other plans.”

 Neither of you saw the audio recording button flashing red.

 ‘Everything was recorded. I’m keeping it. See you at the bar. x’

[boxboysandotherwhump]

Jake guard dog AU part 2

Part two of the guard dog au is out and about. :D

Poor Jake all scared and in pain. It‘s so good that Chris is there to help him <3 (honestly though giving Jake a pet name in this chapter annoyed the hell out of my brain.But some of you might be able to guess who’s pet he was based on that ;)   )

Thank you again @ashintheairlikesnow for letting me play with your babies. I love them so much.

CW: fucked up head space, past abuse mentioned, past dehumanization mention,

He had pleaded, begged for his new master to not abandon him, too, but his begging had never been good enough, never earned him the reward of mercy, and so the man had left.

Leaving him with a regretful smile for a parting gift and one last order.

“Be good for Natalie, okay? She‘ll take good care of you. I promise, she is safe.”

Safe.

That‘s what handler Ferrick had promised his owner would be. It felt like a life time ago since he had heard this lie. Believed it, stupid and doe-eyed.  

Longed for it be true. Even now.

A longing that lived eternally in his bones, festered there since the beginning of a life that had been torn from his heart. Discarded like withered children‘s book pages.

Only this longing had remained. Survived the coldness of white rooms.

Vidar was cold now, too.

Icy morning chill creeped from the hard floorboards into his aching body, as he lay wedged between the old couch and the living room wall.  Legs screaming in pain that wouldn‘t settle after he had all but fallen of the furniture and crawled behind it.

They had put him on the couch, but he knew better. Knew that dog‘s belonged on the floor. Knew not to fail this test.

The man who had scraped him off the street, half dying and delirious from pain had told him to be good for this Natalie woman, so he would try.

What else could do he do right now anyway?! Incapacitated as he was.

He curled up, as much as his throbbing limbs and his tiny hiding space allowed. Fighting against the exhaustion that gnawed at his mind and trying to drown out the fear, hot on its heels.

He had been promised the woman was safe, but no one said anything about the upstairs-people. Those big green eyes that had peered down at him.

Like he was some kind of animal, to gawk at.

Because that‘s exactly what you are.

Kneel dog.

Fetch.

Give paw.

Good boy.

Only that he wasn‘t. He wasn‘t good at all, or his master wouldn‘t have thrown him away. A quiet sob escaped into the houses silence and the dog pressed his trembling lips together until they hurt. A tight white line in a pale bruised face.

____________________________________________________

„Where is-“

„There, there there there behind the the couch.“

„Tristan give him some space, will you?“

Vidar‘s eyes snapped open. Light blue staring right up into bottomless green.

He flinched back. Head hitting the wall with a dull thud. Sharp pain radiated through his skull. Made him growl. Cracked lips pulled back into a vicious snarl.

The big green eyes drinking him in grew even wider and their holder stumbled back with a quiet gasp.

He looked scared.

Good!

And incredibly... young?

„Tristan.“ Miss Natalie laid a tanned hand on the boys shoulder. Work roughened fingers squeezing gently. „Will you be a dear and get our newcomer something to drink?“

„O- o- o- okay.“

The boy nodded, strawberry blond hair flying everywhere as he jumped to his feet in one gracious movement and vanished out the door in flurry of limbs.  

What had his new master called this place again?

A safe house?

„For people like you, you know. Other... pets without a home.“

Could it be?

But this Tristan looked way to young to be a pet.

Memories of black batons and steel tip boots flashed through his mind and something hot and heavy twisted inside his gut.

The thought of metal prongs digging in the boys pale neck made him sick. All of a sudden.

Reminded him of Nicky in the bed of this sick fuck when-

„So.“ Miss Natalie‘s voice cut through his fogging rage like a light house siren and he snapped back to attention. Watching her crouch down a few feet in front of him, hands folded. „How about we get you back onto the couch, hm? It must be cold on the floor.“

He dropped his gaze, unsure of what to do. Dogs didn‘t belong on the furniture. He knew that. But dogs also shouldn‘t disobey their owner. Was this woman his new owner now? She must be. Right? Could he ask? Should he dare? Sir had hated when he had spoken without permission.

Please not the muzzle again.

„Not talking today, honey? That‘s fine.“ The smile in her voice sparked the hope that he had made the right decision.

„Can can can, can he not talk?“ Tristan took a few tentative steps into the living room. Long fingers wrapped around a steaming mug.  

The smell of milk and honey tickled his nose. He craned his neck, blinked up through blond lashes.

Tristan came closer.

Miss Natalie plugged the mug from Tristan‘s hands and set it on the floor. Pushed it over to him.

„It can be hard on some days. Impossible really. Just give him time.“

Vidar didn‘t look at the mug. His eyes were trained on the teenagers solemn face as he nodded.

„Yes. I I I I know day‘s like, like that.“

Tristan plopped down in front of him, tugged his feet over his thighs so that they nearly rested against his abdomen and leaned forward a bit. Fingers tapping softly over his shins.

A nearly conspiratorial grin danced around his lips. Green eyes sparkling warm. „I lose my my my words too. Sometimes. When when I‘m angry or or or or scared. I now it‘s it‘s it‘s scary but don‘t don‘t don‘t worry about that. They they they‘ll come back.“

The first smile in forever creeped on Vidar‘s face, at that. Barley more than the twitch of his lips.

No wonder the boy had to use all his words at once, when he had to make up for days he had none at all.

Tristan mirrored his smile ten fold. Early morning sun dipping in his dimple. Catching in strawberry blond hair.

Long fingers walked up to the mug and nudged it even closer. „My my my my Mom makes hot, hot milk for me when when when I‘m upset. It al- al- always helps.“

His own rough fingertips slid over the floorboards, feeling their faint texture before his hands wrapped around the mug. He lifted it to his lips, let the heat of the drink seep into his freezing fingers and took a tentative sip.

Tristan‘s smile widened as he watched him. Swaying softly forward and back. His pleased hums sunk right into his heart, sweet as the honey milk.

[saintsurvivors]

Hi! I love your writing!! For the Whump Drabbles, could you do #56?

No pressure, have a fabulous day!!

@whumpflumpthump​ I just realized when I sent that last ask, I didn't give you a character😅 Sorry about that, I would love it if you did Mac, thanks, and sorry again

No. 56 Begging

Ahhhh! no problem fam, honestly, thank you so much for sending this in and sorry for your wait!! <3

warnings: broken bones, shitty self esteem, referenced torture but non graphic, jack’s potty mouth and atrocious southern accent.

Mac’s broken bones before. He’s not exceedingly clumsy, but whilst cuts and bruises are a warriors lost, broken bones and concussions seem to be a spies lot, especially ones that deal with explosions and under the table incidents that DXS do. Never mind the fact that he’d broken several fingers and ribs whilst back downrange, had barely been able to stoop when things had gone wrong so spectacular and Al had been less ...well, had been less Al and more parts of Al.

But human minds aren’t designed to remember pain, not really, even ones that are eidectic memory. The neurons remember it, but you forget what caused it, what made your heart stammer, what made your lungs seize, what made you want to jackknife up from your bed in the middle of the night, face wet with tears and blood beneath your nails because you’ve scratched your throat raw. You only remember it when it’s happening again, when you’ve felt that loss, that break.

Mac’s good at compartmentalization. Too well, often times. Jack doesn’t quite understand, not really though he tries, just how afraid Mac is, how afraid he is that if he even begins to open those tiny little boxes, meticulously labelled and stored away in the shelf of his mind, that he might not ever get them back closed. Everything he doesn’t, can’t deal with, handle. Everything he wishes would be wiped clear like the last equation of the white board by the eraser. But it isn’t that easy.

Maybe that’s why he can’t help it, why he leans so easily upon Jack, despite Jack no doubt hurting just as much as he does. Broken bones and concussions are a spies lot, but Mac thinks that kidnappings and hurt are a MacGyver and Dalton special, and wishes that it wasn’t. Wonder sometimes, in the back of his mind just how much Jack regrets meeting him. Wonders if Jack wishes he’d walked away at the end of his original tour and had left a stubborn bomb nerd in the sand of Afghanistan. Wonders how long he’d have lived; it’s a question he likes to ask himself, especially now, after missions, or when he and Jack are traipsing back to exfil after things have gone to shit.

Thinks he knows the answers, but always swallows the question and the answer, swallows the pennies he can taste too, doesn’t want to turn around and accidentally spit it out on Jack. Jack, whose already bloodied, bruised and aching. He’s got probable fractured ribs, but he can’t rest because he has to help haul Mac’s stupid, incapable ass out of the fire. He can’t keep doing this, not to his partner, not to Jack.

His left leg buckles, fire lancing up his shin to his thigh, spreading through his hip. his ankle twists further, and he only just manages to avoid bringing Jack down with him by twisting and ducking, knows that Jack’s ribs can’t take the strain and Jack’s reflexes would have him letting go. The ground is hard and cold, he can already feel the bruises forming over bruises, wonders if he’ll have the entirety of their kidnapping marked out on his skin like the world’s most fucked up map. Wonders if he’ll be able to read all the pit stops and roads, he’s where they first captured us, here’s where they fractured Jack’s ribs up after a failed escape attempt, here’s where they almost waterboarded me, here’s where they shattered my shin with a hammer because I called someone an asshole and Jack punched their lights out-

A frantic hand tucks beneath his armpit, tries to get him up, clamps down on his instinctive cries, blinks reflexively in place of the full body flinch he wants to give.

“C’mon man, we gotta hustle, I think they’re right behind,” Jack crouches as best he can, tries to get his shoulder jammed underneath Mac’s, tries to haul him up through sheer force of strength. A wheezing grunt escapes, pained. God, Mac is so selfish.��“Get up, hoss, don’t do this to me, now.”

“You gotta go, Jack,” He says, looks Jack in the face, sees the wide, pain lined eyes, the grit of his teeth. He’s in so much pain, Jack is, exhausted to his very bones, beaten and bloodied. He doesn’t deserve this. “You, you need to leave.”

Jack pauses for a single moment, his arm around Mac’s waist tightens, leaves Mac breathless, dizzy, with breathlessness and pain. Jack loosens immediately, but that rare look of anger doesn’t. Seems to only grow deeper.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Jack far enough growls it, anger and pain, his eyes flash, he looks furious. Furious enough to hurt, to break, to punch. He does neither, only look at Mac like Mac’s said something so stupid, so out of far left field that it doesn’t even compute, as if Jack hasn’t had the same thoughts.

“Just go, Jack!” Mac hisses, insists, tries to shove himself backwards out of Jack’s grip, manages to break it, only to immediately miss it. He’s so fucking selfish. “Look, I’m just weighin’ you down, at this point, baggage, dead fuckin’ weight, you know this, man! You gotta go!”

“Now, I know that’s them blows to the heads talkin’, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t just hear my partner say to leave him the fuck behind!” It’s angry, angry and harsh and pained. An edge to it that has Mac’s back straightening, a shiver roiling down his spine, something pooling in his gut that he hasn’t paid attention to for the longest of times, because like Al used to say, it isn’t the bomb that’s going to kill you, it’s the emotions.

“Jack, please,” He tries to plead, can hear the shouts getting closer, the bark of angry shouting, he can’t let Jack be taken, not again, not when it was Mac that got them into this. “Please, just, go, already! They won’t be able to keep up with you. I can distract them-”

“Boy, are you stupid?” Jack hisses, and that seems to be the last straw. He grits his teeth, face turning red, hand shaking from where he’s tucked it up around Mac’s waist, hauling him up. Mac barely gets his feet beneath him, before Jack is fairly enough marching him forward, eyebrows knitted together, eyes flashing.

“Jack.” Mac hisses, pleads, begs. He’s got no chance but to go forward, pain sunfire hot, chemistry fire burning. He’s sick to his stomach, swallows down the bile. Every foot forward is agony, gut punch deep.

“No, Mac.” Jack grits out. He’s sweating, red faced. His ribs seem to creak with every movement, but he’s got Mac locked too tightly against him for Mac to do anything. They step wrong and Mac lets out a thin yelp. Jack doesn’t even flinch, only grabs the arm he forced Mac to throw around his shoulder further over, presses the swell of his thumb harder over the wrist pulse point. “No, Mac, I ain’t leavin’ you. You know why? Because you’re a fuckin’ stubborn ass of a kid who I still want to punch sometimes and you’ve got the shittiest set of emotions I’ve ever seen and I mean that, I’ve dealt with Deacon and that guy is a hot mess, but fuckin’ Christ, Mac, telling me to leave you behind?”

Something seems to have rattled loose inside of him, something hurt and vicious. Mac falls silent, keeps his hurt noises locked behind his teeth.

“We’re both gettin’ outta here, hoss, I don’t care what that stupid brain a’ yours is saying, and I swear to High Heaven that if you ever ask me to leave you behind, I will knock you on your skinny ass and drag you there, do you get me?  ‘Baggage, dead weight’-” Jack scoffs, literally hauls Mac up over a mound of rocks; his anger seems to be the only thing keeping him going. “Biggest crock a’ shit I’ve ever heard, I’ll tell you what Mackie, if i ever meet that pops a’ yours I’m gonna be beltin’ him so hard I swear-”

“Jack,” Mac says, soft, gentle. Something swells up inside of him, warm, cosy, like he’s just slipped into a hot bath. Even the fiery hot pain of his broken leg seems to have been soothed. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, he says,” Jack’s words sound angry, but his tone is soft. His fingers tap something out in morse code against the shiver of Mac’s ribs. something that spells i love you. “Just never ask me to leave you behind kiddo, I can’t. You go kaboom, I go kaboom, got me?”

“You go kaboom, I go kaboom.” Mac echos softly, wondrously, hopefully.

[clintbartonswife]

give me back my heart you wingless thing

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier, Essi Davern, Cirilla Summary: Jaskier’s not a defenceless maiden by any means, and when he’s surrounded by friends, the bard could do just about anything. Notes: hurt!jaskier, Essi is like a sister to Jaskier and you cant convince me otherwise, chosen family, post episode 6, whole fic based on an idea I got whilst listening to The Horror and the Wild by The Amazing Devil.  (Oczko is Essi’s nickname in the book) masterlists

He flees back to Oxenfurt. 

Of course he does, for where else would he go?

With the vicious words biting at his back, he makes the journey in a few weeks, playing in every tavern along the way with a new determinedness in his eyes and strength in his voice. 

He locks up the pain and tears until he knows he is safe, arriving on Essi’s doorstep with lute in hand and a face that spelt out heartbreak.

“Oh Jask” she sighed, opening her arms wide, letting the taller man fall into them, the instant love and affection proving too much for him.

“Missed you” he mumbled, voice thick with tears when he eventually pulled himself together enough to move from the doorway and into her apartment.

“Well you’ve known I’ve been here for a while, could’ve come to see me whenever you wanted” she replied sassily, the familiar banter relaxing Jaskier.

“I should have”

At the morose tone of his voice, Essi raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms.

“I know that tone - wine or rum?”

Jaskier let out a shaky laugh, collapsing onto one of her chairs with a small smile, “how about both?”

“Oh so it’s one of those”

He simply huffed, the burning pain in his chest easing slightly as they slipped back into their old ways, a warmth slowly replacing it.

Essi, a few years younger than Jaskier yet in the same years as him at Oxenfurt, had quickly grown on him throughout their tutelage. The two became fast friends, and Jaskier could say with a confidence that she was the only person in the school whom he didn't try to fuck.

They had bonded over shitty family relations and their love for music, and within the first few months Jaskier was calling her the little sister he’d never had - a closeness and trust between them that he had never had with anybody before.

“Here,” Essi said, passing him the bottle of red wine, “I got the good shit out for you”

“You flatter me” Jaskier grinned, popping the cork off and taking a deep swig. He watched Essi do the same to the rum bottle, burrowing further into her chair as she levelled a surveying stare at him.

“Who was it this time?” she eventually asked.

He giggled wetly, eyes blurring with tears as he remembered the words that he was running from, “The Witcher”

“Jaskier”

“I know, I know. ‘Witchers don't feel’ and all that bullshit” he took another deep swig before continuing, “But I thought he was different - is different - he, he cared, just not for me”

Essi frowned as the tears began to fall down his cheeks, though knew better than to interrupt him when he was opening up.

“Twenty two years, Oczko. I gave him twenty two years of my life, knowing that he didn't love me for most of them, and I was okay - I could deal with it because I thought that I was at least his friend” a bitter laugh escaped him then, his smile turning sharp, “turns out I was even wrong about that. Not only did he not consider me his friend, but I’m apparently a shit-shoveller who’s so bad that if life could give him one blessing, it would be to be rid of me!”

Essi let out an indignant noise, and Jaskier gestured the hand holding the wine wildly in agreement, “Exactly! So I left. I gave him his wish and I left”

The blonde took a solidarity sip of her rum, hissing at the sting through her teeth.

“You deserve better Jask” she said sternly, leaning forwards, “If he didn't want you then bugger him! Stay with me. We can write music together, like we used to. I have a few more weeks of teaching until my contracts done for the season - we could travel again, like the old days”

The pain in Jaksier’s chest all but diminished, reduced to a bearable ache.

He was home, safe. He wasn't alone anymore.

Jaskier’s smile widened even further as he danced around Essi, his fingers nimbly moving over the strings of his lute as she sang the ending of the ditty.

As they finished to roaring applause, the blacksmith in the corner called out, “Play us that new one!”

“The one of the wild!”

Essi smirked, nudging Jaskier’s hip as she retrieved a small drum, “Shall we?”

“We shall”

The two bowed again, before they both began to play, circling each other with matching enthusiasm. The bard’s smile grew as Essi began to sing, her hand tapping the beat on the drum.

‘You were raised by wolves and voices Every night I hear them howling deep beneath your bed They said it all comes down to you’

She passed the singing to Jaskier, who flourished in the limelight.

‘You’re the daughter of silent watching stones You watch the stars hurl all their fundaments In wonderment, at you and yours, forever asking more’

This song felt empowering to sing, as if he was announcing his frustration of the Witcher to everybody. His voice joined together in melody with Essi as their music built.

‘You are that space that’s in between every page, every chord and every screen You are the driftwood and the rift, you’re the words that I promise I don’t mean We’re drunk but drinking (sunk but sinking) They thought us blind (we were just blinking) All the stones and kings of old will hear us screaming at the cold‘

They halted their playing, voices carrying the song.

‘Remember me I ask, remember me I sing Give me back my heart you wingless thing‘

As they burst back into song, the tavern cheered, beginning to stomp along to the drum. The overwhelming noise drowned out the sound of the tavern door swinging open, admitting the two new travellers.

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me, old man, I am the Wild‘

The two began to dance, weaving about the far end of the tavern, twirling through the people until they had found a table to stand on.

‘You are the son of every dressing up box And I am Time itself, I slow to let you play I steal the hours and turn the night into day‘

Jaskier leant down, winking at one of the women sat at the table they were dancing on as Essi sang her part, only coming back up when Essi kicked the back of his leg playfully.

‘Day by day oh lord three things I pray That I might understand as best I can How bold I was, could be - will be - still am, by god still am‘

Jaskier allowed his eyes to scan the tavern, taking joy in seeing all the faces singing along. He barely stayed in time as his eyes faltered on an imposing figure sat in the corner, a smaller figure walking over to him, yellow eyes locking with blue.

‘Fret not dear heart, let not them hear The mutterings of all your fears, the fluttering of all your wings Welcome to the storm, I am thunder Welcome to my table, bring your hunger‘

Communicating with Essi through eye contact alone was something they had learned early on in their friendship, and soon her eyes had found the Witcher. 

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me old man, I am The Wild‘

She gave Jaskier a small nod, moving to position herself in his line of sight, blocking the Witcher’s view.

‘Remember me, Remember me, Remember me, Remember me Remember me I ask. Remember me I sing‘

He took the next verse as time to desperately figure out what to do, until he realised that he had to do nothing. He was here first. The Witcher should leave if it bothered him. With this new confidence, he nodded at Essi once more and sang with even more passion than before.

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child‘

He jumped from the table, Essi close behind, moving through the crowd once again, this time doing a full circuit of the room. Jaskier winked at a few patrons as he passed, making sure that the Witcher could see it - could see that he was unbothered.

‘Witness me old man, I am the Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me, old man, old man, old man, I am the‘

Finishing with his back against Essi’s, he broke out into a wide grin once again as the tavern applauded once more. She laughed, giving Jaskier a quick hug before collecting their coin with a bow.

“That’s all for tonight folks, thank you ever so much for being such a wonderful audience” she called, tucking their pay into the pouch on her belt, before grabbing Jaskier’s hand and guiding him over to the bar.

“Great performance again” the barmaid smiled, passing them their ales and dinner, “haven't seen the tavern this full since last yuletide”

Jaskier laughed heartily, taking a sip of his ale, “You’re too kind”

Essi smiled at her, before turning to face Jaskier, voice low.

“So that's him?”

“Yep. I don't know who’s with him though. Cant be Yennefer - she’s taller than that”

Essi scoffed, taking an angry swig of her drink, “I could go over there right now and slap him”

“Yeah, and hurt your hand? We need that”

Essi just narrowed her eyes at him playfully, slapping his chest lightly.

“What’s the plan then?”

“We were here first” Jaskier shrugged, “If he doesn't like it then he can leave”

She grinned at him then, lifting her cup up in a cheers, to which Jaskier copied.

“That’s right. Now, lets eat and then we can go to sleep”

Their meal was interrupted as a shadow was cast over them, a person looming behind them.

“Witcher” Jaskier greeted coldly, not looking up from his meal.

The man ‘hmm’ed in response, making the bard roll his eyes. Giving a quick look to Essi, he turned around, coming face to face with Geralt for the first time in almost a year.

“We were here first. We are not leaving. You can go if you want”

He then turned back to his meal, ignoring him until he went away, not realising how tense his shoulders had become until they dropped.

Essi placed a comforting hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck, rubbing at it until all the tension had gone.

“You’re ok” she whispered, “We’re ok”

Geralt wouldn't admit it, but he was lonely.

He had regretted sending Jaskier away with his harsh words, though what he regretted even more was how long it took his to realise it.

By the time he identified the hollow ache in his chest as loneliness, it was far too late to find the bard - months too late, his tracks long lost on the mountain path - not to mention the war that had begun to rage North, too close to Cintra for Geralt’s comfort. Ciri had to come first.

So, he pushed his feelings aside, determined to find his child surprise for the first time in his life, a steady urge to protect her pulling at his whole person until he found her, running through the woods and in to each other’s arms.

The lonely ache faded slightly, though even Ciri’s presence couldn't stop the sharp pain that ran through Geralt’s chest like a dagger whenever he heard a lute, or the suspicious sting of restrained tears when they passed a field of Dandelions.

It was only within the last few days that the lonely feeling began to grow again, confusion brewing in the White Wolf.

Confused wasn't the right word for it exactly - it was more like Geralt’s whole body felt like it was off-axis, screaming for a missing piece.

Ciri had noticed his odd behaviour earlier that day, “Are you alright Geralt?”

The Witcher had assured her that he was fine, but the familiar feeling of the thread of destiny was pulling at him again, guiding him towards a small town just North of Ard Carraigh.

The second they neared the tavern, he knew that fate was playing a cruel trick. Jaskier’s voice rang out, loud and true, melding beautifully with a female’s. The implication was enough to make him want to run away, but he could tell Ciri was too tired to travel any further for the night.

“Are we going in?” Ciri asked, taking Geralt’s hand in hers as they walked away from the stables, “I’m quite hungry”

Geralt nodded, steeling himself before opening the door, veering off to the corner table almost immediately, eyes resolutely glued to the floor.

He could feel Ciri’s concerned gaze on the side of his face, so he placed the coins in her hand and gestured for her to go and order the food. Ecstatic with the trust he had just given her, she went over to the bar.

Geralt made the mistake of looking up, only for a moment, the breath being punched out of his lungs as golden eyes met cornflower blue.

Within an instant, the longing that Geralt had pushed aside the past year came rushing back, tumbling over Geralt like water poured from a bucket. He wanted, Melitele he wanted his bard back.

“Geralt?”

He grunted in response, eyes not moving from the bard, even as the woman moved to stand in front of him, blocking his view. 

He absentmindedly registered a meal being placed in front of him, Ciri sitting down on the bench beside him, following his eyesight.

“Theyre good” she commented, “I’ve missed music -”

Her voice trailed off, eyes widening as she caught sight of the bard’s face as he weaved in and out of the crowd, “That’s Jaskier! He played at my birthday feast every year! Geralt we’ve got to say hello!”

The jealousy that had been brewing beneath his skin as he watched the bard flirt with the patrons dissipated as sudden panic gripped his heart, turning to face Ciri immediately.

“We cant risk it” He almost growled, “We don't know if we can trust him”

The Witcher almost flinched as the words came out of his mouth, not believing his own words for a second. Ciri accepted them with a huff, tucking in to her food.

“He wouldn't turn me in” she eventually said, voice stern, “I know he wouldn't”

Geralt sighed, taking a large bite of his food, giving him some time to mull over his words, “We cant be sure”

“Then check”

He barely restrained a laugh, the little lion cub sounding more like her grandmother by the day.

“When I’ve finished my dinner, you go to the room. I will talk to him”

Ciri smiled, spirits back as she returned to her plate with renewed gusto. 

When he approached the bard later, he barely restrained a whimper at the cold greeting, embedded with the barely-there scent of fear.

“Witcher”

Brain scrambling for words he could use to fix the situation, internally reeling from the new knowledge that Jaskier was afraid of him, a hum escaped his lips instead. At that he whipped around, levelling him with a blank stare, eyes void of the affection he was so used to seeing.

“We were here first. We are not leaving. You can go if you want” he stated coldly, turning back to his food, the blonde next to him giving him a glare before returning her attention to his - Jaskier.

Geralt didn't know how long he stood there, frozen with disbelief and grief, but he knew he must have left at some point, as here he was stood in front of Ciri.

“I’ll try again tomorrow”

The next morning Jaskier awoke, Essie’s head resting on his arm.

The two of them had been sharing beds to save money on their travels, glad to be together again. Of course there were some nights where Essi went home with a local - who had been threatened by Jaskier beforehand - meaning Jaskier had the room to himself.

Still, the bard never tried to enchant any admirers. He would tell Essi it was because he was finally happy in himself, not needing any praise as he once did. While this was technically true, Jaskier still couldn't fathom the idea of being with anyone, for fear of breaking his heart again, this time to the point of no repair.

The bard slipped out of the bed, Essi grumbling as she repositioned herself, splaying out on the mattress like a starfish. Jaskier let out an affectionate snort, shaking his head as he put on his boots.

“Morning Mary” Jaskier grinned, sliding onto the barstool, “Could I get two breakfasts please - oh, and some fresh water if that's alright”

“Of course darlin’“

He gave her another smile, watching her retreat to the kitchen.

“Jaskier?”

The bard jumped slightly, turning around to face the Witcher, “What do you want?”

“I-”

He was cut off by Ciri, rushing past Geralt with a smile, “Jaskier!”

“Princess!” he gasped, sliding from the bar stool and kneeling, opening his arms for her to rush into, hugging her tightly, “I was so worried when I heard the news about Cintra”

“It was scary for a little while, but I found Geralt” 

Jaskier smiled at that, “Smart. He’ll keep you safe”

Ciri nodded, turning around to fix Geralt with a pointed stare.

“Here’s your breakfasts Bard” Mary called, placing the tray on the bar.

Jaskier stood back up, grateful for the excuse to leave, “Thanks, love”

He missed the way Geralt frowned when he noticed the two dishes, simply sending the pair a small smile before he returned to his room, tray in hand.

“Essi, open up!” 

The blonde opened the door with a disgruntled sigh, expression brightening at the sight of food.

“You’re a gem” she beamed, ushering him towards the bed.

Letting out a laugh, he placed the tray in the middle of the bed, sitting cross-legged beside it.

“What prompted this?” she asked, taking a bite of egg with a raised brow, “Normally I can never get you out of bed this early after a performance”

Jaskier scoffed teasingly, “Like you’re any better”

“I am so!” Essi screeched, diving at Jaskier (careful of the food) and landing on him heavily, punching an ‘oof’ out of the man, before beginning to tickle him mercilessly.

“Ah! By the gods have mercy!” he wheezed, body squirming under her ministrations, “Essi I swear to Melitele!”

Essi just cackled evilly.

“Why didn't you say anything!” Ciri demanded, crossing her arms.

Geralt just angrily huffed, moving to walk back to their room, stopping in his place as a small hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Why did he look sad?”

“Ciri..” Geralt warned, fists clenching as he tried to force down the emotions that were beginning to bubble below his skin, his mind still stuck on the two breakfasts.

“Why was he sad Geralt?”

“We need to leave” he said instead, moving towards the stairs again. 

His footsteps faltered outside Jaskier’s room, happy squeals and laughter drifting through the door and into the hallway. The knife of jealousy stabbed through his heart again, and he found himself frozen to the floor.

“Oh - you love him”

He looked to his left, Ciri stood there with a pitying look on her face.

“I don't love him” Geralt grunted, walking back to their room with far more speed than normal.

“Yes you do. It’s okay that you do...” she trailed off, levelling him with eyes that felt like they were reading his soul, wise beyond her years, “If you love him then why is he sad? Is it because you left him?”

“Ciri. Stop”

“But I don't see why -”

“Ciri”

His hands were shaking as he tried to buckle up his potion bag, her incessant poking finally pushing him over the edge.

All the withheld pain and longing crashed into him, the jealousy making his skin burn. Scrunching his eyes shut, he stood still, breathing deeply as he let the emotions wash over him. 

Ciri’s presence at his back made him tense slightly, breaking through his concentration, “I’m sorry - grandma always used to say that I didn't know when to stop”

Geralt took a few more stabilising breaths before turning to face her, “Don't apologise for being right” he said, avoiding her eyes.

Ciri frowned at that, confusion clear in her face, “But - why weren't you with him if you love him?”

Taking a shaky breath - something which had Geralt feeling more vulnerable than he had in years - he sat on the side of the bed, clasping his hands on his lap.

“I said some things to him, terrible things, and he left. It was nothing he deserved...” Geralt sighed again, wiping his hands over his face, “I was angry - at Yen, at the world - and I let that all out on him”

They were silent for a few moments, “Did he love you?”

“I don't know” he laughed, bitterness rising back up his neck, “I don't know”

It wasn't until later that afternoon that Jaskier saw the Witcher again.

He was in the stables, talking lowly to Roach as he stroked her mane lovingly, Ciri sat just outside picking wildflowers from the grass.

The familiar yearning took a strong grip of his sternum, squeezing harder the longer he allowed himself to look.

“Jaskier!” Ciri called, spotting him, “Jaskier come over here!”

The bard cursed silently, slapping on a smile as the Withcer’s head whipped up at his intrusion.

“Hello princess”

She shook her head, leaning closer to him, “When we’re around people we don't trust my name is Fiona” she whispered.

“Ah, my deepest apologies, my dearest Fiona” he smiled, giving her a deep bow, “Why did you call me over here?”

At his question, she brightened, offering him a dandelion that she had picked. As he tucked it behind his ear, she gestured for him to lean down again so that she could whisper in his ear, “Geralt really wants to talk to you but he wont ask you himself - I think he’s scared”

Jaskier almost scoffed at that, pulling away, when she gripped the sleeve of his jacket to keep him in place, “He was really upset this morning. Please just speak to him. Once”

The bard levelled her with a glare, knowing he was weak to her demands, and sighed, “Very well”

He took a steadying breath before entering the stables, deciding to lean against the door and just watch Geralt until he was ready to talk. He knew that the Witcher could sense him there, so felt no guilt watching him.

Jaskier’s eyes followed the Witcher as he finished brushing Roach’s mane, no longer talking to her, until eventually, back still turned, he spoke.

“Jaskier”

“Geralt”

The older man huffed a laugh at that, “Oh, so I’m not ‘Witcher’ anymore?”

Crossing his arms, Jaskier remained stood where he was, “I didn't know if I was allowed to use your name anymore - Melitele knows you didn't want me in your sight last time we spoke”

At that Geralt turned around, hurt swimming behind his golden irises.

“I’m sorry”

The bard blanched at that, “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m sorry” he repeated, his fists clenching at his sides as he forced himself to speak, “I know I hurt you - something I swore to myself I wouldn't do - and I sent you away, but Jaskier I missed you so much”

Jaskier tried to bring up the anger that used to swirl around his soul at the very thought of that conversation, but all he could feel now was the overwhelming longing - so much so that he could hardly breathe.

Geralt continued, “It took me a while to understand that - that I felt lonely. I- I missed your laugh, your voice, your stupid lute strumming …”

In that moment Jaskier knew. He knew what Geralt was trying to say and the feeling screamed at him until he moved towards the Witcher, close enough to look into his eyes and drown in the golden pools.

“Say it” he whispered.

“But the girl?” he sounded confused, hurt coming through his persona again and Jaskier wanted to laugh at the sheer confoundity of it all.

“That’s Essi and she’s like my little sister” Jaskier smiled, shaking hands moving to cup Gerlat’s jaw, “Say it”

“I -I love you”

Moving faster than he ever had in his life, Jaskier closed the distance between their lips, swallowing Geralt’s noise of surprise eagerly, melting against his hulking form as strong hands settled on his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

When he pulled away, chest heaving and lips swollen, he rested his forehead against that of the wolf’s gently.

“I love you too, my dearest Geralt”

[jamiebluewind]

Misunderstandings

OC Perspective (Lyric)

Word Count: 1466

Notes: nonbinary character (Lyric), transmale character (Aultho), occasional use of fantasy language (elvish)

Characters: Lyric (original character), Aultho (original character), and Fabian (mentioned)

Warnings: bigotry, fantasy based racism, violence mention (please message me if I missed any)

Ships: None

Spoilers: Fantasy High Season 1 (minor)

Summary: Aultho had a bad day at work (due to a particular half-elf). His sibling Lyric tries to help.

Takes place after the bonus comic for Fabian's Gifts.

Requested by @rizbian

****

Lyric sat in their room tinkering with a new crystal array. Normally they would be in bed already, but their brother had messaged them from work saying that he would be home late. It meant one of two things; he either had a big last minute order or he had stuck his foot in his mouth again.

While soldering a few stray wires on their latest project, they heard their brother slam the door, followed by a loud "Vyshaana darrdartha biir!" Yeah. That was never a good sign. They put their tools away and headed towards the sounds of angry sun elf.

They leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing Aultho. He was facing away from them, searched for something in the upper cupboards. "I'm guessing your evening went well," they said with a smirk.

"Not now Lyric," he replied flatly without turning around. Uh-oh. This was bad.

Lyric reached out and placed a hand on their brother's shoulder. He was tense. The twins stood like this for a moment as Lyric's thumb made soft circles on the other's shoulder. Finally, Aultho's shoulders slumped with a sigh as he turned his head. A deep bruise blossomed across his jaw and he had the beginnings of a black eye. "Seldarine!" they exclaimed. "What... how... go sit. I'll bring some ice and healing aid."

A halfhearted smile appeared on Aultho's face as he shook his head. "Gys sa salen?" he said more like a question than a demand as he nodded towards the liquor.

"Sure," Lyric replied. "Elven wine or something harder?"

"Whichever you grab first," he answered as he walked towards the small livingroom.

Lyric poured up two drinks, sending a small machine to grab the healing aid while they got the rest. They pulled a coldpack out of storage and activated it with a tap before pressing it between their body and arm so they would have two free hands for the glasses. By the time they walk into the livingroom and sat the glasses down, the machine had returned, healing aid in hand.

Aultho glanced and the tin. "I only asked for a drink," he said. It was an absentminded observation, the kind he often made that got him in the most trouble.

"And I brought you something that will actually do some good," they replied. They dipped their fingers in the magic infused balm and applied a thin coat to his face. They made a mental note to make more for him to keep at work. Aultho would have never let them see him like this if he had any left.

Slowly, the balm did it's job as the scraps knitted themselves back together, the harsh bruise faded to a softer hue, and the swelling became less pronounced. "Thank you," Aultho said with a sigh. Lyric wordlessly ploped the coldpack in his hand before taking their seat. Aultho placed the pack on the sore area and sighed again before reaching over to grab his drink.

Lyric gave him a few rare moments of silence to collect his thoughts. They were going to find out what happened of course, but Aultho looked so drained that they decided he needed a little more time than normal. It wasn't the first time he had come home like this since they fled to Solace. In fact, when the twins first arrived it had been almost a daily occurrence! Lyric had gotten in their fair share of stupid fights too - especially those first couple months - but they had adapted and found friends that helped them understand. All Aultho had was Lyric, a prickly exterior, and a strong aversion to admitting when he needed help.

Lyric was about to start prodding when a heavy sigh came from Aultho. "I really have no idea how I pissed this one off," he said. His head was leaned back and his eyes were closed. "The gods damned biir."

"Did you call him a biir?" Lyric asked. Serious or no, they could never resist getting cheeky with their brother.

Aultho leaned up to roll his eyes at them, only to stop with a flinch and an "ow". He looked like he had a headache coming on. "I haven't been that stupid since the second month we arrived here," he replied.

"And yet-" they started

"I know," he said. "It still comes out sometimes when I'm mad. Apologies."

They reached out and patted his leg. At least he was trying.

"I was about to close shop when a customer came in," he said, looking at his sibling. "Tall. Loud. Probably half-elf or human. Wearing one of those stupid school sports coats..."

They furrowed their brow. "Letterman jacket?" they guessed.

"Yes!" he said. "That's it."

"So probably in high school or college?" they asked.

He nodded and then seemed to immediately regret it. "Yes," he answered. "That sounds about right.  A real gabreth. He banged on the counter, demanding a small briefcase. I suggested he make it a briefcase of holding. Then he punched me, yanked me up by my collar, said he wanted the feature while threatening me, requested initials, and then said he would be back in two hours to pick it up!"

They stared. "That's... how could that even be done," they asked.

"Not easily," he answered. "I luckily had a small black briefcase already made plus several scrolls on hand to help with the magic and lettering, but it was close." He winced. "Too close. I half expected him to punch me again once I explained that the magic had to settle for a couple weeks before the holding feature he requested would work, but he seemed quite happy with it." A humorless laugh came out. "Even gave me a tip."

Lyric breathed out heavily and sunk into their seat. "Wow," they said. They blinked a few times, trying to figure out what to do next. "Okay. Lets go through EXACTLY what you said. Because this is either a learning moment for you or a perfect time for me to test out my battle tech."

This got a real laugh out of him. "Okay," he answered. "Let's see..." He scewed his face in thought. "I think he said 'I demand a goblin sized leather briefcase.' I told him it would be a tiny thing and turning it into a briefcase of holding would give the goblin a lot more space to store the shiny things they stole. Then he punched me and-"

"Wait," they said, holding up a hand. Lyric was pretty sure their brain quit working for a second there and was desperately trying to catch up. "Did you actually tell this person... that goblins are thieves who like shiny things?"

A pause. His eyes widened. "...yes?" he answered, drawing out the eh sound.

Oh dear gods their brother could be an idiot sometimes. "Al," they said. "You can't... that's month four stuff!"

"But just last week someone told me..." He stopped and closed his eyes as he breathed out, defeated. "Mhaor kiira," he whispered.

"Hey," they said, taking their brother's hand, "whoever told you that was the asshole here. It's not your fault. Not completely anyway." It was hard enough for Aultho to sort through the lies and truthes without some idiot making it harder on him. Unfortunately, their brother was an accidental bigot magnet.

"Maethe," he said solemnly, "but I am still the fool falling for their false truthes after nearly a year."

They glared at him. "I will fight you ya know?" they replied. "I have a pile of battle tech ready to unleash at a moment's notice."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is it beside the pile of gay stuff?" he asked.

"My dearest brother," they answered with a hand to their chest, "Everything I own is gay stuff. You have to be more specific." They punctuated it with a wink.

He chuckled softly. "I should have realized," he replied. He looked at them with a genuine smile now that reached his eyes. "We should probably prepare for bed," he said suddenly as he stood up and stretched. "Would you mind if I borrowed your mini crystal while I trance? I might need a refresher."

Lyric smiled brightly at him. It was the first time he had asked for the mini crystal instead of having it pushed on him. Progress. "Sure," they answered with a nod as they unclipped the purplish pink crystal and handed it to him. "No problem." They made a mental note to get him one of his own that they could update regularly.

He looked down at the crystal now cradled in his hands. "Thank you," he said with a soft smile before turning to walk away. "Goodnight, Syolkiir," he said over his shoulder as he went into his room.

"Goodnight, Quinpah," they answered. "Love you too."

~~~~~~

Elvish Words Used

Aul: in

Tho: truth

Vyshaana: vile curse or an insult (reference to the Vyshaan clan of sun elves).

Darrdartha: foamjaws, rabies

Biir: garbage, used as an insult against half-elves or those of human heritage

Seldarine!: Gods! (expression of exasperation)

Gys Sa Salen: Give Me a Drink/I Need A Drink

Gabreth: untrustworthy, likely to turn on you, cruel in battle (dangerous/vicious)

Mhaor: corrupt/corruption

Kiir: gem (plural is kiira)

Maethe: perhaps

Syolkiir: wild star/gem (meteor)

Quinpah: a type of elvish bread/pastry

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Behind closed doors

i have a little prompt for Avengers days, maybe after Ultron Tony gets really sick and Pepper is away and Rhodey is unavaible but he doesnt tell the Avengers because he feels a bit like an outsider and like they're distancing from him and the last thing he wants is for them to think him weak so he hides ir and gets injured on a mission. Eventually an Avenger (you can pick who) finds out and helps him (from AO3).

I´m sorry that it took me light years to finish this, but on the up side, it got exceptionally long and somehow features nearly everyone (I even wrote one dialogue with Bruce before remembering that there´s no way I could have him show up at this point of time). I hope it was worth the wait! Leave comments if you like it.

Contains emeto, quite some pain and bit of angst

Tony wakes up to his own muffled scream. For a moment he lies there in the dark, trying to catch his breath, while his most recent nightmare replays in front of his inner eye in all its detailed beauty. He knows that he has gotten less sleep than good for him, but something in his stomach feels vaguely uncomfortable, enough to keep him awake.

He doesn´t remember drinking enough to make him sick, but this in itself is no proof for anything. His brain is slower than his hands, which are searching for Pepper on the other side of the mattress before he recalls what happened the previous night.

The details are a little fuzzy, but they´d had an argument. There had been drinking, and accusations, and then he´d missed the point where he could have apologized and she´d been fine after half a day of angry frowning, and things had gone from bad to worse. They had shouted at each other, louder and longer than in a while now. She´d left for the board meeting in L.A. with tears in her eyes, and this was bad, because Pepper does not cry, not when things are still fixable.

Tony gets up to check his phone. No misscalls, just a message from her - I reached. See you on Thursday. Anthony Stark isn´t one to make first steps, so he shrugs the dark thoughts away and shoves the phone into his pocket, ordering the coffee machine to do its magic while absent-mindedly cradling his upset stomach.

The workshop is Tony´s to-go-place to not deal with problems and emotions he should be dealing with, but today he can´t really find the motivation to move there. He gets back into bed, half-heartedly watching news on the holo screen at the ceiling.

Half an hour later the discomfort in his stomach has turned into a gnawing ache, and by now he is sure that this is not just a hangover. He´d been feeling off the day before, and it would just fit into the way this morning is going down if he´d caught a bug somewhere. The smell from the untouched coffee on the table is enough to slowly make him nauseos.

Another fifteen minutes later Tony barely makes it to the washbasin in his private bathroom before the residuals of last night´s drinking binge come up in forceful splashes. It takes him a ridiculous amount of effort to force himself to stop gagging and breathe evenly. When he washes his face with shaky hands and checks his own reflection in the mirror, he looks pale, sweaty, and easily ten years older than usually.

He spends the morning dozing on the couch in front of the TV, a screwdriver and one of the gauntlets in his hands, not finding the energy to do much more. He throws up twice more, and each time is more painful than the previous. Any attempt of keeping down painkillers or even ginger ale turns out to be fruitless.

When the pain keeps on increasing, he briefly considers calling someone. But Pepper is not an option, not after yesterday. Rhodey is attending some top-secret military congress in a top-secret location (Warsaw, as Tony found out after three minutes on his phone) and not to be disturbed. There has been no sign of Bruce since Ultron.

And the other Avengers...someone might be in the tower, or in close proximity at the upstate facility, and it wouldn´t be the first time they accompany each other to the ER. But since Ultron -

Tony´s thoughts are interrupted by a call to assembly blaring through the speakers. The volume is making his head throb.

“Friday, honey?” he prompts while pushing himself up from the coach with a moan, “Fire up the quinjet. Let´s make ourself useful.”

---

“You alright, Tony? You look like shit.” It is not an accusation, not coming from Clint, but Tony still feels like he has to get defensive.

“Always a delight to talk to you, Barton,” he replies, “What are you even doing here? Thought you had retired. And don´t you have your kids to mother-hen?”

“Hey, calm down. They´re on a family holiday with Laura´s parents.” Clint shrugs, looking a bit uncomfortable. There´s a knowing smirk playing around Natasha´s lips at his words. Tony is tempted to ask for details, but Steve interrupts with the mission briefing.

“Okay, everybody, listen. We´re dealing with a hostage situation. Around a dozen civilians are being held in the 10th floor of an office building.” He taps on the conference table and the 3D-model of a skyscraper appears.

“It´s nothing new to us, but the targets are unusually heavily armed. Stark and Barton, I suggest you draw them out and keep them busy from above, while Nat and I go in and get the hostages out safely - Stark, are you even listening?”

Tony, who has been trying to focus on Steve´s voice through a haze of pain, is sitting hunched over, cradling his head in his hand, probably looking ready to doze off.

“Spangles, I understand that you love everyone gazing at your pretty face, but I´m actually capable of listening without looking at you,” he snarks, which brings a suppressed snickle from Clint. Steve shoots him a look, but continues the briefing.

Tony does his best to sit up straight for the rest of the briefing, which brings more nausea with it. No puking in front of his teammates. Not like he hadn´t done that before - they all had, to be honest - but usually there were concussions to blame it on.

A few months ago, he might have said something, cracked a joke and secretly hoped that someone would realize what´s going on. But Ultron has changed things. Not that anyone would name it, but he knows, from Steve passing by the lab at odd times to ask how he is doing - and looking around for anything resembling another vicious AI, another Ultron, as if Captain America was capable of identifying one even if it was jumping right in his face. From the way Clint checks his SI-custom-made explosive arrows twice before using them, from the fact that conversations nowadays barely ever move away from mission-related topics. Things have changed.

They might not even realize it themselves, and Tony doesn´t actually blame anyone. Trust is something he doses carefully, and he won´t judge others for not giving it away freely. But this doesn´t mean it pinches less to realize how everyone is slowly drifting apart.

Tony tries his best to keep his shit together, but they are near their destination when the bile he´s been continuously swallowing down won´t stay there anymore. He feels like his stomach is sitting in his chest. He brushes past Nat, avoiding her curious gaze, and makes for the bathroom.

He closes the door, opens the toilet seat and bends over, spit pooling in his mouth, just to startle when a familiar voice speaks up.

“Sir, I must inform you that your body temperature is elevated to 101.7 degress.”

“Friday! Didn´t I mute you in the quinjet?”

“The exact words you used were `shut up while anyone is around´, Sir. Since this room is soundproof, I took the liberty to address you in private in here.”

“Oho, we´re having sexy bathroom conversations now?”

A wave of nausea takes over and he bends over the bowl, coughing weakly. Spit dangles from his lips.

“Sir, given your worsening symptoms, I strongly advise you to inform the other Avengers -”

“Not happening, Friday.” he cuts her off.

“I am not yet well-acquainted with your behaviour patterns, but I am convinced that no harm will arise from telling your team members-”

“Gosh, you don´t get it. Shut up.” Tony loves all his AIs, but sometimes he really misses Jarvis. He´d have understood, Tony is sure.

“Am I detecting trust issues, Sir?”

“Oh, don´t you start on me... I´m just not fond of company in this state -” he´s interrupted by a gag that pushes bile up his throat.

There´s hardly anything to bring up anymore, but that doesn´t stop his stomach from forcefully trying to evacuate his body. Tony digs his fingers into his trousers when the retching dials up the pain.

“If you had wanted to be alone, Sir, you would have muted me already.” Friday continues the conversation, and there is nothing Tony can say against that.

When he returns, there´s a bottle of Gatorade and a packet of mints sitting on his seat. Natasha and Clint exchange a knowing glance when he pushes them away. Even the thought of anything entering his mouth right now is enough to set him off again.

They have nearly reached the drop-off point when Steve breaks the silence.

“Alright, get ready to attack. Stark, Barton, we´ll let you out at the opposite building. Try to spare lives whenever possible, but don´t be gentle.”

“Let´s beat them up.” Clint translates, earning a disapproving glance from Steve.

“Stark, wouldn´t this be the time to suit up? Where´s your armour?” Clint asks.

“Well....” Tony puts on his showman grin, trying not to wince while he slides into the seat next to the exit. He plugs his finger into the concealed mechanism and Clint can´t contain a whistle when the Iron Man suit starts unfolding itself over Tony´s body.

“Let´s kick their asses,” he grins, then the hatch below slides open and he falls into the sky above New York.

---

Maneuvering the suit brings on a new level of pain. Every instinct tells him to pull his knees up to his chest and curl into a ball, but unfortunately he needs his legs stretched and his body in full tension in order to fly precisely. Tony goes straight for a headdive and moans when the change of altitude brings agony and a new wave of nausea.

It doesn´t stop him from kicking their asses, oh no, he screws them up just fine. Maybe a few of his beams hit harder and provoke more windows to blow up than intended, and maybe the pain makes him just a bit more aggressive than he typically would be, but he accomplishes the mission alright. Iron Man isn´t stopped by the stomach flu. No way.

Even if it´s not a stomach flu. Tony has just covered Steve´s entry into the building when the pain flames up harder than before, and this time it´s concentrated in the lower right of his stomach, prompting him to press a hand to his armour in a fruitless attempt of comforting himself. He understands the implications a second before Friday tells him.

“Sir, based on your statistics and the local concentration of pain, it seems very probable that you have appendiscitis. I advise to seek medical -”

Which is when he mutes her and grits his teeth together. They have nearly gotten the upper hand, and once he´ll be done with the mission, there should be enough time to get to the tower on his own before dealing with this problem. At least he knows what´s wrong with him.

Then an explosive hits him into the stomach, strong enough to leave a dent in his armour.

Tony feels like he´s been kicked by an elephant. He doubles over in mid flight, gasping for air, and involuntarily fires a repulsor beam from his gauntlet that barely misses Clint on the opposite roof top.

“It´s great that you want to show off your stunts, Stark, but please don´t try to kill your teammates.... again.”

The bitterness in Cap´s voice feels like another kick in the gut, but Tony can´t spare the breath for a comeback. He makes it to the ground in a tumble-flight, hoping noone observes him, and doubles over behind a large rock. He can barely get the faceplate up before he is retching again. He is pretty sure that he might very possibly be dying, because it hurts, every movement feels like being stabbed into the abdomen with a fucking knife. There´s no way he´s getting up right now, so he grants himself a few minutes, knowing he needs to return to the fight soon -

“Stark? What the fuck is going on?”

Nat is standing over him, all adrenaline and anger. Tony can't answer because he is still dry heaving, the sheer force of it driving tears into his eyes.

“Well?” she looks him up and down.

“It´s...never mind.” Tony forces his breathing to slow down and drags a metal glove over his mouth, doing nothing but spreading bile all over it. He realizes that he´s shaking, whether it is from fever or pain, he doesn´t know.

“Weren´t you supposed to be somewhere...not here?” His thoughts are not exactly coherent at the moment, but he is pretty sure that Nat should be inside the building right now, not in front of it.

“Well, sometimes we change plans when we realize that our teammates are hiding things from us. Things like....appendiscitis?”

“How the fuck do you - “

“You´re not the only one capable of extracting information from computer systems, wonder boy.”

“There´s no way you hacked Friday-”

“We had a little talk, from girl to girl. She was in the mood of chatting.”

“What the...”

Traitor. He´ll have to have a word with his AI, for sure, and remind her of her loyalties. After he stops dying, that is. Nat is still glaring at him, and there is no need to voice her accusation for Tony to know what she´s thinking.

“I'd have gone and fixed it in the tower.”

She starts to respond, but at that moment Tony spots two very unfriendly looking drones racing towards them at breakneck speed.

“Nat, down!” he shouts while firing a repulsor beam from his gauntlet. He only hits one of the drones, but it´s enough to get the other off its course for as long as it takes Nat to gun it down.

“That´s what I call teamwork,” he rasps, clutching his side, “See, I just saved your life, stop being mad.”

“You need to get to a hospital, Tony.”

Wow, he must actually be looking worse for wear for her to use his first name.

“Yeah...I´ll get on my way, just - just give me a moment.” He tries to get up, but his knees buckle and he groans in pain.

“You´re not going anywhere alone right now.” Nat states. “And anyways, you´re in no state to maneuver that suit. You´ll probably end up crashing into a skyscraper or something.”

She points at his armour. “Can you open this?”

“Ugh.”

He somehow, slowly, gets out of the suit, and every movement rips through his stomach like a blade. Nat supports him till her motorbike - he doesn´t know how she manages this, considering that he weighs probably twice as much as her even without the armour - and then starts maneuvering them through the streets of debris.

Tony allows himself to zone out. The adrenaline of the battle is wearing off, and it´s harder to concentrate on anything but the agony he´s in. He doesn't want to, but his head lands on her shoulder when he curls into himself for a tiny bit of comfort. Nat would usually slap him for this, or worse, but given that she doesn´t even comment, he must be in a pretty pathetic shape right now.

Ten minutes into the ride the motion seeps into his bones and he can´t keep his stomach in place anymore.

“Hey,” he weakly taps on her back, “Stop, Nat, I need to puke -”

She brings the bike to a standstill with a swerve that turns Tony´s stomach even further, and it´s all he can do to aim away from her leg when he bends forward  and retches. He´s long empty, but the dry heaving doesn´t stop, every ragged breath spiking pain in his abdomen that spreads through his back and his legs. He digs his fingers into Nat´s waist as not to topple over.

“Stark, it´s enough. Breathe now.”

There´s no pity or compassion in her voice, and Tony is grateful for that.

---

When they reach the hospital, Nat deposits him in a plastic chair in the waiting area and goes to handle the formalities. He tries to focus on his breathing and ignore the pain, but it´s hard.

In, out, stab. This is ridiculous, Iron Man being taken down by appendiscitis.

In, out, stab. He wishes he doesn´t throw up again.

In, out, stab. He wishes he still had his suit and Jarvis to distract him.

In, out stab. Or Friday, he´s not picky anymore. He´d settle for Dummy at this point.

In, out, stab. He wonders what Pepper is doing. If she misses him. Then he realizes that his thoughts are turning whiny, and focuses on mentally drawing up the design of an iron watch gauntlet.

He doesn´t catch much of what is happening through the waves of pain, and  he must have zoned out a bit again, because the blood tests are completed faster than seems possible, and suddenly he´s in a hospital bed, ready for surgery.

“You´d make a good PA, anyone told you that yet?” he asks when Nat makes him sign a form.

“I was being nice because you look like death, but there´s a limit, Stark.”

“Ah, that´s my little assassin. Was starting to miss you....”

---

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is a strand of red hair floating somewhere at the edge of his vision.

“Pepper?” he asks, more hoping than actually assuming it to be her.

The disappointment is still real when he recognizes that the red is wrong, too aggressive, that it's Nat´s. She raises her eyebrows sarcastically, but he catches a tiny hint of sadness playing around her mouth.

Tony props himself up a bit to look around. His mind is still hazy with painkillers, and the world is spinning quite a bit more than he´s comfortable with, but he is pretty sure that he isn´t hallucinating three Avengers around his hospital bed, clad in full battle gear and all.

“Am I a terminal cancer patient?” is the first thing he can think of.

“You won´ t believe that, but for you, we actually show up even if you´re in no immediate danger of kicking the bucket.” Clint replies.

Tony honestly hadn´t expected to see them here. Not after Ultron. He swallows down a disgustingly sweet surge of emotions, caused solely by the drugs in his blood-stream, nothing else, and searches for something to say.

His eyes find Steve´s face, on which bruises are beginning to show.

“You look beat up, Cap. Battle didn´t go so well without me?”

“They won, actually.” Nat states drily.

He should come up with something sophisticated now, but the meds must have reloaded, because his brain feels slow and muddled, as if it´s wrapped up in cotton.

“Oh,” he manages, then his vision tunnels, and the last thing he wonders before unconsciousness takes over is whether anyone has told Friday that he is okay.

The next time he comes to, it´s still not Pepper who is sitting uncomfortably on the tiny plastic chair next to his bed, but at least Steve has changed into a less-shiny civilian outfit.

"Hey there. I'm back, I guess." Tony greets hoarsely, his throat still a little rough.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asks, setting a glass of water with a straw on the bedside table.

"My mouth tastes like the last time I ate was back in 1940, my head´s pounding, and knowing that you were watching me sleep is creepy enough... But all considered, pretty relieved, with one appendix less to carry around."

Steve only gives a weak smile. A few minutes of slience follow in which Tony sips on the water and then proceeds to examine the surgical gauze taped onto his lower side.

Steve is the one to address the elephant in the room.

"Okay, now. This is just as unpleasant for me as it is for you, so let´s get over with this quickly. I don't have to tell you that you endangered the mission - ," he cuts of Tony's protest with a raised hand, "or how disappointing it is that you felt your health issues are concerning noone but yourself - “

"Rogers, we both know that you won´t get me to pour out my life´s secrets. And looking at the team, I'm by far not the only one who doesn't exactly open up to others."

Something dark crosses Steve's face, an expression Tony can't quite place, one he's not sure he should ask about.

"Point taken." Steve concedes. "But it has to be clear that you can´t compromise the missions. Next time you´re unable to fight - yes, appendiscitis counts into that - you have to report it. No compromise on that."

"Aye aye, Cap." Tony brings a hand to his forehead in a mocking salute, but he's still uncoordinated and misses by several inches.

Steve gives him a pointed look, but the tension slowly vanishes from his expression.

“We tried to contact Pepper, but we were unable to reach her,” he changes the topic, “She´s not at the tower?”

“She's busy. On a busy-ness trip." Tony replies. He somehow finds the pun much funnier than it deserves.

Steve frowns at him.

"Just leave it.” Tony deflects, avoiding Steve´s eyes.

“If you want to call her personally...” he pulls Tony´s mobile out of his jacket and sets it on the blanket. “I´ll be outside, get some coffee.”

Tony nods his approval and waits until Steve has closed the door before taking the phone. He twists it in between his fingers for a few times, his thumb hovering above the call icon with Pepper´s photo.

“Friday, you´re there?” he finally asks.

“Yes, Sir, and I am glad you are recovering.” the AI´s voice says from the phone speakers.

“Turn up AC/DC.” he instructs.

Then he sinks back into the pillows and listens when the music doesn´t quite manage to drive the silence away.

[miracufic]

Have Your Cake (And Eat it Too): Chapter 16

A collab fic with @loosescrewslefty, now found on AO3!

Inspired by @larvesta‘s post here.

< Previous Next >

In Which Two Steps Forward Are Taken

Alya glares at her homework with enough vicious intensity that the paper seems to shrink away out of sheer terror.  Through the wall she can hear the low arguing of her parents, which occasionally rises to a furious screech before her mother brings her voice back down. Probably to avoid disturbing her sisters.

How considerate of her.

Her phone, charging off on the side of her desk, buzzes.  Alya reaches over and unlocks it, glancing at the screen.

A message from Nino.  She taps the notification and opens it.

“Hey babe,” she reads.  “ur mom looked pretty angry earlier when she came by to pick u up”

She considers giving his commentary the degree of attention it deserves—which, considering that even blind-as-a-bat Nino sans glasses could’ve noticed the expression of barely-controlled rage on her mother’s face from twenty paces, probably merited only a flatly sarcastic “Really.” or “Wow, you think so?”—but refrains.  Nino wasn’t doing anything wrong, and it wasn’t fair of her to vent her spleen at him.

“Yeah, she decided to chew me out over what happened in school today,” she texts back.

“Ovr everyone going after chloe”

“Yeah.”

“U all right”

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.  I mean, aside from being grounded for a month.  And suspended.”

“Uh”

After a second, Nino follows up his message with a concisely eloquent “What.”

“Yeah, it turns out that fucking spineless tit Damocles doesn’t like being called a corrupt pig chained to the petty whims of a vain teenaged brat of a girl.”

A few more seconds pass before Nino replies, “You what”.

“I may have lost my temper at him.  Slightly.”

“After the rest of us left huh”

“Yeah.”

“Babe i love u”

“I sense a but coming.”

“But you really really need to cool it with the whole provoking chloe thing”

Alya quashes the shrieking, rising tide of rage and goes intead with a measured, “Nino, I would choose your next words.  Very.  Carefully.”

“Oh for crying out loud just wait a sec”

She waits a second.  Then a minute.

“Well?”

“Look we all get it,” Nino writes.  “We all love mari and we all hate that chloe likes to pick on her and letting that stuff slide makes none of us happy.  But ur the only one of us whose mom actually works for her.  Do u think that shes not going to be petty enough to go after ur fam?”

The entire apartment goes still.  A quiet, high-pitched ringing fills her ears.

“Babe?

Uh babe

Babe u havent said anything

Its been like a minute

Oh fuck

Did ur mom lose her job”

“No,” Alya types in quickly, “no, we’re fine, Nino.”

“Oh good”

“I had not thought of that, damn.”  Alya stops and chews on her upper lip.  “But look, I don’t”

“Look I know u dont want to not do the right thing,” Nino texts before she can finish.  “Uh if you get my point”

“I do, thank you Nino.”

“But u need to take care of urself too

Mari wouldnt want u to ruin ur life for her”

“Look, even /she/ can’t get Mom fired that easily, there are too many ways they’d get screwed over legally.”

“U think she cares abt laws?  Or knows abt them?”

“No, but her father does.”

A pause.  Then, “Point but I still think u should back off a bit.  U dont need to keep going after chloe all the time, we can do tht. Just focus on helping mari.”

Alya stares at the message for a few seconds before tapping in, “Look, can you take a call right now?”

“Sure”

A second later, her phone rings.  She accepts the call and turns on the speakerphone.

“Hey babe,” Nino says.

“Nino, I can’t do that,” Alya says.  “No, let me finish.  Marinette needs someone who’ll always be there to stand up for her, and—I’m trying not to be too judgmental here, but you guys have dropped the ball consistently there.”

“Okay,” Nino says after a moment.  “Harsh, but yeah, I get what you’re saying.”

“So I—can’t, Nino,” Alya says, “I can’t just do that to her.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Nino says with a sigh.  “How long are you going to be out of class?”

“Eight days starting tomorrow,” Alya says.  “So I’ll be back, uh, next next Tuesday, I think.  Yeah, Tuesday.”

“All right,” Nino says.  “I’ll talk to Adrien, see if the four of us can’t hang out at your place sometime this weekend.”

“That is probably not going to work,” Alya says, sticking her tongue out in the direction of the living room.  “Grounded, remember?  I sincerely doubt Mom’d let me have friends over.”

“Yeesh,” Nino says.  “Think that telling her that we’re bringing class notes would work?  We have that test in math the Friday you get back.”

“I think the automatic response to that would be ‘why don’t you just email them to her?’” Alya says, making a face.  “You’re welcome to give it a shot, though.”

“Sometimes I forget how harsh your mom is,” Nino says.  Someone says something in the background, the words indistinct.  Nino responds, “Yeah, give me a sec.”

“You need to go?”

“Chores,” Nino says.

“Wow,” Alya says.  “Bummer.”

“Your mockery is noted and unappreciated,” Nino says with a haughty sniff. “Love you, babe.  Talk to you later.”

“Love you, Nino.”

Alya sets her phone down on her desk with a quiet click as Nino hangs up and slumps back into her chair, letting the noises of her apartment fill her room.

It’s just that the noises are about ninety percent her parents arguing.

“What’s going to happen the next time she decides to do that to an authority figure?” her mother shouts, the words punching easily through the intervening walls.  “She could get arrested!  Or shot!”

“And what kind of message do you think we’re sending to her,” her father replies, his basso voice a heated rumble, “to her sisters?  That if someone powerful and influential does something wrong they should just shuffle along and pretend that nothing wrong is going on?”

“There is a time and a place for these things, and neither of them is right in front of the Headmaster, to the Headmaster’s face!”

“Then where?  Then when? When is a good time to point out the obvious injustice of her situation?”

“She goes to the rector, or someone else up the ladder from the Headmaster,” her mother says.  “She uses some common sense and good judgment instead of rash bullheadedness!”

Alya sighs, heads to her bed, and stuffs her head beneath her pillow, muffling her father’s reply.

At some point, she falls asleep.

“Morning, Nino,” Marinette says the next morning as he walks in with Adrien at his heels; Adrien slides his torn bag across to Marinette with a wink that makes something flush hotly in her chest.  “M-Morning, Adrien.  Hey,” Marinette says, “did either of you see Alya on your way in?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Nino says, his brows popping up for a moment.  “She decided to yell at Damocles for basically just doing whatever Chloe wants him to do instead of his job.  She got suspended.”

“Uh,” Adrien says.

“She what?” Marinette says.

“She, uh, basically called Damocles a sock puppet with Chloe’s Dad’s hand up his ass,” Nino says.

“To his face,” Marinette says.

“A-yup.”

Marinette swears under her breath as Adrien asks, “How long is she suspended for?”

“Two weeks,” Nino says.

“Wait, what?” Alix says.  She reaches up and pops out an earbud.  The sound of someone screeching loudly in Russian while an electric guitar howls in the background rings tinnily from it before she reaches down and pauses her music. “Chloe got Alya suspended?”

“This is going to get repetitive,” Nino mutters under his breath. “All right, so Alya got in a shouting match with Damocles, said some things she shouldn’t have, Damocles gave her a two-week suspension.  I don’t know if Chloe actually, y’know, told him to punish her or if she egged her on, but that’s all I know.”

“Aw, jeez,” Alix says, rolling her eyes and slumping back into her chair. “Your girlfriend is an idiot, Nino.”

“Sometimes,” Nino says.

They hear a haughty sniff from the door way and a rapid clat-clatter of heels on the floor.  Half a dozen heads—Adrien’s, Alix’s, Marinette’s, Nino’s, Kim’s, and Lila’s—turn towards Chloe as she struts to her seat, followed closely by Sabrina.

“Only a shame she couldn’t get expelled,” she says as she sits.  “But I’m sure she’ll slip up at some point.”

“We can only hope,” Alix says, attempting to make Chloe spontaneously combust with sheer force of will.

“Why, thank you—“

“I don’t think she was talking about you, Chloe,” Lila says.

“No,” Alix confirms, “I wasn’t.  Thank you for the clarification.  Some people needed it, apparently.”  She waves to Mylene and Ivan as they shuffle into class as well and puts her feet up on the desk and her hands behind her head.

“Excuse me?” Chloe says, bristling.

Alix takes a deep, satisfied breath.  “For the benefit of the idiot in the room,” she says, “I’ll repeat myself. One of these days, you’re going to let your gigantic ego get the better of you, and you’re going to do something so monumentally stupid even by your standards that even dear old daddy isn’t going to be able to cover for you, and all of us are going to be rid of your burden.”

Nino sighs and turns on his music, bringing up the volume until the sounds of Alix, Mylene, and Chloe screaming at each other are mostly drowned out.  Adrien slouches beside him and looks miserable. Marinette takes out her sketchbook and starts to scribble as the others file in.

“Uh, excuse me,” Rose asks Nino as she and Juleka come in a few minutes later. Nino pries his headphones loose and cocks an ear towards her.  “Where’s Al—“

“Later,” Nino groans, “please.”

Juleka approaches him later as everyone is queuing up to leave for lunch.

“Alya’s been suspended because she mouthed off to Damocles,” Nino says, “she’ll be back in a couple weeks.”

Juleka blinks at him.  “Uh,” she says.  “Yeah. I know.  Rose told me.”

“Oh thank god,” Nino says.  “You would not believe how many times I’ve needed to repeat myself today.”

“Fourteen times,” Juleka says.  “Max’s been keeping score.  Kim has a small betting pool going as to when you’ll crack.”

“He what?”

“He’s set up a betting pool as to how many times people will need to ask you where Alya is before you snap,” Juleka says.

“How much is in the pot?” Nino asks.

“Around twenty euros,” Juleka says.

“Who’s winning right now?”

“Rose and I,” Juleka says.  “We’ve put five euros in on you snapping at seventeen asks.”

Nino blinks at her, then lets his head sink into his hands.  “You guys suck,” he says, voice muffled.

“Love you too.  Anyways, what I was going to ask was whether you knew what was going on with Adrien and Marinette.”

Nino looks up, bemused.  “What do you mean ‘what’s going on’?”

“Rose says that they’ve been a lot touchier than usual,” Juleka says. “They seem a lot closer than they were yesterday,” she translates after a look at Nino’s expression.

Nino thinks it over, his intuition throwing sparks onto tinder at the back of his mind.

“Maybe something’s happened,” he says with a shrug.  “Tell you the truth, I hadn’t noticed anything really different.”

“Too worried about Alya?”

“Too worried about Chloe deciding to do something involving Alya,” Nino says.  “She’s not exactly a kind, wonderful, forgiving, charitable sort of person.”

Juleka makes a face.  “Don’t need to tell me twice,” she says.  She glances up at Rose, waiting patiently for her at the sidewalk.  “Look, I gotta go.  See you later?”

“Later.”

Nino watches the two of them go, absorbed in thought until Adrien’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder.

“Huh?  Oh, hey,” Nino says.

“Heading home for lunch?” Adrien asks, sitting next to him on the school’s front steps.

“Duh,” Nino says.

“Want a ride?  The Gorilla should be here in a few.”

“Sure,” Nino says.

His mind flits back to what Juleka had said.  Adrien had been closer to Marinette, had he?  Well, he had offered her his help in snagging him way back when, and it wasn’t like it’d hurt to give him just a little nudge. And they didn’t have anything else to do.

“Hey, is everything all right with Mari?” Nino asks, giving Adrien a sidelong glance.  “She seemed really shaken up the other day.”

“Hm?  Oh, yeah,” Adrien says.  “She looked a lot better when I left.  You and Alya went to visit after school, right?”

“Yeah,” Nino says.  “Seemed a little tense, but at least she wasn’t actually freaking out.”

“That’s good,” Adrien says.

Nino leans back onto his elbows.  “Hey,” he says, “do you know why she had all those band-aids on her fingers?”

“Oh, burned herself on a hot pan,” Adrien says, then hastily adds, “that’s my best guess at any rate.  She does a lot of baking, doesn’t she?”

“Probably,” Nino says.  “Someone’ll need to help her with stuff.”

“Probably,” Adrien echoes.  “Real question is, will she let herself be helped.”

“Pride goeth,” Nino says.

“Hey, at least one of us will be there to catch her if she trips, right?” Adrien says.  He shoots Nino a sunny, wolfish smile.  “What are friends for, anyways?”

Nino mirrors his smile and offers up his fist.  Adrien taps his knuckles to his as a car pulls up to the curb.  “Come on,” Adrien says.  “Let’s go.”

“Hey, is your hand doing better?” Adrien asks Marinette.  “Your blisters are healing well?”

“Yes, they are,” Marinette says with a patient sigh and a small smile.  “Please stop fussing, I’m not an invalid, Adrien.”

Rose coos at them while Chloe glowers, fuming so ferociously that for a second Nino is forcibly reminded of Mt. Etna, looming over the innocent and unaware citizens of Catania, ready to obliterate them and their little lives in a moment’s notice.

Nino lets his attention drift to more important matters once he’s satisfied that Chloe isn’t going to explode and try to claw someone’s eyes out.  At least in the immediate future.

Marinette and Adrien had been, well, the only word that really fit was odd, over the past week.

Adrien had been fairly normal, aside from the aggressively keen interest he’d started showing in Marinette—Nino lets himself preen a little at that, go him.  Just one week and Adrien was already well on the way to asking her out, Alya was going to freak.  But their every interaction had been tempered with a sense of coiled restraint on Adrien’s part, like he’d desperately wanted to do something or to say something but had felt that the time or the place or the company wasn’t quite right.  Although Chloe’s constant, hovering presence all three were more or less the case.

And, well, Marinette.  She should’ve been over the moon with Adrien’s constant, focused attention, Nino was sure.  He knew that he wasn’t exactly a master at reading people but Marinette could be counted on to be as ecstatic as Chloe was incensed whenever Adrien paid her the least bit of attention.

Or, she had been, at least.  Now she was distant and distracted half the time; but why?  It probably wasn’t anything Chloe had done, every other time this week she’d made an attempt to crack Marinette’s composure they’d put a stop to it before things could get, ahem, messy.  Maybe the aftereffects of Chloe’s dumb trick with the honey?  But she’d seemed practically normal just a couple days after that.  Maybe she was just worried for Alya?  That felt a lot more likely, but his gut was still telling him that there was something off about that guess.

Nino grumbles under his breath.  He needs Alya for this.  Well, a couple more days and she’ll be back, and then maybe they’d be able to figure this mess out.

But first, of course, he needs to pass this dumb exam, or his parents would have his head.  He turns his thoughts away from his friends’ relationship drama and back towards the mass of incomprehensible squiggles on the board.

“I—“

Thunk.

“—hate—“

Thunk.

“—this.”

Thunk.

“I’m pretty sure that concussing yourself isn’t going to help, Nino,” Adrien says from where he lounges on Marinette’s floor.  Marinette lobs a croissant at his head; Adrien catches it, shoots a wink back her way, and bites off one of the horns.

“Not all of us have fancy math tutors to help us, Mr. ‘I’m already learning calculus’,” Nino mutters darkly.  He catches the pain au chocolat that Marinette throws to him and starts chewing steadily through it, not bothering to brush away the crumbs that fall into the spine of his open math textbook.  “Seriously, this is all Greek to me.”

“You did pretty well on the homework for this section, didn’t you?” Marinette says.  She takes the last pastry, a cheese danish, from the plate on her desk, folds it in half, and takes a bite.

“I thought I did,” Nino says.  “But since I don’t get a single thing this book is saying, I’m having second thoughts about that.”

“In fairness, this isn’t the best resource in the first place,” Adrien says, “according to my tutor anyways.  Frankly I think he just has a personal vendetta against the author or the publisher or something.”

“Well, it is an American publishing house,” Marinette says, flipping through page after page of arcane scrawl with a glazed, disinterested air. “Think that has something to do with it?”

“Maybe,” Adrien says.

“Oh, yeah, do you mind if I drop by and use your scanner later, Adrien?” Nino says.

“Mm?  Yeah, sure, why?”

“Alya’s still under house arrest, remember?” Nino says.  “She’s going to need our notes.”

Adrien pauses in the middle of copying out an equation, shakes his head with a slight frown, and continues.  “Shoot, can’t believe I forgot that.  Think her mom will let her Skype in?”

“Probably,” Nino says.

“I’ll text her and see if she’s open,” Marinette says, pulling out her phone and tapping a quick message.

“I’ll pop down and return the plate,” Adrien says.

Nino groans and rolls onto his back as Adrien hauls open the trapdoor and trots downstairs, sitting up and stretching out his back and neck with a succession of loud pops.

“Seriously, how the heck does Adrien remember all this stuff?” Marinette grumbles, opening a drawer and taking out a sheet of lined paper.  “I’ve been staring at this for half an hour and I still can’t remember all the identities.”

“Fancy expensive math tutor, remember?” Nino says.

“Ah.  Right.”

Nino stares at her back as Marinette starts scribbling, slowly and carefully, her gaze darting back and forth between the text and her notes.

“On the subject of Adrien,” he says carefully.  “Is it just me, or has he been paying a lot more attention to you recently?”

Marinette pauses for a second, then erases a line from her notes. “That’s possible,” she says.

“You’re taking this calmly.”

“You were expecting something else?”

“Yes,” Nino says.  “More flailing, freaking out, panicking, that sort of thing.”

Marinette turns around in her chair and raises an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me?”

“Just saying,” Nino says, “you have, in general, tended to freak whenever Adrien was involved.”

“I have not,” Marinette says, with a coloring of mild indignation to her words.

“Marinette, even Adrien was picking up on how weird you were acting around him,” Nino says.

Marinette frowns slightly.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, like, before all this stupid crap with Chloe and stuff, back when you first met him,” Nino says.  “The flailing, the random squealing, the whole ‘hiding behind the nearest solid object or Alya whenever he’s around’ thing.”

Marinette blinks, a slow blush burning down from her ears into her cheeks and upwards from her shoulders.  After a minute, she looks down and mumbles, “Well, things have changed.”

“Dude,” Nino says.  “You’ve had him fawning over you for an entire week and you’ve kept your cool the entire time?  I’d say ‘things have changed’ is the understatement of the year.”

“No kidding,” Marinette says with a little laugh.

“Hey,” Adrien says, popping his head up through the trapdoor, making them both jump.  “Hey, Nino, you free for dinner?  Marinette’s parents want to know.”

“Uh, probably not,” Nino says.

“All right.”  Adrien shuts the trapdoor behind him and tromps down the stairs.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this while Adrien’s around,” Marinette says.

“Yeah,” Nino says.

Marinette stands and stretches, wincing at the sharp-dull, sharp-dull aching pulse in her back, and brushes a sweat-damp lock of her hair back behind an ear.

She really ought to thank her dad after this.  She’d almost forgotten how much ass cleaning out the ovens sucked.

But hey, on the bright side making sure that the ovens were sparkling now meant less labor for the rest of the month.  Theoretically.

She just wishes that it felt like a plus, instead of like a herniated disc.

Well, punishment wasn’t supposed to be an all-expenses paid vacation, and it wasn’t as though she didn’t kinda sorta deserve it for going behind her parents’ back like that.

She was going to be grounded for so long when they found out about the Ladybug thing.

Her thoughts inexorably shift to Tikki, currently sulking nearby atop one of the counters.

A week had not changed the little spirit’s mind on the whole “tell my boyfriend, who is Chat Noir, that I am Ladybug, who also happens to have been the girl he has pined after for literally his entire career, which granted is only a few months at this point but will definitely help clear up any issues in the future and make our dating life much less awkward in the long run”, or made them more talkative on the subject.  Not a peep, not a word, not a single damn hint as to why they were so reluctant to let her tell him.

Frustrating in the extreme.

And what makes it worse, she reflects as she starts scrubbing the next oven, is that the kwami wouldn’t be so insistent if they didn’t have a very, very good reason.

She crawls inside the oven, wriggling flat on her back to fit, and bangs her head on something when she hears a sudden sharp rapping on the bakery’s front door.

“Ow,” she growls as she shimmies her way back out, rubbing the spot—that was going to leave a bruise.  Who the hell would come by at this hour?  Well, burglars, maybe, but they’d just try to smash in one of the windows, they wouldn’t knock.

Rap rap rap rap.

“All right, all right, I’m coming, what the hell do you—“

Adrien—Chat Noir, she corrects herself mentally—is standing on her front step.

She goggles at him for a moment as he waves cheerily.

“What the hell are you doing here this late,” Marinette hisses at him as she unlocks the door.  “Keep it down, we’re dead meat if Mama and Papa hear us.”

“Well, I had some time before my evening patrol,” Chat purrs as Marinette unlocks the security gate and pulls it open as quietly as she can.  “And I figured that I’d stop by to see my favorite—“

“Knock it off, Adrien,” Marinette says, “I’m serious, you’re not even supposed to be here unless it’s to help me study!  At least for another few weeks.”

Chat reaches behind him and pulls out a folded sheet of paper from his belt.  “I figured you might need this,” he says innocently.  “You know, for the test.”

Marinette stares blankly at it, then at his all-too-innocently-sunny expression.

Oh, fuck it.  She’d missed this.

“Come in,” she says resignedly, taking the paper from him and stuffing it into a pocket.  She pulls the security gate across and locks it again as Chat skips in, humming a little tune under his breath.

He engulfs her in a hug from behind, gently resting his chin on her shoulder.  Marinette jumps in surprise, nearly headbutting him as she instinctively jerks backwards, her heel twitching upwards in an entirely reflexive movement. Then she relaxes and sinks into the embrace.  Her hands move to rest languidly over his arms.

“I missed you,” he says.

Marinette snorts.  “You were here like, two hours ago.  And we’ll see each other tomorrow anyways.”

“I still missed you,” he says.  “And I missed this.  Being able to just be alone with you.”

“You are so needy,” she says, reaching up to scratch him behind an ear; he purrs and leans into her touch.  “And don’t pout at me like that.”

“You can’t even see my face,” he says.

“I can see your reflection in the glass, kitty,” Marinette says.  She pushes at his arms around her waist until he releases her, with many whines of protest.  “And don’t bother with the kitty eyes either.”

Chat turns the kitty eyes up to eleven as Marinette turns to face him with a small smile flitting about the edges of her composure, then up to twelve as she shows no sign of budging.

“I give,” he says after a minute.

“Hah!”  Marinette raises both fists in the air, walking a mock victory lap around Chat as he claps.  “Do I win anything, oh boyfriend-of-mine?”

The expression on his face drains, to be replaced nervous wariness.

“Uh, Chat?  What’s wrong?”

“Uh,” he says after a moment.  “That’s actually what I came here about, we never really got a chance to make it official, remember?”

“What?  Oh.”

Marinette, despite herself, flushes and looks down at her feet.

“You, uh,” Chat says, “um, ever done this before?”

“No,” Marinette says quickly, glancing up.  “No, you’d be my first.  I mean, if you want to be.”

“Oh, good,” he says.

The two stand a little bit apart from each other, staring at each other’s shoes, neither daring to make the first move.  Marinette almost laughs; they must’ve looked ridiculous, the two of them, standing there all bashful and coy and whatever.

And then, with that thought, her nervousness vanishes.

He was as nervous as she was.  Him. Perfect boy, whom she’d pined after for so long, was nervous, and she, little plain ol’ her, was the cause.  The sudden tide of light-headed relief almost makes her laugh.  She was standing here all sweaty and dirty and in her rumpled, baggy work clothes and Mr. Swoony Teenage Supermodel was the one looking for escape routes.

“You are such a dork,” Marinette says.

And then she stretches up on tiptoe and kisses him, lightly and chastely, on the lips.

Chat freezes as she leans into him, her hands on his shoulders, her eyes sliding shut, the corners of her mouth turning up in a small smile as she feels the warmth and the life and the trembling, breath-stealing fear in him as it drains away, to be replaced with the absolute reality of the moment and the unquestionable, unassailable truth of them, here and now, together.

He leans into the kiss, slowly, without passion, but with a growing and absolute surety in two unspoken things.

She’s his.

He’s hers.

After a timeless, breathless little eternity, Marinette pulls away and settles back onto her heels.  Her small smile grows wider as she sees the look on his face.

“Chat got your tongue?” she says.

Chat blinks and refocuses.  “I’m supposed to be the one with the terrible lines,” he says, reaching out to cup her cheek in one hand.  His ears twitch as Marinette leans into his touch, and he could swear that he hears the rapid thudding beat of her—or was it his?—heart as they hold each other’s gaze.

“So, uh,” Chat says after a long while.  He drops his hands to his sides.  “Do you need help with those?”

“Huh?”  Marinette blinks at him as she shifts mental gears.

“The ovens,” he says.

“Oh,” she says.  “Nah, I’m good.  I should be done in another ten, fifteen minutes.”

“It’d go faster if I helped.”

“It’s not big enough to fit both of us at the same time,” Marinette says, prodding him gently towards the front door.  “Besides, Mama and Papa would freak out if they saw you here.”

“I’m not entirely sure your parents are capable of that,” Chat says as she unlocks the gate.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” Marinette says.  She stretches up on tiptoe again and pecks him on the nose.  “Night.”

Chat takes her hand and presses a kiss to the back.  “Good evening, Princess,” he says.

Then he vanishes into the night.

Marinette locks up the bakery again and finishes cleaning the oven, then traipses upstairs, humming happily.

“Finished, dear?” Sabine asks as Marinette starts up the stairs to her room.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Good,” Sabine says.  “Don’t stay up too late, dear.”

“Or be entertaining any boys,” she calls as an afterthought.

“I promise, Mama,” Marinette says.

Marinette goes to her room, shuts the trapdoor, and is halfway through pulling her sleep clothes from her closet when she notices the phone on her rug.

“Huh.”

She glances over to where her own phone is charging on her desk, then back at the phone on her rug, then walks over and picks it up, turning it over in her hands.

Nino’s.  He must’ve dropped it during their study session.

She turns on the screen: four missed calls from a number labeled as “Home”. The calls must’ve come in when she was downstairs in the bakery.

Marinette shrugs and places the phone next to hers.  She can just give to him tomorrow, no big deal.

Marinette leaves and takes her shower, then, still floating along on cloud nine, curls up in her bed under her blankets, and falls asleep smiling.

Nino sprints down the sidewalk, legs churning, his every breath a knife in his chest.

Forget his phone, forget getting it back, forget all of that, there were more important things to worry about at the moment.  He needs to get back home, he needs to get to his computer, he needs to message Alya pronto, he needs to tell someone.

Holy.

Fuck.

Adrien was going to flip.