#okay I SUPPOSE i should have tendered my resignation

[honeylemonbutte]

I have not shown up to work for TWO YEARS

GET IT TOGETHER HYPERFORCE

[vodika-vibes]

Heeeey, if you’re taking requests still and not too busy could you please do some headcanons for Alpha-17 with a pregnant SO?

So You're Going To Be A Dad...

Summary: Alpha-17 finds out his cyar’ika is pregnant.

Pairing: Alpha-17 x F!Reader

Word Count: 986

Warnings: Pregnancy

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly @kimiheartblade @mire-draws-things

A/N: So, I'm not so good at headcanons, so have a short story instead? I hope you like it and I'm sorry it took so long!

So the relationship with Alpha is supposed to just be a fun thing. Stress relief for both of you. He has a hard job as the ARC Trainer, and you have a hard job keeping people in one piece. So the relationship developed as a way for you to keep yourself sane.

It was never supposed to be “real”. 

But you’re so busy, that sometimes things fall through the cracks. Things like getting your implant updated when the timing ran out.

You didn’t even realize that the implant wasn’t working anymore until you got a free day and took the time to check your calendar and saw the note reminding you that you needed a new implant several months ago.

And your heart just sinks.

Because despite the implant no longer working, you haven’t been having your period. And you should have been. In fact, that’s generally how you tell that it’s time to get a new implant.

There are two options. Option 1, you’re so stressed that your period just hasn’t started. Or option 2, you’re pregnant.

You’re not dumb, you know that option 2 is the most likely option, even if you’re hoping that option 1 is the actual answer.

A quick run back to your lab, and an even quicker pregnancy test, answers that question once and for all.

You’re pregnant. And, since it takes two people to make a baby, the first thing you do is call Alpha-17 to your quarters so you can tell him the news. He is the dad after all.

Alpha comes to your suite after he finishes his work, and he immediately slides his arms around your waist, and starts raining kisses against your lips, face, and down your neck.

Normally, you’d be more than okay with this. Alpha is the best lover you’ve ever had, but not today.

So when he moves to catch your lips with his own, you lift a single finger and press it against his lips. “Not tonight, Alpha,” You whisper up to him, and he arches a single brow.

“You called me here because you don’t want me, cyar’ika?” He asks, amusement coloring his tone.

“I called you here because I need to tell you something.” You correct as you lightly trail your fingers down his chest, more for your comfort than his, “There’s no easy way to say this, I suppose, so…I’m pregnant.”

Alpha blinks at you. Twice. And then he sets his hands on your shoulders and he pushes you back slightly, “What?”

“I karked up. I was so busy that I wasn’t paying attention to my own medical needs, and the implant ran out several months ago,” You ramble, “And I’m pregnant. Several months along, by my best reckoning.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pregnancy tests are very accurate,”

He exhales slowly, “Okay. Okay, so what do we do?”

You bring your thumb to your mouth and start biting your nail, an anxious habit you thought you had grown out of, but not so much it looks like. Alpha quickly takes your hand and pulls it away from your mouth, folding your hands in his.

“Um…right.” You mumble, “Well, I could, in theory, tell people that I’m pregnant with donor sperm, I was off Kamino for a couple of weeks a couple of months ago.” You frown, “But, unless the baby comes out looking exactly like me, then it will be obvious that they’re half-clone. And we both know what will happen then.”

“The Longnecks will claim them as theirs,” Alpha says.

“Yeah.” You pause, “I suppose I could tender my resignation and leave Kamino before it gets too obvious—”

“Absolutely not.” Alpha interrupts, “You don’t get to raise my kid without me.”

“Okay, then what do you want to do?” You demand.

“I’m thinking.” He glances to the side as he thinks, then he looks at you again, “For now, you need to sit down. Have you eaten anything yet?”

“...what?”

“You’re pregnant. You need food, and if you’re not going to take care of yourself, then I’ll take care of you for you.”

You stare at him in surprise, whatever you were expecting when you told him you were pregnant, his becoming aggressively overprotective was not it. “Uhm…there’s leftovers in the fridge, I was just going to heat that.”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Pull up some baby books, and some maternity books. I want to know what kind of stuff you should be eating.”

“I can eat whatever I want, Alpha-17!”

“You eat like shit anyway, I know you skip more meals than you eat.”

“That is…inargueably true.”

“So you agree that you need me to take care of you.”

“I forget to eat sometimes, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is when you’re growing another person.”

“Fine,” You fold your arms and drop on your couch, “I’ll do what you ask, but I’m doing it under protest.”

“Noted.”

Still, you can’t help but think as Alpha starts making a proper dinner for both of you, he’s going to be a better dad than you ever hoped. Assuming that a solution for the Kaminoan problem ever rears its head.

Two weeks later, Alpha locks you in your medical lab with the rest of the civilian contractors. He says that it’s because it’s the safest place on Kamino, and the entire medical facility is blaster-proof and explosion-proof.

You think it’s a weird thing for him to say, right up until the shooting starts. 

When the doors slide open six hours later it’s to a very different Kamino. And Alpha comes to you with a small smirk on his face, “I handled the problem. Kamino now belongs to the clones.”

“...ah.”

“And you, cyar’ika, need medical attention. Desperately. Let’s move.”

When Obi-Wan Kenobi arrives on Kamino to investigate the attempted assassination of Padme Amidala several months later, it’s to a very different Kamino than anyone was expecting.

[emperor-palpaminty]

May I request this prompt for Tech, please, though solely in a more tender, gentle and caring way? Not a smutty take on it, please, that's not really for me, sorry :(

"undressing your love interest, having to tend to their wounds, trying not to gawk their chest but failing to do so" (though more gawking at the wounds and previous scars Tech has?)

I am just a softie for the Batch being taken care of!

And on terms of Tech, Imperial or normal Tech, whichever you prefer! Thank you so much! And congratulations on finishing your semester!

Ah thank you love!! <3 I love your request. I suppose I did a lot of romance/smut, didn't I? I should have been more considerate anon! Apologies! However know that my inbox is open to prompts that do not need to be romantic/sexual in any way! i hope you like angst!

Warnings: There contains nudity, but it is in no way sexual! there are mentions of wars, wounds, and scars, and a lot of crying. If this fic is not your vibe then I will see you next time, and I do not take offense!

Tech, at this point in his life, lost count of how many times he had gotten into the bacta tank. He would allow it to swallow him, drown him in it but survive. The substance was sweet, sticky, with a stench of medicinal qualities.

Overall, Tech thought as his eyes remained closed and he floated in nothingness, there was not much he could do. 

Hunter was probably two tanks over- it always went in the order of their batch-age. Then Wrecker, himself, and Crosshair. Tech felt his eyes flutter open briefly, just so he could swivel his head and check.

As always Hunter was stiff- corpse like in a vat of blue, face upwards as he soaked. Probably put under again. Wrecker was curled up, as much as he could be at least, in somewhat of a crude fetal position, shuddering on occasion as the bacta ate away at his wounds. He didn’t have to even look at Crosshair to know that his brother was resigned to the tank. He had stopped fighting it a long time ago.

Tech blinked again. The bacta didn’t hurt his eyes, but they stung briefly.

A white coat stood in front of him, arms crossed over their convexed frame as they stared up at him. The details were blurry but Tech didn’t need to see to recognize the medic. Slowly, he pressed out a hand against the glass, smooth under his palms as the shape of their hand passed over the other side. He could not move far, given the breathing mask, but that barriered touch still made him exhale, softly, the bacta burning in his chest as he sat in the cold blue and waited. 

Again.

---

He awoke on a cool bed this time. Well, more like a cot. 

He tried to sit up but a hiss escaped him as his ribs groaned. “My glasses-”

“The Kaminoians are making you new ones. The last ones cracked really bad.” The medic stated, the voice soothing. Tech laid back and tried to stare at the ceiling, attempting to make out the shapes. The steps were harrowing and soft as the medic came back over, sitting down, and he smelled the backa gel. Tech flinched, but the medic shushed him quietly. “It’s okay. I’m going to do it.”

Tech licked his lips. They tasted sticky and artificially sweet. “The medical droid-”

“Tech.” The voice was weak. Broken. Splintered. “I want to. Please.”

Please.

Tech nodded, quietly, allowing the doctorly hands to allow him to sit up. Their gaze pressed on his chest as he sat up, and he leaned forward. The weight shifted to behind him and the medic began softly rubbing the bacta-gel into his back.

The silence was stretched between them.

“So,” Tech cleared his throat. “Like what you see?” He shifted on the sheets as a hoarse chuckle emerged. 

The medic didn’t speak, but the laugh was enough for him. He relaxed as much as the numbing and biting woulds would let him, feeling the medic’s eyes rove over his body as the balm soothed his wounds’ worries, even over the old scars.

There was a soft bump on Tech’s back, and the Medic’s arms wrapped around him. “Why?” The whisper was even more shattered, and ten times louder than a war cry.

Tech sat, hunched forward as the medic leaned into him, waiting for the bacta-gel to heal him. The process, the scars, the wounds would repeat themselves the next day, and the next mission, until the war was over.

At his point, he exhaled and his chest sagged hollowly, with the squeeze of the only loving arms present, he doubted the war ever would actually end for him.

[frostedfaves]

Naive (3)

Masterlist

Pairing: demon!Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: You pick up on the lies in Wanda’s life and she decides to show you the truth.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, dark!fic, demon things™️, more hints at dom/sub because I’m a whore for demon!Wanda

A/N: I can’t believe that it’s been a month since I posted the last one 😭 I have some things planned for the next part and so on but I also kinda wanna take requests again??? idk we all know how I get overwhelmed easily with that so we’ll see what happens there. anyway tell me your thoughts on this please!

Previous part

Waking up feels like gasping for air after being trapped underwater. You aren’t sure how long you were asleep, but the mid afternoon traffic quickly alerts you of how much of the day has passed. 

Despite your head feeling like it’s made of cement, you manage to stand up, slipping off thin pajamas as you walk into the bathroom and stop at the mirror. Your skin seems tender in places and you’re a little bit startled when there isn’t a single indication of the bite marks and scratches you feel, even after rubbing your eyes a few times and turning in every direction possible. Deciding to let it go for now, you reach for the shower stall to turn on the water, detouring to the bedroom instead when you hear your phone ringing.

“Hello?”

“You didn’t save my number, did you?”

“Wanda?” You pull the phone away long enough to quickly clear your throat. “I mean hey, Wanda! What makes you think I didn’t save your number?”

“You answered like you didn’t know who was going to be on the other end.”

“Okay, you caught me,” you admit after a moment of silence. “I promise I’ll save it as soon as we hang up. Anyway, what’s up?”

“Remember that pet adoption center you pointed out to me?” You acknowledge her with a hum. “I was thinking about getting a cat…Wanna tag along?”

“Absolutely! I was just about to shower though so I can be ready in an hour or so.”

“Perfect! I’ll text you when I’m outside.”

The two of you say your goodbyes and you keep your promise of saving her number, typing in her name and hesitating on the emoji keyboard. Realizing you’d spent far too much time contemplating this, you simply save what you have and hurry back to the bathroom, something in your brain urging you to not keep her waiting.

-

Within an hour, she sends you a text in all caps and a smiley face that tells you she’s arrived, and you can’t hide the fact that you’re surprised when you come outside and she’s waiting on the passenger side of the car.

“Hey! How are you?” she greets cheerily as she approaches you with a hug, and you shiver when her hand touches your lower back. “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m okay.” You smile and thank her when she opens the door for you, attempting to collect yourself as she crosses to the driver’s side again. “I’m really happy to see you again.”

“You are?”

“Yeah,” you admit quietly as she pulls away from the curb. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“No no, I just didn’t want to assume you were enjoying our time together as much as I was.”

She places her hand over yours while she glances at you, smiling as she squeezes your fingers and thigh lightly. You feel a rush of something traveling from the places she touched to your brain, only slightly aware of the fog settling in your mind.

“Well I didn’t want to be too enthusiastic about it and scare you away if all you wanted was friendship,” you clarify, meeting her eyes when she reaches a red light.

“I suppose you’re looking for more too, then.”

“I am now.”

The light turns green and she breaks eye contact, but the little smirk that follows tells you everything you need to know. At least, you hope it does.

-

“I think he’s the cutest one we’ve seen yet,” you comment about the kitten that hasn’t looked away from Wanda since you approached his area. “He seems really drawn to you, too.”

“How did he get the name ‘Baby Satan’?” Wanda inquires with an employee, who approaches you with a chuckle.

“It’s actually Baby Stan, because we used to have an adult cat named Stan as well and needed to tell the two apart. We were going to give him a new name but decided to leave that up to his new family.”

“It says ‘Baby Satan’ though,” you cosign with Wanda, gesturing to the extra A mixed in with the magnetic letters that spell the kitten’s name.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I don’t know how that got there,” the employee apologizes as she reaches over to fix the sign, and you watch her freeze as Wanda touches her arm.

“Don’t be sorry. Keep it; I want to adopt him.”

“Okay, right this way,” the employee mumbles as she turns awkwardly and stumbles over to a desk, and as the two of you follow her, you look back to see Baby Satan still staring at the woman beside you.

“What was that about?” you speak up finally once you’re in the car with her new furry friend, and Wanda frowns at you while fastening her seatbelt.

“What?”

“Why did that employee react to you like that? You touched her and she started acting really weird after.”

“Oh, Kim’s fine!” she assures you as she fixes her mirror before pulling out of the parking lot. “I actually asked her about that while you were looking at scratching posts and she said I’d overstepped her boundaries and made her uncomfortable. Don’t worry, I apologized and everything’s good again.”

“She told you her name?”

“She was wearing a name tag, babe.”

Babe...that’s new. Still, the sudden nickname doesn’t completely distract you from the fact that you’re certain there was no name tag on Kim’s uniform. You’re debating with yourself about bringing this up when you notice her heading toward Lane County.

“Are you taking me to your house?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.” She glances at you and over her shoulder toward Baby Satan before turning back to the road. “I figured I could introduce both of my kittens to the place they’ll be spending a lot of time in.”

Her fingers brush over your knee as “my kittens” leaves her lips, and you’re almost embarrassed when your hips involuntarily buck slightly. Noticing the small change in your behavior, she takes advantage of your head turned toward your own window and allows her instincts to continue driving while she stares at you, placing her palm on your thigh and rubbing circles on the fabric covering it that brings her closer and closer to your core.

“Home, sweet home,” Wanda announces as she pulls her wandering hand away to park the car, jumping out a second later and grabbing her furry son from the backseat. “Hey there, Baby S.”

You step out of the car in a similar fashion of pulling yourself out of a swimming pool, taking in the fresh air and trying to relax yourself as you follow her into the apartment building. The hallways reflect the quiet and clean neighborhood as you make your way into the elevator and up to the 6th floor, suddenly entering the most empty apartment you’ve ever seen.

Of course there’s furniture: a couch with a TV mounted on the nearest wall, a dining table with a set of matching chairs, a few stools placed at the island and kitchen appliances that are shiny and new. But there isn’t any personal artwork, posters, books or even just a lamp that you could tell Wanda purchased herself with one glance.

“Are you staying in an AirBNB or something?” you ask as she carefully places Baby Satan’s carrier next to the couch, and she chuckles.

“I guess technically it was one before I moved in, but I’ve been here for two years.”

“Okay...so where are your pictures?”

“What?”

“Where are your pictures?” you repeat, maintaining a steady voice despite the expression she gives you as she faces you again. “Pictures of your family, friends, you as a child?”

“If you knew my family, you’d understand why you don’t see them here.” She startles you by practically growling her words but you press further.

“Okay but you also said you love plants and we’re the only living things in here.” You step back to put more space between you while quiet shuffling noises are heard inside the carrier. “What’s really going on here?”

You can easily spot the shift in Wanda’s emotions: going from defensive, arms crossed and eyes glaring to resigned with slightly sagging shoulders and a defeated sigh.

“Fine, you got me.” She bends over to pick up the carrier again and passes you on her way to the door, stopping a few feet away. “If you’re serious about pursuing a relationship with me, then I should probably show you my real home.”

“I don’t know...”

“Come on, love.” She comes just close enough to bring your hand into hers and a tingle spreads through your body, causing you to pull away but her grip only tightens. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you, and this is the only time I’ve lied.”

You find yourself being drawn closer to her, and an almost familiar feeling washes over you when her thumb begins rubbing gentle circles into your jaw. The metal on her ring is so cold it almost burns upon contact, yet you nuzzle into her more with each pass along your skin.

“Don’t you want to be good for me without being forced to your knees first?”

If the fog surrounding your consciousness wasn’t so thick, you might’ve been shocked by this side of her, so calm yet demanding you serve her. But the hand on your jaw seemed to cover every inch of your body and sink into your nervous system, forcing you to fall into her and let her lead you back to the car with a simple arm around your waist. You’re buckled into the passenger seat again and a slightly blurry grin greets you from behind the wheel seconds later.

“I can’t wait to make you mine.”

Your head falls against the car window as she drives to the edge of Lane County, and your altered vision picks up on businesses turning into isolated suburbs into grassy fields into forests. You travel along narrow, winding roads past the tallest of trees with very few spaces in between, and your hazy state of mind prevents you from panicking when Wanda turns onto a dirt path that doesn’t even seem to be safe for bicycles. The wheels bump along the forest floor until she comes to a stop just outside of a two foot dwelling, similar to a cave.

Once the two of you are out of the car again, she holds your hand with her free one until you reach the cave, instructing you to sit in front of it while she does the same. She places her palm on the door, and her rings seem to come alive as they interact with it for a few moments before it swings open and the three of you are sent flying through a tunnel. You land with a groan on the hard floor and dust yourself off as you carefully stand, any questions dying in your throat as you face Wanda again, now standing before you in her true form.

“Welcome home.”

[reciprocityfic]

Aww I want them all! But okay, let's start with 1. A conversation you wish had happened in canon. For AmyxLaurie

1. a conversation you wish had happened in canon.

“I’m not marrying Fred.”

She tries to say it nonchalantly, void of emotion so as to not reveal the anxiety churning in her gut, but she’s afraid that the slight tremble in her voice betrays her. She tries to take a breath to ground herself, but the air that leaves her lungs comes out unsteadily.

She waits for him to answer - to say something, but he doesn’t respond right away. She wonders if he’s finding out for the first time. She meant to write him after she turned down the proposal, but hadn’t yet; everything seemed to be happening so fast, and she hadn’t yet had the chance to gather up the nerve.

But it’s possible he found out still, she supposes. She heard Fred left for London soon after she turned him down, and he and Laurie run in the same social circle, the kind that thrives on any piece of gossip. Someone could’ve very well told him.

But he keeps his mouth shut, and even though she knows it’s only been a few moments since she spoke, his silence seems to stretch on and on. It allows enough time for her thoughts to swirl around in her brain, for her heart to twist itself into knots.

Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe time away from you cleared his head, made him realize that you were simply a substitute for Jo.

She feels the need to clarify suddenly; she doesn’t want to force him into anything, make him do something he’ll regret just to spare her feelings.

“I heard about that,” he says carefully, and she hears him somewhere in the back of her mind. But she’s already turned towards him, words pushing at her lips.

“And you are under no obligation to say anything, or do anything,” she assures him, trying to insert some sort of confidence behind her words, but she can’t quite muster it as she stares at her feet.

She takes another deep breath, exhaling audibly. She can’t do this without being honest, she realizes, without laying her heart bare to him. She suddenly thinks of how hard it must have been for him, to propose to Jo, to reveal his affection for her in the garden those weeks ago.

“I just didn’t love him as I should.”

Not as I love you, she almost tells him, but she bites her tongue. She’s trying, but she’s not quite brave enough to say it plainly like that. Not now, when everything is still so uncertain.

Again, he doesn’t say anything, and oh, he has changed his mind, hasn’t he? Surely he would’ve interrupted her by now if he still wanted her, given her some sort of response. She can feel his eyes on her even though she continues to look away from him. He’s probably trying to figure out a way to tell her no, she decides, and scrambles to save face, letting out another breath.

“So we don’t need to talk about it, we don’t need to say anything -”

He kisses her.

He kisses her, hard, and she can’t process it for a moment. She feels his mouth against hers, his hand cradling her face, the warmth of his body against her own, but she can’t put it all together. Can’t comprehend what’s happening to her.

But then, oh, he sucks her bottom lip into his mouth, moves his head upward slightly and tugs on it, and she’s aware of everything - the press of his nose against hers, each of his fingers against her cheek, burning their pattern into her skin. He’s everywhere, all over her, and she softens, melts into him as she kisses him back.

His free arm wraps around her waist, pulls her more closely against him, lifting her onto her tiptoes as she searches for his mouth. She wishes they could stay in this moment forever. That she could live here, wrapped in his arms, warm from head to toe as his lips move in time with hers. But that’s not practical, she supposes, and after a few moments more they separate, both of them out of breath in the most wonderful way.

“Amy,” he murmurs.

Her eyes are closed, but the corners of her lips turn up when she hears him say her name.

“Amy,” he beckons again, and she opens her eyes, finds him staring back at her with an expression so tender and loving that tears well in her eyes. “Are you listening?”

She nods, and he crouches down just slightly, so he can look more directly into her eyes.

“I love you,” he tells her. “You have to know that. You must know that I love you. With my entire heart and soul, I love you.”

“You do?” she asks, her breath catching in her throat. A part of her still can’t believe it, despite his proposal and the kiss they just shared. The part of her that had resigned itself to only being able to love him from afar, that had become so used to him always looking at Jo whenever she was looking at him.

“Yes,” he says, a breathless laugh leaving him as the arm around her waist tightens and his other arm moves from her face to circle her shoulders as he pulls her into a firm hug. “Yes. I love everything about you - your laugh and your eyes, your voice. The way your brow furrows and lips purse when you paint or sketch, and then the way you step back and smile when you’ve done something you think is good. How your eyes light up when you look at the art in museums. I love how much you love your family. I love the woman you’ve become, but I also love how I can still see that same Amy I’ve always known peek out sometimes, especially when you’re happy or excited.”

She presses her face into the crook of his neck, inhales him, and can’t help the tears that spill over as she listens to him speak.

“I love the way you inspire me and make me want to be more, for both myself and for others. I love spending time with you - just being beside you is the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known. I love you, Amy March, your heart and your spirit and your mind and your soul. Everything you are, everything that you’ve become and will become. I love you.”

He lets her go and takes a small step back, grabs one of her hands in his and uses the other to wipe away the dampness that’s collected on her face.

“I love you, too” she whispers to him, turning into his palm and speaking into his skin.

“You’re not...you’re not a replacement for Jo,” he declares ardently, holding her gaze. “And you’re not second - not when it comes to me. Not to anything or anyone, but especially not to her. I’ve loved Jo - I’ll always love Jo - but what I felt for her is not the same as this. This is better, and it’s stronger, and it’s more - so much more. And I never want it to end. I want to spend the rest of my life with it.”

He closes the space between them once again, kisses her forehead and then her cheek.

“Amy,” he says, and then he bends down, gets on one knee in the green grass at her feet. He takes both of her hands.

“I know so, so much has happened, and there’s been so much pain and heartbreak, but nothing would make me happier than knowing that I get to spend the rest of my life with you by my side. And I don’t have any kind of plan or a ring, but I do have myself and my heart and my love, and I’m willing to give them all to you, if you’ll have them. They’re already yours. So, Amy March - Amy Curtis March - will you marry me?”

And it’s the easiest decision she’s ever made. She can’t keep the smile off her face, and he smiles back at her when he realizes - the most brilliant smile she’s ever seen on him. He’s so beautiful that she could cry again, if she let herself.

He stands up at the same time that she reaches down and pulls at him. She kisses him first this time, and his hands wander over her body, moving across her shoulders and down her back before looping back up. He curls his palm around the back of her neck, buries the other one in her neatly pinned-up hair. They separate when they need to breathe, but they don’t go far, their mouths still resting together, smiles turning up their lips.

And she whispers against him, “Yes.”

send me a number and a pairing (preferably laurie x amy) and i'll write you a mini fic!

[the-lonelybarricade]

Hiii!! I've been following your work since the beginning and i just wanted to give u a big squeeze of a hug for blessing us with all of your fics 'cause i feel like we don't deserve u for blessing us with all these wonderful feysand content that u are sharing.

I hope all is well with ur life and in ur studies, and if it's not too much to ask, would you consider writing a feysand au where Feyre & Rhys aren't mates, but are happily in love and in a relationship--when all of a sudden, one of them meets their mate (preferably Rhys..?) or something like that 😚. Won't lie to u that im dying to know what events would play out and how Feyre would react if this scenario happened. Really no pressure to write this or anything just wanted to try my luck with this idea :DD. Thank u!

Bestie, ooof. What are you trying to do to me? Can you imagine how heartbreaking that would be for Feysand to be happy and in love, waiting patiently for the mating bond to snap only to find out they were star-crossed lovers all along? Well you don’t have to imagine it, because I already have. And if I’m going to be in torment over Feysand angst, I’m (affectionately) dragging you all down with me.

P.s. thank you for the submission lovely, I hope you enjoy <3

The Chains That Bind Us

Word count: 1,956

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre and Rhysand were happily married. For 300 years, they had basked in what seemed like an infinite stretch of rapture, working alongside and complimenting each other with a grace and chemistry that had always felt predestined. They had always been certain they were mates, but time had flowed on and neither had felt the inkling of that special, magic bond.

They have resigned that perhaps the mating bond will never snap, perhaps that’s simply not what they were to one another, but that was okay. It was enough to be husband and wife, to be High Lord and Lady, to be happy and in love. They didn’t need a mating bond to reaffirm what they felt for one another. Things were already perfect as they were.

Until they weren’t. Until they had journeyed together to Illyria to oversee the announcement of the first all-female battalion. It had been a long term goal of Rhysand and his brothers to finally battle back the long ingrained sexism of Illyrian culture, and the visit was meant to be a celebration. A liberating ceremony, in honor of their mothers and all the females who had been victims of prejudice.

But when the leader of the battalion stepped forward to be acknowledged for her accomplishments, Rhysand had gone rigid at Feyre’s side, his breathing suddenly ragged. His pupils were blown wide, eyes fixed, riveted to the female.

Feyre felt her whole world had imploded in that moment. Especially when that female’s eyes had met her High Lord’s and had frozen just the same, the two bearing matched expressions of awe and disbelief.

She was certain she was going to be sick. Such a thing would be far from befitting of a High Lady, so Feyre had immediately winnowed back to their River House, back into their bathroom where she was instantly emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl.

Rhysand was there not too long after, holding back Feyre’s hair. They said nothing to each other, not until Feyre had recovered enough to turn and face her husband.

She was entirely unprepared for the way her heart shattered to meet his face, to meet those lovely eyes she had loved for centuries. Eyes that had only moments before been staring at another female with so much blind devotion it had torn her open.

“Feyre—” he started.

“I suppose we should have assumed that something like this could happen,” she interrupted, because she couldn’t bear to hear him apologize. Not for something like this, something that was entirely out of either of their control.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he insisted, but there was a strain to his voice that had never been present before. A bite that Feyre was convinced was the result of Rhysand battling against his instincts to return to Illyria, to that female.

“It changes everything, Rhys.”

She was already weeping as she choked the words out, because speaking them made them true. Those few centuries of bliss between them, they were a bubble, a perfectly crafted delusion that had finally popped.

“I love you,” Rhys seethed, as though arguing with himself. “I don’t even know that females name—”

“It doesn’t matter, Rhys. She’s your—”

“Don’t say it,” he begged, his voice a broken rasp. “Please, don’t say it.”

Somehow, that made it impossibly worse. That Rhys had been gifted this incredible, Cauldron-blessed thing, but was scorning it for her sake. Most Fae dreamed of the moment their mating bond would snap, and here was her husband acting as if it was his worst nightmare.

But Feyre knew what it was like for males. She knew he was clawing against every instinct in his mind, screaming at him to go to his mate, to know her name, to claim her. Feyre stifled another sob. Rejected mating bonds could drive a male mad. How could she ever think to do that to him? How could she deny him this piece of himself?

What broke her heart more than anything is that Feyre knew he would. Rhysand would reject his bond, would let that intrinsic part of his soul be torn away, for her sake. If Feyre asked, he would stay. He would stay and be miserable.

“I can’t do this to you, Rhys. I can’t force you to stay with me out of duty. I will not be your jailor.”

“You are my wife,” Rhys choked, reaching for her hand. He drew her palms to his face, allowing her to caress his cheeks. He shut his eyes as he nuzzled into her touch, causing his unshed tears to fall, racing down to collect at her hands. “You are my High Lady. You are the only one I want to be with.”

That wrecked another sob through Feyre’s body, which came out as a harsh exhale as she tried to restrain it. “You’d be a broken male without her, Rhys. The Cauldron—” she sucked in a strangled breath. Some truths were just too difficult to confront— “The Cauldron didn’t intend for us to be together.”

“Damn the Cauldron,” he growled, reaching for her with newfound conviction. “No one and nothing can decide who I love. No one can tell me that you are not who I belong with—who I belong to.”

Feyre allowed him to bundle her in his arms, to press her fiercely against his chest. She knew moments like this were fleeting, where they could hold each other as husband and wife. Already, their love was tarnished. Tainted. Blood spilled onto white snow. How long would it take for this mating bond to seep, to spill into the cracks, to spread until it consumed them? She couldn’t see an outcome where they could stay together unblemished, where they wouldn’t come to resent one another.

“Rhysand, listen to me love,” Feyre said, and found that her voice was steadier than she anticipated. “I care more about you being happy than I care about that happiness being found with me. Do you understand?”

“I would not be happier without you, Feyre.” His voice was ripe with earnesty. When she turned those eyes to meet his, those violet depths were burning, the silver constellations completely eclipsed by molten amethyst. He swallowed thickly. “Do I… want that female? Yes.” Feyre cringed to hear her husband admit it outloud. “But, that is just my instincts. I will be able to manage them with time. This bond is nascent. My love for you? It’s endured for centuries. The cauldron is not faultless; my parents were mates and they were miserable together. I could never imagine someone so perfect to walk beside me as you, Feyre. I do not seek another, no matter what fate has to say for it.”

Feyre allowed the comfort of his words to wash over her. She rested her head against Rhysand’s shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent, letting herself lavish in the rhythm of him, the beat of his heart steady in his chest.

“I will understand if you change your mind,” she whispered. “I do not hold you to your vows. If you become unhappy, if one day you cannot resist the pull you feel towards her… I will not hold it against you. I give you permission to… to leave me.”

Rhys let out a small, rueful laugh before he pressed a tender kiss to her temple. “How could I desert a love that is so selfless? The least I could do in the wake of such a declaration is promise to never see that female again.”

Feyre shook her head emphatically. “Don’t promise me that, Rhys. Just—just promise me that we’ll always be honest with each other. That we’ll always be a team, whether it be as rulers, or as lovers, or… or just as friends.”

“I promise,” he swore. “I vowed on my court and crown that I will love you for eternity. And I still know that to be true, even now. My soul… it might belong to someone else. But my heart, Feyre, it will always belong to you.”

There was something irreparably changed between them. They both knew it, could sense the way it lingered between them. The first crack, and possibly not the last. What they had was fragile now, but they had a gift for being delicate with one another.

The silence hung between them, a wretched, discomfiting presence that had never been there before. Both not quite sure what to say, not quite sure where this put them. She watched Rhysand’s lower lip quiver, understood that it was from the strain of not burdening her with his own turmoil over the situation.

Feyre tutted as she threw her arms around him, recognizing the signs of his crumbling. Rhys bowed his head in shame, burying his face into her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against her, releasing a sob of his own. “I’m sorry it couldn’t have been you. I wanted it to be you. I’m a failure of a husband, for putting you through this.”

“You are an excellent husband,” Feyre protested, threading her fingers through his hair soothingly. Her voice was still raw. “I don’t blame you for this, Rhys. I love you just the same.”

He lifted his head so their tear-stained faces were level. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, still glistening in silver. “What do we do now?”

They clung to each other so tightly, as if they pressed hard enough they could redirect fate, could mold their souls together and correct the misdeed of the Cauldron.

“I don’t know,” Feyre answered, burying her face in his shoulder as if it would hide her from the truth of the world. “I suppose we have no choice but to keep going. We’ll find our footing again. Together. And if we don’t… well, maybe we can wish on the stars.”

There was a huff of air at her ear. A laugh, she guessed, or something like it, something wry and humorless. Rhys moved underneath her, and Feyre pulled away to watch in confusion as her husband rose to his feet.

He extended his hand towards her. Curious, Feyre accepted, allowing him to pull her to her feet. In a blink, they were on the rooftop, beneath the stars. She hadn’t even realized the sun had set until she was staring up at the impossibly bright cosmos.

“Where better to find our footing than under those very stars?”

She turned to him, and Rhys was staring at her the way he had on starfall, all those centuries ago. Staring at her as if she were the brightest star in the sky, as though he looked to Feyre to cast his wishes.

“Will you dance with me, wife?”

Not convinced she was capable of speech, Feyre nodded. Using the hand he still held, Rhys twirled her into his arms. And though no music played, they found their own rhythm, lost in the cadence of each other, spinning endlessly under the stars.

As they swayed under the endless expanse of sky and starlight, Feyre mused how even the brightest of stars eventually burned out, but that didn’t make them any less worth wishing on. That didn’t mean they weren’t worth fighting for.

⟡⟡⟡

[meliorist-midoriya]

to you, to the world, to my love (you’re all three)

synopsis: midoriya has always had too much love to give in a world that loved to take. you’re just hoping that he has enough left for you in the end.

pairing: midoriya izuku x reader

genre: fluff with a touch of angst

warnings: some insecurity

word count: 2.5k

notes: happy valentine’s day, everyone! this is my contribution for the pocuties server collab, based off the greek types of love, of which i had the honor of receiving izuku and decided upon agape  please help yourself to the box of chocolates they’re offering for valentine’s, there’s a wide selection of chocolates handmade by talented creators, so i’m sure you’ll find something to your taste! tbh i only managed to finish this fic because i was watching chan’s valentine’s vlive and i was in a super soft mood ;3;

extra: agápe - the ancient greek concept of selfless, universal love.

“Making his debut in the pro hero scene, Pro Hero Deku is blazing a trail straight out of UA—”

“—Pro Hero Deku solved an astounding 30 cases in the past month—”

“Deku’s popularity is skyrocketing, rivaling that of—”

“Hero Deku—”

“Deku—”

“Pro Hero Deku has swept the hero rankings to come out on top as Number 1!”

With a resolute ‘click’ of the remote, the reporters’ overlapping voices cut off as the TV screen faded away, your lonely reflection staring back at you from the blank screen. You, curled up on your empty couch, in your empty apartment with the clock striking what should have been dinner. The TV was only there in an attempt to drown out the crushing silence, the white noise—hellbent on filling the space his presence had left—was deafening.

That attempt failed.

Horribly.

If anything, it just made the sense of wrongness permeating the air even worse. 

(That TV recap of his best moments didn’t help as much as you hoped it would.)

Being alone in this apartment felt… off. As if someone had gouged out what should’ve been there, the ghost of a presence settling a chill into your bones that ran far deeper than just plain loneliness. The foreboding grief of what could be, the fear that you’d resigned yourself to the moment you agreed to follow him on this path, the selfishness gnawing at your conscience every time you saw him run out the door to save the next person, to solve the next case. 

Things like an All Might coffee mug sitting primly next to yours on the drying rack, garishly yellow “tufts” staring back at you with a cracked vengeance. (You’d apologized profusely to him that day, promising to buy him another one. He’d just smiled over his cracked cup of coffee, telling you not to worry about it for the hundredth time.)

Things like his haphazard mess of notes and scrawl spread out on the kitchen counter, the pen sitting next to the half finished page. (You’ve long since learned to leave his notes be, they’ll be tidied up once he’s done… if he’s ever truly done.)

The filled queue of movies and pile of DVDs you’d picked out together, giddy over plans to watch the next time he had a free night. (You remember pretending not to notice him trying to slip another hero documentary near the bottom of the pile, distracting you with talks of popcorn and the night that was supposed to be tonight.)

Deku. The man the world adored, clinging to his promise like a lifeline in times of need. 

Midoriya Izuku. The man you loved, who promised you the world.

“It’ll be okay, I’m here.”

His soft promise echoed both in the battlefield and in your darkest hours, a close mirror to a hero of a generation past, yet it was different. It was his own. Comforting, personal, and wholly him. The public, weak and grasping for new support, latched on to the small sliver of hope his hand offered and he just kept giving, giving, giving. It never seemed to stop, and you were scared. 

He was a man with a bleeding heart with all the love to give and more. To the civilians, to the villains, to anyone in need.

Now, you needed his promise more than ever. A reassurance whispered into reunions and the thousandth hospital visit, over fresh scars and searing kisses. A promise that he would come home. You didn’t want to think of all the times he came so, so close to breaking that promise, even before you two had made it, before you two had even promised yourselves to each other in your UA days.

You pulled the blanket a little tighter around you, staring down at your phone with no real intent in mind as you scrolled. The video playing one of his interview clips (bashfully reciting his “catchphrase,” how cute) cut his voice short as you scrolled past to move on to the next, wincing at the next tweet on your timeline. Him, battered and bloody, as he pulled a child from the aftermath of the battle he’d just won. 

You still need to wrap that new mug you got him as a gift. You still had to listen to him bounce his ideas off of you. You still had to move that hero documentary to the top of the pile. You still—

“Hero Deku saves 30 people, no casualties,” A soft murmuring of the headline shattered the silence, and you smiled to yourself, giggling at all the replies joking of how he threw himself into the fray a little more responsibly and singing their praises.

It’ll be okay.

“Ugh, those reporters are at it again.” 

At your best friend’s exasperated groan, you followed their gaze over to see— ah. 

A small swarm of reporters had worked their way into the fans crowding your boyfriend, their press badges reading every tabloid magazine on this side of the city and prying questions falling off their tongue like poison. From what you could hear over their overlapping clamoring, they were trying to dig into his private life.

Again. 

Deku, the darling of the masses, all sweet smiles and sincere words amidst his strength. Deku, the number one hero with the tightest lock on his private life, which came as a surprise to both everyone and no one.

It was a given, considering his position at the peak of hero society.

It was also a complete shock, considering his tendency to ramble into tangents that had his PR team withering.

Which seemed to help in times like these, now that you thought about it, laughing to yourself as you watched the reporters’ expressions darken in defeat the longer he continued to talk around their questions. Quite a long stretch from stiffly standing on the practice stage at UA all those years ago, frozen from nerves. You idly mused to this to yourself, taking a sip of your drink as you dragged your gaze back over to your best friend.

“Did you choose this cafe because it’s right along Izuku’s patrol route?” They stiffened, and you couldn’t help but laugh at their obvious intentions.

“Maybe, or it could’ve been just a coincidence.” The next teasing jab was halfway off your tongue when they cut you off before you could give into the urge, the words dying in your throat. “When was the last time you saw him anyway? I know you two live together but Todoroki told me he practically lives at the agency with how swamped they are. Are you okay?”

You purse your lips, staring down at the ice swirling around in your cup as you idly stirred it round. As if the sloshing liquid could whisper the answer you wish you knew.

“...Yeah.” They cocked a brow, and you took another sip to try and delay your time. “It’s not like either of us can help it. Izuku’s number one, so this was bound to happen.”

(The clamoring from the reporters grew ever louder. Persistent, that bunch.)

Their expectant (doubting) gaze was met with your own steady one, and you smiled. Whether it was out of consolation or resignation was anyone’s guess.

“We’re okay, I promise.”

You should really be getting to sleep. 

Really, you should.

At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the past several hours, tossing and turning in your bed with nothing but winter-cold sheets and a gnawing loneliness to keep you company. You know you should be sleeping when the clock on the bedside table reads an ungodly hour and there was work to be done in the morning. You know you should be sleeping when the moon disappears from the night sky and leaves you with nothing but the city lights to dimly illuminate the dark room.

You really know you should be sleeping when you hear the front door click open, Izuku shuffling around the apartment to get ready for whatever minimal amount of sleep he’d get before he had to be up and running soon after.

Despite this, sleep still refuses to come, and you don’t bother pretending to be asleep when he slides into bed next to you. Instead, you turn over and curl into his chest, stifling the guilt that bubbles up when he jumps in surprise.

“Something keeping you up?” Oh, he sounds so tired, and part of you wishes you could just make it all go away. The weight of the world rests heavy on his shoulders, and deep down, you wonder if you’re part of that burden. You curl a little closer, as if trying to smother the thoughts that crashed upon you, spilling over the crack in the dam that only widened the more you spoke.

“Jus’ a little lonely, is all.” Your voice is too quiet, brittle, and you pray to every deity that would listen that he would drop it. That he wouldn’t take on yet another burden when he was already carrying Altas’s share of the world.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Of course, the gods are hardly ever so merciful—to them you are just another wishful mortal in the realm of the holy and damned—and Izuku’s hand rests on your cheek with a tenderness that makes you want to cry.

“...Why?” 

The confusion that falls over his expression (gaunt, tired, and God, should you even be doing this right now?) is immediate, and he tilts your face up to meet his gaze with yours, like he could find the answer in city lights dancing over your face. His thumb strokes soft patterns over your cheek—as if brushing off the layers you’d built to protect your soul—and you lean into his soft touch with a sigh.

“Why what?”

The words spill from your lips unbidden, your hesitations softened by the comfort of his touch, the sudden drowsiness, and the emotion that near overwhelms you.

“Why do you still try to do everything yourself? When there’s so many people out there, ready to support you?” His breath hitches in shock, but it’s too late to go back now. You reach up to hold the hand cradling your cheek, distantly remembering a time when he was too insecure of his scarred and crooked hands to even hold your hand.

He’s come a long way, indeed.

“I love you, Izuku. I just don’t know if that can hold up against your love for the world.” 

Something in his gaze softens, to your surprise. His smile is even softer.

“What would you do if you’re both?”

“Wh— Izuku—”

He continues, and you listen, raptured by his words spoken into the glow of the blue hour.

“Yes, I know that at the end of the day, peace and safety has to come first, but—” His smile widens into something bashful, a smile that never failed to send butterflies scattering through your heart. “—who says you can’t be right along with them?” 

He bumped his forehead with yours, smiling emerald eyes gazing into your own with such love—dizzying and overpowering and so, so warm. With the steady thrum of your heartbeat matching his, you found yourself falling even deeper once again.

“You know me, I can never compromise when it comes to what’s important to me.”

You laugh, something watery, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, temple, cheek, with a last, smiling kiss on your lips.

“How greedy.” He laughs into your lips, pulling away to hold you closer.

“Just for you.”

There’s so many things you could’ve said, as you watched the rest of the night sky fade into the deep blues of dawn. But, you decide, the comforting silence was best left as is, only broken by one resounding comfort.

It’ll be okay.

“You know, it would’ve been nice to know that you had taken the day off before I had that whole guilt spiral last night.”

“It turned out okay though, didn’t it?” He turned back to flash you that cheeky grin of his, half-hidden by his winter coat and backed by the glow of the setting sun. You just rolled your eyes with a laugh before jogging to catch up to him, slipping you hand out of your pocket to interlace your fingers with his.

“Yeah, it did.” 

The walk was silent as you two strolled down the familiar path, winding down after a whole day spent with each other. It was romantic of him, now that you thought about it, to take the whole Valentine’s Day off just for you. You hummed as you leaned onto him, giddy and content at the thought. 

In love, if you were to be so bold.

(Granted, he had to wear a mask and a cap the entire time to hide from the prying eyes of the public, but you made do.)

The sight of aged, familiar scenery pulled you from your musings, and you tugged at his hand to grab his attention, pointing at the quaint bench surrounded by bare gingko trees.

“Hey, wasn’t this the park where you confessed?” At your words, he froze and glanced over at the familiar scenery, eventually burying his face into his free hand with a groan once the old memories clicked in his head.

“Oh, don’t remind me. It’s still embarrassing to look back on.”

“What? I thought you were cute!” You laughed, nudging him to follow as you led him over to the small park, brushing off the dust to sit on the bench before patting the space next to you. Izuku obliged, and you almost automatically curled into his side, as if by habit.

“Did we really walk all the way here from the station?” His disbelieving tone made you look up at him, his expression one of nostalgic awe, before casting your attention back to the aged scenery, humming in agreement as you idly picked out what’s changed and what’s stayed in the years that have passed.

“I guess we never really forget, huh?”

“I forgot the sunset looked the best from here.”

“I hope you didn’t forget all the memories we made here.” He tore his attention from the sunset to gape down at you, scandalized.

“Of course not!” 

“Really?” He arched a brow at the teasing lilt to your voice and the mischievous grin playing at your lips, “So you didn’t forget accidentally firing an Air Force shot at me when we first met because you were training?”

He buried his face in his hands again with another embarrassed groan.

“I hoped you would forget that, at least!” You just laughed, hugging him closer as if to console him from your teasing. Before long, the atmosphere settled back into a quiet reminiscence, indulging in the nostalgia of memories past in this little park. The silence that was once deafening alone, now softened by the comfort of his presence at your side.

“We’ve made so many memories in this park, huh?” At your soft hum of agreement, he continued. Was his voice shaking? “It wouldn’t hurt to make more, would it?”

“What do you me—”

Your question cut itself short as you saw what he held out to you. 

A little velvet box, sitting open in his hand. You dragged your suddenly watery gaze back up to Izuku, his once bashful smile now wobbly with nerves. 

So familiar in this little park, yet so new.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

It was just a small walk down memory lane, the street lights blinking on one by one in the wake of the fiery sunset as you two walked the familiar path together. Yet there was something buzzing anew in the air, humming through your soul as you held out your hand to the sun, admiring the way the gem on your ring finger sparkled in the fading sunset. In the other, you interlaced your fingers with his.

Yeah… 

You caught Izuku’s soft gaze, smiling and in love.

We’ll be okay.

[daisybeewrites]

July — d.j.

for @dreamcxtcherr ‘s 3k writing challenge. congrats lena!!

word count: 1.8k

warnings: mention of car crash/death, mention of alcohol consumption, daisy cries, i think thats it lmk if not!!

ship: R x daisy johnson

okay y’all… first ever anggstttttt!!! i’m way too excited about it. if you want a fully immersive experience, i recommend listening to july by noah cyrus slowed + reverb

(gif uncredited on pinterest (ugh, i hate that. credit a gif if you use it!! im trying to find the owner)) update — found owner

It was another mission. Another nightmarish fire-fight where you almost lost a limb, almost lost a friend, almost lost your life. Twenty-four hours later and you’re back home, safe.

Well, as safe as you can be when your engagement is on the verge of breaking off.

You stare at the simple ring on your left hand. White gold band, a tiny amethyst set to the left of a diamond. There was a nearly identical one lying next to the sink, the only difference being the switched places of the glittering gems.

You know she didn’t do it purposefully. You had both been exhausted after what was supposed to be an in-and-out mission turned into a hostage situation. Daisy did what she always did as soon as you were home — take off her gauntlets, wash her hands in the sink, grab a snack, and hop into a steaming shower.

But you still can’t stop yourself from staring at it, eyes fixed, hands shaking, breath held and mind racing.

You used to join her. You would wash each other’s hair, ease each other’s sore muscles with delicate touches on tender purple-black bruises. She would lean into you, letting you braid her hair and falling asleep in your arms, drifting into a deep slumber. It was intimate, lovely; it was normal and perfect.

Taking a sip of your room-temperature beer, you slide off the cool granite of the kitchen island. You had a new routine after missions now, you just had to get used to it.

You hear the shower shut off, bare feet pad into your cosy bedroom, and the door shut with a loud creak. The minute squeak of the mattress tells you that Daisy flopped into bed.

A ghost of a smile lights your face. It looks more like a grimace, you think, as you check your distorted reflection in the green glass of your beer bottle. Chucking the empty bottle in the recycling, you run a hand through your dirty, salty hair. The comfy sweats you changed into an hour ago would need to be washed, the dirt still adorning your skin rubbing off on the black material. You exhale before heading down the hall towards the bathroom.

The tiled room is filled with steam, the mirror fogged up so that only a blurry outline of your silhouette could be seen. You are unrecognizable.

How fitting.

The quick, cold shower you take does nothing to ease your mind or body. You wipe the mirror in a circle, taking out a first aid kit.

With all your cuts bandaged and the proper creams Jemma had snuck to you and Daisy applied to your fresh bruises, you headed into the hallway in your towel.

Daisy is standing in the kitchen, lilac lounge shorts you bought her last Christmas showing off her tanned and scarred legs. She looks warm and soft, a very different Daisy than the superhero who had broken a mob boss’ legs just hours before. Her hair is wet and in braids. You frown. You always braid her hair.

If she hears you, she doesn’t turn around, so you take a moment to admire her. Ten seconds, that’s all you give yourself. It was a stressful mission, if you stare too long she might snap. From the back, you can’t see the dark circles you know are there, but you can see the tension in her shoulders and the slight tilt of her head as she ponders what to eat.

You say nothing as you go to the bedroom to change. You find a black pair of SHIELD sweats and an old, holey t-shirt you vaguely remember stealing from Fitz. A presence at the doorway catches your attention.

“Hi,” Daisy says tentatively. Your breath caught in your throat, your lungs holding the air captive until Daisy spoke again.

“I missed you.”

Your eyes widened. Maybe tonight wouldn’t end with one of you on the couch, clutching a six pack while the other cried as quietly as possible, tucked into cold, lonely sheets.

“Braiding my hair, I mean,” She clarified. Her fingers twisted together, rigid posture giving away her nerves.

The air felt humid, as if the open window had suddenly sucked all the AC out and let the mid-summer heat in. Your memory flashes to the last time you and Daisy had a normal, happy conversation.

The edges are fuzzy, but the pure joy in Daisy’s chocolate eyes is clear. Fairy lights strung haphazardly around the living room, a movie playing in the background, your lips on hers. Blankets make a ceiling over your head that shut out the rest of the world, this moment was only for you two. You played with the thin metal band on her ring finger, she ran her hands through her hair. Her matching ring scratched your scalp lightly. You both smile as you pull away. You whisper childhood stories, laugh at the funny parts and offer melancholic smiles at the not-so-lighthearted parts. You were happy.

That night you got the call — Lincoln Campbell, yours and Daisy’s best friend, had wrapped his car around a telephone pole coming off of a long shift at the hospital. His blood alcohol was almost .40.

Eggshells littered the house from the time you got back from the funeral. One wrong word, Daisy would snap and spend hours punching a bag until her fingers bled. You would fill those hours with whatever was closer — wine or your car keys. You pulled yourself out of your head, realizing you should answer her.

“I missed it, too,” You breathed.

Daisy made a small, unintelligible noise before collapsing against the door frame. You froze for only a second, your mind racing through possibilities. Was she bleeding internally? Was it her back again? Did she get shot and not notice until now?

You leap over to her, catching her as she crumbles to the hardwood floor.

A quiet sob wracks her chest. Your hands hover over her slouched back, unsure how to comfort her. At this moment, Daisy feels foreign. Her sudden vulnerability alerts you to how she’s been holding her emotions in for god knows how long.

“Daisy…” You start, hesitantly.

Daisy hiccups loudly, another wave of tears washing over her.

“Tell me to leave, I’ll pack my bags,” Daisy cried, “But I don’t, I-I don’t want to lose you!”

Burning tears gather on your lash line, threatening to fall at her words. You never could stand to see Daisy cry.

Your brows furrow slightly in confusion before you realize what Daisy is talking about. After Lincoln’s death, you two had fought increasingly more often until Daisy locked herself away or spent the night at May’s, and you went for drives until your car ran on empty. On those nights, bottles of wine disappeared from the cabinet without a trace.

Daisy sits up, stamping down her sobs, seemingly resigning herself to the fact that you aren’t going to say anything. Her trembling lip and red eyes pierce your heart. The astronomical distance between you two seems atomic now. You reach out quicker than lightning, shushing her cries and rubbing her back.

“Do you want to go?” You asked after a while. Your knees dig uncomfortably into the floor, your shoulder hurts from the ridges in the doorframe.

Daisy sniffles, her hair falling into her face as she looks away. You crane your neck down, carefully tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You know I’m afraid of change, I guess that’s why we’ve stayed the same,” You sigh, your chest constricting and squeezing the broken glass pieces of your heart.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue, “But if you want to find a new life, someone who loves you better than I do, darling, I understand.”

Daisy is still frozen, stare burning holes in the floor. You’re glad that the two of you are at home, the poly-tectic adaptive materials hidden between the walls keeping the house from collapsing. By the slight groan of the foundation, you can imagine Daisy could bring down a mountain with the amount of pain she’s in.

Which can only mean one thing.

“I’m not enough,” You stated. It wasn’t a question. You glance down, a glint in the low light cast from the lamp on the bedside table catching your eye. She has her ring on…

Daisy finally, finally shakes her head ‘no’. You let go of a breath, guilt building every second that passes. She isn’t happy. You shouldn’t be happy that she’s staying.

“Feels like a lifetime, we’ve been trying to get by while we’re dying inside,” You say, gently.

Daisy snaps her eyes to yours, a desperation in them you recognize as grief.

“So much of the past year has been consumed by grief. We never took time off, we never talked about it. I’ve done a lot of things wrong, loving you being one,” She whispers.

You nod, there is no denying that you each had a part in getting to where you are now. Delicately, you grab her hand. She squeezes it, a rush of small vibrations traveling up your arm. Your chest flutters at the familiar affection.

“So have I,” You assure her. She gradually falls towards you, exhausted. You let her rest her head on your shoulder, her breath evening out as her arms wrap around you. You feel hot tears flow down your face, fall onto her hair. Slowly, you pull Daisy closer to you.

Hours later, the sun peeks over the top of the mountain range in the distance. You had adjusted the two of you sometime around two a.m., no longer able to feel your legs from how the floor cut off your circulation.

Sometime around three, you had gathered the courage to move Daisy to the bed, trying hard not to wake her. She had only turned over and not let go of your hand.

You haven’t slept at all tonight, thoughts spinning until you force yourself to pause and count to ten, only to repeat the pattern.

You know what you have to do. You know what’s best for the both of you. You’ll leave, pack your bags and find a place to stay until you can scrape up enough money to rent an apartment. You’ll go to therapy, learn to live without Lincoln, without Daisy. Eventually, Daisy will heal, too. You both have the team at your backs, no matter what happens. She would be okay.

But you know you won’t. The fear of losing Daisy, of losing your life, your home, yourself stops you. You can’t move on. You can’t move forward.

You know that the big changes it takes to heal could cost you Daisy. So, you stay the same. You give into fear. You’ll never be enough, never love Daisy right, never quite heal fully — and neither will Daisy. But you still stay.

You’ll always stay the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ahhhh how was it? did you love it? any feedback? want more? put any thoughts/feelings/questions/concerns in the comments or my ask box!! i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading it even more!!

<<3

[punkpresentmic]

Traitor Aizawa AU Pt. 3 — 1, 2:

Shouta ran away in the middle of the night. When Hizashi woke up, it was to an empty bed, to fists pounding at their shared suite, to UA in lockdown. Hizashi was immediately forced outside & taken in for questioning.

Shouta had left Nezu a resignation letter, in his own unmistakable handwriting. It's blunt, concise, & it contains detailed descriptions & evidence of his betrayal. It makes no excuses for his actions & it does not discuss his motivations.

When Shouta visits that night weeks upon weeks later, he says nothing of the letter & nothing of his motivations. Shouta is silent as Hizashi sobs, dutifully keeping his Quirk erased as asked. It's been a pressure building on Hizashi for far too long, so when the dam breaks, there's no stopping it. It's an unwelcome but necessary catharsis—one he needs because of Shouta, one he can have because of him. Hizashi cries himself to sleep in his husband's arms.

& in the morning, again, he wakes up alone. It could have been a dream, but this time there's a note on his nightstand. It's painfully simple, the script rushed: I'm sorry I couldn't be here when you wake up. I'm sorry it has to be like this. I want to talk with you soon. I love you, Hizashi.

He should report this. Shouta betrayed UA, he's a wanted villain, & he expressed interest in taking Eri. Hizashi should turn in the letter.

Hizashi makes himself a coffee, & he sets the letter in front of him, & he stares at it blankly while the Sun rises slowly outside. The moment the light hits it, it's like the decision has made itself. Hizashi puts the letter through their paper shredder, tucks the pieces into his pocket, buys a muffin at a coffee shop, & throws half of them away in his napkin in one trash can, half of them in another down the road. He doesn’t tell a soul. Not Nemuri. Not Eri. Not Nezu.

He has to see Shouta again.

It’s two weeks before there’s another Shouta sighting. One day Hizashi comes home & senses the difference immediately. &, oddly, it's not a bad different. He knows exactly what it means. So, he takes off his gear in the entryway. Locks the door. Takes a few calming breaths before he calls into the apartment: “Honey, I’m home.”

He steps into the bedroom. Sure enough, Shouta is sitting on the bed.

Hizashi stops. He looks like shit. Exhausted, face sallow like he hasn’t been eating, eyes red & irritated like he hasn’t been using his eye drops. It occurs to Hizashi that his prescription probably ran out. He can remember the last time he picked up a bottle from the pharmacy; he’d teased Shouta about his 'special eyes' that regular eye drops don’t work on. “How did you know I was here.” His voice is rough too. Hizashi wants to offer him water, a meal, something. He hovers in the doorway.

“I’ve felt your absence since you left. Of course I know when it’s changed.”

Shouta says nothing. Hizashi relents slightly, asks him if he’s eaten. As expected, he gets a shake of the head. Hizashi turns on a heel, brings the both of them tea & leftover takeout. Shouta scrunches his eyebrows in confusion when Hizashi hands him what’s always Shouta’s order. Hizashi shrugs, nonchalant as if he didn’t take up ordering it after Shouta left. Shouta opens his mouth to speak, but Hizashi holds up a hand. “Eat.”

& they do, in silence. Shouta is positively ravenous. Hizashi has so many questions. So many questions. But he shares this strange meal with his husband, wordlessly offering Shouta what he doesn’t finish as well. Finally, Shouta clears his throat. “You didn’t tell anybody about me.”

Hizashi doesn’t have it in him to glare—to make any expression, really. It’s all very… heavy. Fragile. Ephemeral. Breakable. Dangerous. Wrong. Hizashi purses his lips. “You’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

He winces. "Hizashi, I wish I could tell you everything, but I can't."

Hizashi swallows the emotions that rise like bile in his throat, a potent mixture of fury & nausea. He has little control of what falls from his mouth. “You know, somebody referred to you as my ex the other day.”

Shouta’s expression is pained. He shakes his head & pulls his wedding ring out from its necklace tucked away as always in his ratty costume. Hizashi almost laughs. When Shouta commits to something, he commits fully, with his whole chest. It’s why so much of this doesn’t make any goddamn sense. It all threatens to choke him, but he laughs around the lump in his throat & shakes his head too, taking Shouta’s hand & squeezing hard to imprint the indent of the ring he put there into his palm. “It’s just not right, man.”

This time, Hizashi takes a page from Shouta’s book & bumps their foreheads together like a cat. Hizashi offers a watery smile. Shouta lets his eyes fall closed, inhales deeply. “I know it was too much to ask in my letter for you to believe that I'm still the person you believe me to be, but…” Hizashi freezes and pulls back, causing him to trail off.

“Shouta… what are you talking about?”

A flash of confusion, then fear crosses Shouta’s face. “The first letter I wrote to you. When I… When I left.” Shouta’s eyes search his for any sign of recognition, clearly troubled when he finds none. “I wrote everyone in my class letters. & Nezu. & Kayama. Hell, even Yagi—do you really think I wouldn’t face you of all—”

“—Shouta. None of those people received letters. Besides Nezu. I read your… resignation letter. Saw the evidence you laid out so logically for him. But I…” Hizashi’s blood suddenly grows cold. “Shou, the police took me down to the station that morning & searched the apartment. I didn’t think they took anything.” His breathing picks up. “They never told me anything about a letter—”

Shouta is barely breathing. Finally, after a long pause he swallows. “Nezu. Nezu must have found his first & arranged for a search & seizure. He would have extrapolated there were more.” He wipes a weary hand down his face, shaking his head. “You never… None of the students…” He covers his eyes, which must be aching. Hizashi has never been hesitant to offer physical reassurance to Shouta Aizawa, but he hesitates here & hates that he does. He pulls Shouta close with an arm over the shoulders.

“It’s alright,” he lies. Shouta knows. “We can talk now.”

So Shouta reiterates what was in the letter: what he’s done, how he loves him, how he wouldn't leave or do this without him if he had a choice, how he intends to return when this is settled, how in the meantime he would trust nobody else to watch over his students & Eri, how he needs Hizashi to trust that he is who Hizashi knows him to be.

“How am I supposed to be certain of that?” Hizashi whispers when he’s done.

It hurts him, Hizashi can see that. But all of this hurts. “I don’t know how to answer that.” They’re still holding hands. “But I want to,” he adds. “I want to prove it to you.”

“I want that too.”

There’s a tension in the air as they hover, faces close, uncertain if it would be okay to kiss each other. They think better of it, pull back with small sighs.

Instead, they discuss Eri. Shouta has been watching from afar when he can safely. He knew how she was struggling with her Quirk. He saw the doctor visits that hadn’t improved anything. He wanted to help. He also knew that he couldn’t sneak into UA forever, that the instant UA caught wind of it security would render it impossible & arrange for his capture. But if she’s with him, he can still help.

Hizashi shakes his head. “Shou, wherever you’ve been, it’s nowhere fit for a child. Your Quirk helps her, but her support network is here at UA. You were part of that network. & now you’re not. She is not leaving UA.”

Shouta shrinks, & after a moment he nods. He was always one to listen to reason. Hizashi, again, has to relent. As far as he can tell, Shouta only wants what’s best for her & it’s killing him not to be able to participate in that. So Hizashi elbows him lightly & pulls up pictures on his phone of all Eri has been up to lately, some of the students also making appearances. He leans Shouta onto his shoulder. It’s a tender moment. Almost normal. But all too soon it has to end. It’s not safe for Shouta to stay the night & there’s a certain window of time he has to catch to slip past security.

Shouta says he’ll return. He squeezes Hizashi’s hand as he goes to the window—the hand with his ring on it. Promises.

(pt. 4)

[alj4890]

I have an ask. We know in TRR Book 3 Ch10 Drake is the one being challenged by Neville but what if The King is the one to challenge Neville? After all he’s the one that would talk down to Riley during book 3 and nit once did Liam stand up for her during those times? So I wonder if Liam knew what Neville had said to his future Queen what would his reaction would be. I feel at least that Riley had the choice to punch him! Lol

A/N: Okay, seriously. WHY didn't all the other love interests tell Neville off?! He even annoyed Olivia with his pouting and whines. I get the tension between him and Drake and all; but Neville was talking bad behind Liam's back about his choice to elevate MC to becoming a duchess regardless of whether or not she was engaged to Liam. He was such a jerk to Hana and who in their right mind could be mean to her??? As protective and sacrificial as Maxwell was, (he did show getting ticked off whenever Neville opened his mouth), why wasn't there a dance fight between the two🤣 Now that my mini rant is over, let's see what would happen if Neville pushed Liam too far.

Masterlist

@gkittylove99 @darley1101 @krsnlove @kingliam2019 @texaskitten30 @yourmajesty09 @mom2000aggie @ofpixelsandscribbles @twinkleallnight @lodberg

Too Far

It wasn't noticeable at first.

He even somehow managed to make friends.

Neville had a way that made him appear as the perfect example of a gentlemanly noble. His cultured tone uttering compliments and his ability to appear humble before his betters had assured his place within Cordonia's high society. Being heir to an earldom and not too horrible to look upon also set him up in life to have a variety of ladies to choose from.

Or so he believed.

When Prince Leo abdicated, the nobles of Cordonia were actually laughed at by the rest of the world. The teasing began with mere good natured ribbing at parties of how unfaithful a Cordonian must be.

It was enough to sour any disposition, especially one that was already so.

Neville Vancoeur kept his noble mask firmly in place. Nothing was going to stop him from his destiny.

Nothing. No one. 

But the newest crown prince was best friends with, it was disgusting simply thinking of the word, a commoner. A commoner! What noble much less a direct descendant of the king himself would ever align themselves with someone who was absolutely worthless

Yet, the embarrassment that was Prince Liam didn't end there. He then went on to favor a poor waitress from America of all places. A waitress. He redeemed himself in Neville's eyes when he chose Countess Madeleine Amaranth of Fydelia to be Cordonia's queen. Though he didn't quite understand why the normally shrewd countess would allow the waitress to travel with the nobility, perhaps it was to give Drake Walker a playmate (one has to entertain pets, he supposed) he accepted it as a way to appease the people they ruled over.

Then New York happened. King Liam threw aside a well respected, birthed to perfection noble for that mongrel American who did not possess the first clue of how to behave amongst Cordonia's elite court.

Neville would have found it humorous if he was not permanently tied to his country.

To top it all off, not only was he forced to endure such unworthy company, he was shamed in front of them by some minor noble who had failed to win Liam. He blamed that brief moment of weakness for finding Lady Hana attractive on being inadvertently influenced by what had to be Drake and Riley's baser inclinations.

There was only one action left to a man so much more above these lowly peasants.

He was going to have to put these people in their proper place.

*******************

Liam knew that some of his fellow nobles took their positions as some sort of right in lording over those they considered their inferiors. It had never sat easy with him. He himself had a mother who had been a, "simple commoner". Yet, being in the tenacious situation he was in as a new king, he had to ignore for the most part their rude behavior.

But there was only so much he could stand when it came to the one he loved.

He knew something was going on the night of Madeleine's ball. As he stood on the other side of the ballroom, listening to Duke Godfrey drone on and on, he noticed Drake bump into the future earl. He knew there were very few nobles his best friend respected so seeing the flash of anger was normal.

Riley's though was surprising.

That unusual bitter twist to her normal, friendly smile followed by what he could only assume were heated words between his love and Neville made him feel the need to rush over and place himself between them. That desire to protect Riley was so strong that his body had already turned to leave Godfrey mid sentence.

But then Neville walked away.

Maxwell's brief sadness followed by Hana's irritation had him focusing once more on Riley's anger turning to resigned acceptance. Her relaxed stance returned as his group of friends found a table to sit and enjoy their meal.

He knew then that he would need to keep an eye on Lord Neville for the rest of the Unity Tour.

*****************

It didn't surprise him at all the insults and tension between Drake and Neville during the charity polo match. Liam felt sorry for Rashad and Maxwell being stuck on their team and forced to work with the two men that seemed to truly despise one another.

Liam also felt a large bit of pride when Riley used Neville's refusal to pass to Drake to score.

He also was relieved that Neville had not turned his disdain toward her.

Perhaps he was beginning to respect his future queen.

**************

It shouldn't have affected Liam like it did. Maybe it was the fact he was under so much pressure from keeping his father's cancer hidden, the fear from hearing he had been rushed to the hospital, all the terrorist attacks and threats, and then having to focus on pampered nobles instead of actually running his kingdom that caused him to lose his last shred of patience.

This ball was one that he had looked forward to. It would be the first of his escorting his Riley before the court. He had waited so long for such a moment to show his world how proud he was to have won her heart.

And Neville had to ruin it during their first dance.

The heated exchange of words escalated when Riley jumped in to defend Drake. Liam could see the utter hatred and lack of respect Neville had for the two people he was closest to. The way the young lord talked down to his beloved sent a bitter resolve through Cordonia's king.

"I've had enough of your insolence!" Neville snapped.

Liam saw his hand reach for his pocket and begin to withdraw a white glove. Before he could think through what he was about to do, he slapped Neville with the back of his hand, cutting short the challenge the lord was about to issue to Drake.

The entire court gasped. Silence fell as all watched this rare occurrence of Liam losing his temper.

"I've had enough of your insolence." Liam bit out. "Lord Neville, I challenge you to a duel."

Neville paled. His eyes darted around the ballroom, searching for anyone who might possibly be on his side. Seeing no sympathy, his chin lifted.

"I accept." His voice cracked slightly.

****************

"Liam, why are you doing this?" Riley gripped his hand as they walked out to the courtyard.

"I'm tired of his attitude." Liam explained. "Especially around you."

"I can handle his snide remarks." She countered. "What I can't handle is the thought of you possibly getting hurt."

Liam paused and slipped his arm around her waist. "You don't think I can take him?"

She smiled, looping her arms around his neck. "I know you can." She snared him with a tender kiss. "Just make it fast. There's a certain king I want to slow dance with."

His lips curved once more before turning toward the growing crowd. "As my queen wishes, so it shall be."

With a wink to her, he removed his sword from its sheath with a dramatic flourish.

Her delighted laughter followed him as he faced his opponent.

Neville swallowed uncomfortably as Constantine laid out the rules for the duel.

He barely managed to block Liam's blows, footsteps retreating most of the time. His lip curled into a snarl when the new king sliced into his blazer.

"My lady was right," Liam taunted, "that is a dreadful dinner jacket."

Neville's cheeks burned when those watching nearby chuckled. Each time he tried to make an offensive strike, Liam not only blocked it but somehow turned it into a point in his favor.

At one point they locked swords. Neville hated he had to tilt his head up to meet Liam's eyes. He hadn't expected to see the coldness there.

"You will apologize to Riley and Drake." Liam commanded in a low tone. "You will also never speak to either of them with such disrespect again."

"Why should I?" Neville breathed. "They need to learn to respect their betters."

"Really?" Liam's tone held a sinister edge. 

With an elegant spin that happened in the blink of an eye, he knocked his opponent’s sword out of his hand, caught it in mid air with his free one, and had both blades crossed with Neville's neck in the middle.

"Well done!" Constantine cheered from the sideline.

Riley let out a whoop as she hurried over to Liam's side. 

"Wasn't there something you wished to say to her grace, Lord Neville?" Liam asked

Neville's ready sneer died when he felt a slight nick to his tender skin.

"Forgive me, your grace." He managed to say without choking. "I will remember my manners when next we meet."

Riley gave a regal nod of acceptance.

Liam lowered the swords. "You're dismissed."

Neville scurried through the amused crowd, keeping his eyes downcast.

Riley yanked Liam into a passionate kiss once all the compliments were given and the crowd dispersed.

"My lady?" He asked with a grin. "What brought that on?"

"Nothing except my impressive Prince Charming fighting for me." She responded. "Perhaps he would like to find somewhere more private where I can better express my admiration."

"As you wish." He handed his swords to a servant as the couple sneaked away for a moment alone.

[geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek]

beauty and the beast geraskier au but with banshee jaskier cursed to scream horrifically for the rest of his life because he was Too Cocky about his singing in front of the wrong person

he's got a gash in his throat that's in a permanent state of oozing blood and he's a little pale these days but other than that he's fine minus the fact every time he tries to sing it comes out as an ear-shattering death-summoning wail and the taste of rot and decay clogs the back of his throat

but it's cool it's fine he just plays his lute and wanders the halls of oxenfurt scaring the newbies and giving the professors ulcers and silently wondering if he could get away with screaming at that cunt valdo marx and killing him with his new banshee powers

but then the school hires a witcher to come get rid of him (rUDE) and its the butcher of blaviken himself (dOUBLE rude) except geralt of rivia is...nice? he says he won't kill jaskier because jaskier isn't evil, just a nuisance, and he doesn't deserve to die just because he's bored and stuck there

it turns out, however, that jaskier is not stuck like he thought, he just hadn't tried to leave before, and when geralt leaves he follows because there's nothing for him at oxenfurt anymore

jaskier tells him about the curse and geralt makes fun of him (he actually just grunts but jaskier can tell it's a judgmental grunt) before grudgingly telling him he'll help him break the curse as best he can, he knows a sorceress who might have a cure

she doesn't and jaskier dislikes yennefer of vengerberg immediately when all she does is laugh at him and his plight (r U D E) but she does tell him it can be broken, because all curses can be broken, but it's up to him to figure out how to do so—curses tailor themselves to the person cursed for full lesson teaching effects—and jaskier is on his own again

jaskier has no idea where to even begin looking for the way to break his curse so he resigns himself to being a banshee for the rest of his life, walking the edge between living and dead and unable to sing ever again. geralt gives him a sympathetic hum (another grunt really but jaskier is learning to read him) and doesn't tell jaskier to go away when he keeps following him so jaskier figures he could keep worse company than a witcher

falling in love with geralt seems like the natural progression of things and now jaskier is pining on top of everything which is just spectacular, really, and he can't even sing a ballad about it to get the feelings out because when he sings death follows and geralt keeps close company with death as it is, he doesn't need jaskier bringing it closer, so he pines and he longs and he yearns and it's fine, it's swell, he'll live (not live? is he dead? he doesn't feel dead, but he's not really a good judge of it these days)

since he can't sing, he talks—about his life, his career, his parents, anything that comes to mind, always chattering away, never quiet for long. geralt listens, or at least doesn't tell him to shut up, and it's good, it's really good being heard when for most of his life people would tell him to be quiet and bite his tongue and speak only when spoken to and just sing, julian, your singing is your best feature

it all comes to a head when geralt goes on a hunt that's supposed to be just one drowner and turns into a whole pack that nearly overwhelms him

jaskier panics, watching geralt go down, and he doesn't stop to think—he screams, the sound piercing through the air sharp and high, and the taste of rot and decay and death creeps up the back of his throat, coats his tongue and nearly chokes him, but the drowners are backing away in agony, some dropping dead on the spot, and jaskier doesn't stop until he sees geralt on the ground, looking at jaskier with wide gold eyes

he's alive and jaskier is so relieved he drops to his knees and envelops his witcher in a crushing hug and nearly sobs when geralt returns it hesitantly

"i thought i lost you," he says and buries his face in geralt's neck

"you almost did," geralt says, soft and tender, and jaskier holds him tighter, "but you saved me. i'm okay, jask."

"how?" jaskier demands. "my scream should have killed you, how—"

"takes more than a banshee scream to take me out," geralt jokes. "and you're almost...musical, when you scream. it's not the worst thing i've heard."

something clenches in jaskier's chest then—geralt accepts him, screams and all, and it doesn't push him away, doesn't make him hate jaskier

if that isn't love, jaskier doesn't know what is

he chokes, then, and there's an awful pain in his throat. his hand goes to it, and he coughs up blood, the taste so bad he gags, and he barely hears geralt calling his name in panic—

and then it's gone, and jaskier breathes easier than he has in years, decades probably, and when he pulls his hand from his throat, his fingers caress smooth skin and and come away with old, completely dried flakes of blood, and he looks up at geralt with wide eyes and a smile beginning to split his lips

"you did it," he says in awe, and there's no underlying gurgle to his words, faint as it had always been anyway, but now it's gone, "you broke the curse."

"how?" geralt asks, confused, but he holds jaskier close anyway

"you accepted me as i am," jaskier says, knowing this is right, "you don't want me just for my voice, you want me for me."

"of course i do," geralt says, simple, easy, "you've grown on me."

jaskier beams, and he feels like singing.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

14 “show me where it hurts” with any of them

(source) we've had caretaker arthur with lewis... but what about caretaker arthur with vivi

*don’t ask me what’s going on with this au. i don’t know i just started writing and this happened ok

--

Vivi's the leader. She's In Charge, the one who's supposed to guide them and get them out of here. And she's going to do that, dammit, even if it feels pointless and hopeless because they haven't seen any sign of another living human in weeks. Even though she just wants to sit down against a wall and curl up and sleep forever.

She’s been accumulating injuries and bruises – they all have – because this place is dangerous, full of monsters and crumbling architecture. It’s making her feel achy and stiff and exhausted, even more than just the lack of sleep or proper food. It feels like her arms are sticking when she tries to stretch them, all her joints complaining. Maybe there’s something in the air, too. She wouldn’t be surprised. That seems like par for the course right about now.

She swallows back another wave of nausea, closing her eyes for a moment. They really need some more water.

They have to find an exit eventually. They have to find something eventually.

She pauses walking for a moment, and glances behind her at the other two. They both look about as exhausted as she feels. Lewis is looking at the ground as he walks, arms folded around himself. She can see the bandages poking out from under his shirt, already stained red. They were lucky that hadn’t gotten infected yet, but if they couldn’t find more actual supplies, it was only a matter of time. Arthur’s still limping, his good hand on his left wrist, pressing down over the bandages. The rotten black of dead flesh has inched higher, escaping the bandages again. The sigh brings her nausea back, and she forces herself to look quickly away, swallowing hard.

Arthur’s eyes catch hers. “Sh-should we stop soon?”

We need to keep moving, the rational part of her mind protests, but the rest of her is so tired, and he’s offering her an easy out. She does want to stop. She glances over at Lewis, who just nods weakly.

“...Next safe spot we find,” she gives in.

It doesn’t take much longer for them to run into another one of the small alcoves off the main tunnels, peel off one of the boards over the opening and duck inside. The tight entryway to these hideaways is too small for most of the roaming night monsters to get through, they’ve found. There’s a pile of rags in the corner here – too dirty to be used as bandages, but they could make a good fire, if it gets cold again tonight. The temperature is always fickle down here.

She starts trying to make a mental list of what they need to do next – clean up everyone as best they can, go through their supplies, set up for the night – but Arthur’s already moving before she can decide what to start with first. He tugs off the bag she’s carrying and drops it on the ground.

When she kneels to help unpack, he grabs her shoulder, holding her away. “No, you go sit down.” 

She’s too tired to argue with Arthur, who’s frustratingly stubborn at the best of times, so she just backs up and slumps against the wall. The world wobbles in darkness. Distantly, she hears Arthur saying something similar to Lewis, probably also shoving him away. At least she agrees with that. Lewis needs to conserve his energy. Both of them do. She’s fine, though.

She thinks about standing up and her stomach turns again.

A while later, she’s not sure how long, someone’s shoving something into her hand. She blinks her eyes open and realizes it’s one of their water bottles, and Arthur’s sitting in front of her. She makes a soft questioning hum.

“Drink s-something,” is his answer. “You look like- like you’re gonna throw up.”

She opens her mouth to protest– and then is forced to immediately close it again and swallow back bile, shuddering. Resigned, she opens the bottle and doesn’t try to protest again. The cool, clear water makes her feel immediately better – not completely, but a lot.

Once she’s had a few gulps, she lowers it slightly and looks around. Lewis is slumped against the wall next to her, on of their less ratty blankets around his shoulders. His shirt is off, and the skin around the bandages is clean and glistening wet.

There’s a pang of – frustration, regret – in her chest. They’re running through their water too fast, she shouldn’t be drinking any more.

Arthur reappears, holding the rest of their blankets to his chest, and dumps them on her lap, kneeling down.

“Our water-” she starts, trying to hand back the bottle.

He stops her, giving her that same stubborn look as when he’d told her not to help with the supplies. “I’ll take care of it.”

His voice is so confident, she almost forgets not to believe him.

Next he puts his hand against her face. It’s pleasantly cool. She lets her eyes close against it.

“You’re warm,” he says. “Are you f-feeling okay?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“Asshole.” She opens her eyes again to glare at him.

There’s no humor in his expression. “Vi, you’re not helping anyone by mak- by m-making yourself sick. Jus- j-just rest. Let me help you. Okay?”

A strong shiver goes through her, and against her will her eyes shut again. “...Fine.”

She doesn’t open her eyes again as a blanket is (slowly, clumsily, one-handed) wrapped around her. His hand slips and smacks her in the side, and she recoils reflexively, wincing.

“You’re hurt, too.”

“No.” It’s not that bad. And it’s not like there’s anything he can do about it. There’s no point giving him more shit to think about.

“Liar.” His hand is on her wrist. “Come on. Show me where it hurts.”

She lifts up the side of her shirt, not even looking as she exposes the rainbow of bruises against her side where she was smashed against a wall. It covers her ribs to her hip, and walking has been pulling at them all day.

“Jesus, Vi...” she hears him say softly, and then there’s something cool pressed against her side – a wet rag? She flinches again from the pressure, but after the initial wave of pain, the cold helps.

The small gesture is so tender, and she feels so safe here, wrapped in a blanket in a sheltered spot where nothing can get them, that her lip starts wobbling after a moment and then she starts crying.

Lewis reaches her first, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, and she feels the rag pressed to her side shift; they must be trading off who’s holding it. Then Arthur’s smaller hand is on hers. She can almost feel him looking at her, with that same stubborn but gentle concern.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” she finally admits, voice shaking. “I just- I’m so tired and now I’m sick and everything hurts and I just- why are we even trying anymore? What if there is no exit? What’s the point?”

Arthur tugs slightly at her wrist. “Vivi- hey. Vivi. Look at me.”

She opens her eyes reluctantly, sniffing and feeling a little pathetic.

“We are going to get out of here. Okay? We’re- we- we’re gonna find the exit and we are getting out of- of here.” He leans back suddenly, sitting up a little taller on his heels and looking out towards the tunnels. “You know what? I bet we’re gonna find the- the exit tomorrow!”

A laugh bubbles out of her through the tears. “I- I- I don’t believe you!”

He looks back to her again. “What do- do you wanna bet?”

“...your shirt?”

“F-f-fine! Deal! If we don’t get out by to- t-tomorrow, you can have my sh-shirt.”

The randomness of it all just makes her laugh harder, her tears drying. His stubborn confidence is comforting, almost infectious.

They can do this. Together, they can get through this.

[idreamofplaid]

Hidden

Square Filled: Director AU for @spnfluffbingo & Ugly Christmas Sweaters for @spnchristmasbingo

Characters: Jared x Reader; Britney (OFC)

Rating: Mature

Summary: The reader thinks it’s better if she and Jared keep their relationship a secret; he disagrees.

Word Count: 3864

Created for @spnfluffbingo & @spnchristmasbingo

“Come to my place tonight?” Jared was looking down at the script in his hands while he talked, pretending to be asking you something about how he should deliver his lines.

You swirled the plastic stirrer in your coffee and took a sip, trying to make the exchange look as businesslike as possible to anyone who might be observing. “We agreed we wouldn’t do that anymore, Jared, not until after filming is done, and we’re in post production.” 

You pointed to a line on his script as though you were making a suggestion. “If anyone found out, you know how people gossip. They’d say you slept with me to get this part.”

Jared closed his script. “So, let them.” For a second, you thought he was going to make a move, come closer to you. Touch you. God, how you wanted that, especially today. 

All day long, you hadn’t been able to get your mind off the sex scene that was scheduled to be filmed that afternoon. Here, right in the middle of this light hearted, feel good, movie was one of the steamiest sex scenes you’d ever read, or maybe that was just because you were picturing Jared in it. 

It was a challenge to remain professional and not let jealousy take control of you. An actress was about to crawl into bed, basically naked with him, while he put his hands and lips all over her. Weren’t these kinds of movies supposed to be about laughter, finding yourself, maybe helping some people? Who said anything about sex?

The next time you saw Jared, he’d be wearing nothing but a sock to cover his most private parts; and that woman, the tall thin example of what society called physical perfection with the full pouty lips and long glossy hair, would be topless and waving her boobs in his….

With that thought, you tightly squeezed your hands around the copy of the script you were holding until it was starting to fold and crease. “Y/N, are you okay?”

Your answer was crisp and to the point. “Jared, you need to go get ready for the next scene. Hair and makeup will need some time with you.” You didn’t state the obvious, that wardrobe wasn’t much of a factor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had taken you a good part of your life to come to terms with the fact that you were not classically beautiful. You had relied on that old “eye of the beholder” cliche, understanding that objectively you were not the woman that men turned to stare at when you walked into a room. You’d finally come to accept that, even though deep inside every girl wants to feel pretty.

The most devastating blow had come when you’d fallen in love with acting. It didn’t take long to realize you would never be the leading lady. Naively, you had auditioned for parts like that, thinking talent would get you one of those roles. The result was, after a number of rejections, you felt unattractive and resigned to the fact that your future in this industry was behind the camera. 

That’s where you were now, checking the framing and angles for the shot. The set had been cleared of all but essential personnel due to the nature of the upcoming scene. It was unusually quiet except for the thoughts raging in your head. It still stung that you weren’t “the beautiful one”. That long present wound was enough to give doubt about your blossoming relationship all the fertile soil it needed in which to grow. 

Maybe Jared was flirting with you, taking you to his bed, trying to get close to you because it would help his career. Your heart didn’t believe that because he was one of the most genuine and down to earth people you’d ever met in this business, but insecurity was a nasty bitch. Add to his sincerity the fact that he didn’t seem to be aware of just how gorgeous he was, remaining modest every time any sort of reference was made to his good looks. In many ways, he was too good to be true, and that’s why your head was telling you not to trust what was happening between you.

When he walked onto the set wearing nothing but a robe and the sock you knew was underneath, it only reinforced the out of control thoughts shooting through your mind and landing like daggers in your heart. You were definitely feeling more for him than it was wise to feel. What had been occurring between you was a dalliance, a fling. It was secret meetings for hot sex. Secret. Nothing could come of that. It was time to stop thinking that it might. 

It was no wonder you were struggling, trying to stop yourself from falling for him. Jared had taken control of the room without even trying as soon as he entered it. Even among actors, he was tall and well built. His muscles were attention grabbing, even under his clothes. His hair skimmed the top of his shoulders and had just enough wave in it that it almost defiantly refused to stay out of his face. It begged to be touched, and it would be very soon, just not by your fingers. 

Maybe it was his eyes that had lured you into this deep pool of confusing feelings and conflicting emotions. Of all his notable assets, his eyes had to be the best. They were unpredictable. Sometimes they were full of sunshine, flecked in gold or painted with a starburst of color through his iris that resembled a flower blooming. Other times, the shadows and the depth took over, and they became stormy gray with a flash of blue like the color of the sky when it was illuminated by lightning. 

He was looking at you with those incredible and surprising eyes now. Today they were a classic hazel, light even brown. You almost forgot what you were doing until Jared asked, “Where do you want me?”

It would be easier to tell him what you wanted him to do before she got here, so that was the approach you took. “Take off your robe and get in the bed under the covers.”

It was hard not to look when Jared untied his robe, flipped it back over his shoulders, and let it drop to the floor. His shoulders were broad, and his stomach was flat except for the well defined abs that swelled, leaving dips and valleys between them. You tried not to let your eyes drop below his waist, but they did. You darted them back up quickly. Be professional. Maintain focus. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, but in this setting it was different. It made you a touch self conscious and overly aware of his physique. 

He was huge. That scrap of material he was wearing couldn’t hide that, and it certainly didn’t keep you from remembering the times he had stretched you to the point of a pleasurable scream while he thrust deeply into you. Today was going to be even more difficult than you had imagined.

Once he was under the sheets, you breathed a little easier. Jared looked to you for direction. Time to do your job and keep your personal feelings out of it. “When Britney gets here, I want you to get on top of her.” Well, you’d managed to choke that out and make your voice sound normal. “We’re starting more or less in the middle of the scene, none of the foreplay. It should be hot and intense from the second I call action.”

Jared arranged the sheet around his waist just so, like it wasn’t going to move. It did call attention to the way the stark white of the sheet complimented his skin tone, and made you think back to the last time you’d seen him naked in bed. That was when he first suggested you come out of the shadows, go on dates, be a couple. When the bed linens were arranged to his liking, he looked to you and asked, “What’s my motivation for this scene?”

It wasn’t an unusual question for an actor to ask a director, but part of you wondered if Jared was asking you to see what you’d say. Was it more flirting to get you to talk about sex and attraction? You looked directly into his stunning eyes and responded, “You’ve been denying your attraction for weeks now. You work together, so that makes it complicated. In the office, you haven’t been able to keep your eyes off each other. Your sexual tension has reached a peak, and it’s exploding right here.” You gave the bed a pat for emphasis, then realized what you’d said. 

You felt yourself start to flush and kept on talking to try to cover it up. “Bring some intensity to it, but keep it tender. You’re falling in love, but you’re not ready to say it. Show her with the way you touch her.” Your eyes met, and something unspoken passed between you.

Jared was about to speak, but then Britney arrived on set in a flourish. Her makeup artist was trailing behind her, making some final touch ups. She made a big show of disrobing, exposing her breasts to the remaining crew. They gawked and stared, just as she intended. You did your best not to roll your eyes into the back of your head. 

Unlike the others, Jared hadn’t paid any attention to her. His eyes were still focused on you; that unspoken thing was still in them, and there would be no chance to say it now. Britney climbed right into bed with him without any instruction from you and had the nerve to start flirting with him right in front of your face. She didn’t know what you were feeling. That was, after all, the point. You didn’t want anyone to have any idea there was anything going on between Jared and you. Or, maybe she did suspect and was being sadistic about it. Women had a way of seeing things men failed to see. 

Whether Britney knew or not, she wouldn’t care how you or anyone else felt about it. She was that girl, the one who thought about herself at all times. Romance between co-stars was good press that typically guaranteed increased media attention for the project and both parties involved. The studio would love it. Hell, they’d probably even encourage it. Scratch that. They would encourage it.

The next couple of hours were excruciating. Love scenes were some of the hardest to film under the best of circumstances. Every detail was important: the lighting, the camera angles, and most important body positioning. They competed with fight scenes in terms of difficulty to film. You would have much preferred a fight scene. 

For two hours you told Jared how to kiss another woman. “Tug on her bottom lip with your mouth. Be tender.” At one point you had physically taken hold of his hand and placed it where it would look best for the camera. It made you ready to run out of your own skin, escape in any way possible, be swallowed up by the floor beneath your feet. 

It was even worse telling her how to touch him. “Slide your hands down his back. Dig your fingers in a little.” This resulted in the sheet that was covering the lower half of his body sliding down far enough to show just a hint of butt cleavage, and it looked good. You would leave it in the final cut.

Mercifully, you finally got the takes you wanted and called it a wrap for the day. You gathered your things together and made your way to your car as quickly as you could, hardly even saying good night to anyone as you breezed by them to make your exit. 

As you approached your car, you hit the button on the remote. The familiar beep greeted your ears, letting you know that soon you would be surrounded by the warmth of the car’s interior. When the December Canadian air was frigid like this, you had to take a moment to remind yourself it was far preferable to the superficial fishbowl of LA.

Just as you touched the door handle, you heard the crunch of someone jogging through the snow. Couldn’t you be left alone ever? No doubt whatever this was could have waited until tomorrow, but being available to the cast and crew was one of the responsibilities of being the director. 

As you took a deep breath and tried to put an expression of patient interest on your face before you turned around, Jared’s voice carried across the cold winter air to your ears. “Y/N, wait.”

This required an even deeper breath before you turned around. He was barely breathing any heavier after running through the snow. That wasn’t surprising considering the shape he was in, but you were surprised he was chasing after you. Randomly, you thought he must’ve gotten dressed really quickly. It was probably your brain’s way of protecting you from deeper thoughts, but Jared wasn’t going to let you off that easily.

“I was hoping we could talk before you go.” He just really had no idea, did he? It was hard watching him with another woman, even if it was fake, when it was getting harder and harder to pretend your encounters with him were just casual affairs. It was more difficult to convince yourself you were fine with being his secret, even if it had been your idea. 

“Jared, I’m really tired. I just want to go home, okay? We can talk later.” You wished you could tell him the true reason you felt so tired, wanting more than anything to find comfort and reassurance in his arms. Somehow it felt even worse to hide yourself and your feelings from him. 

He didn’t say anything else, just nodded, took a couple steps back, and watched you get in your car. As soon as you started the car, holiday music filled the interior. Immediately, you turned off the radio in no mood for the cheerfulness. In your rearview mirror, you could see Jared. He hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, watching you go. Unwanted tears of frustration and confusion pooled in your eyes. You brushed them away so you could see the road.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once home, you put on your favorite pajamas and started a fire in the fireplace. A wood burning fireplace was one feature you had insisted on when looking for a home in Vancouver. The rowhouse you finally purchased had a charming one, made even more so by the garland and Christmas stockings hanging from the mantel. You’d put up a row of stockings, never mind you didn’t need them; it looked better that way.

You settled in among the decorative pillows in holiday colors and plaid on the sofa, pulling one of them onto your lap and hugging it close while you listened to the crackle of the fire and watched the flames sway. It lulled you and took some of the edge off the day. Your mind was drifting to a better place when your doorbell rang.

Reluctantly, you rose from your comfy spot. You opened your front door to find Jared standing there wearing one of the most ridiculous looking Christmas sweaters you’d ever seen. It was green, covered in tinsel garland and shiny three dimensional ball ornaments. It was surprising enough he was standing there, but what he was wearing left you a tiny bit baffled and slightly amused. 

It was impossible not to smile when you took in the details of the sweater again. You asked, “Jared, why are you here, and why are you wearing that?” He responded by showing you his dimples, and your own smile got bigger. You could feel more of your bad mood melting away, and you were overtaken by the urge to reach out and play with one of the ornaments on his sweater. 

Instead of answering, he held out a box he was holding. It was wrapped in gold paper and had one of those peel and stick bows on top of it. You held out your hands and took it, noticing the box was reasonably well wrapped. He had really tried, and that touched you.

“What is this?” His expression was pleased but subdued.

“I got you something.” A smile spread across his face, dispelling any reservations he may have had. Whatever was in that package, he was clearly excited about it.

Beneath the gold paper, there was a white box the size of a shirt box. You lifted the lid; inside there was a sweater that wasn’t quite as over the top as Jared’s, but it was definitely in the ugly Christmas sweater category. It was red with falling snow and candy canes on it. 

You looked at him, a questioning expression on your face. “What are the sweaters about?”

Jared took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I want you to wear it at the studio Christmas party, and I want you to go with me. Will you?” 

You saw the hope in his eyes while he waited to hear what you’d say. His words were sinking in, but did he understand what this could do to his reputation? “Jared, everyone will know.”

He glanced down at the floor and ran his hand through his hair. When he raised his head, his eyes found yours. The hope that had been there earlier had been replaced by determination. “I want them to know, Y/N. We aren’t doing anything wrong.” He cupped your face in his hand and brushed his thumb softly across your cheek. “I know what today did to you.”

“Jared, I…” You didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter because his mouth cover yours. You dropped the box you were holding and wrapped your arms around him, losing yourself in the kiss. With his hand on your waist, Jared pulled you closer to him. All the reassurance you had longed for earlier, you found.

While still kissing you, Jared lifted you into his arms and started to walk down the hallway toward your bedroom. You broke the kiss and buried your face in the side of his neck while he walked, breathing in the smell of him. 

Jared rarely wore cologne, and you were glad he didn’t, preferring that nothing mask the smell of him. The lingering hint of his soap on his freshly washed skin was comforting to you. You could smell the soap mingling with his skin now. Tears oozed gently from the corners of your eyes. He had showered before he came to you, erasing her scripted touch from his body.

He put you down gently on the bed and took off the brightly colored sweater he was wearing along with the t-shirt underneath before taking his place on top of you. You kissed his bare shoulder, wanting to leave some mark of you on him. It was the only signal he needed to start undressing you and kissing you in return.

His lips were warm on the pulse point at your neck, your collarbone, and your breasts. His hands moved over every part of your body, stroking and bringing you to a heightened state of arousal. By the time he took off his pants, you were nearly begging for him. “Jared, I need you.”

He hovered over you, his face only inches from yours. He looked into your eyes and laced his fingers through yours. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I’ll take care of you.” 

Jared made love to you slowly. He took his time and satisfied every need that was crying out from deep within you. He knew how to make you feel beautiful, knew how to make your body shake with the intensity of release, and knew how to make you feel safe after you’d opened  yourself to him completely and were feeling both satisfied and vulnerable.

You lay in his arms, your head on his chest. Jared was dragging his fingers slowly up and down your back. After a few minutes of silence, feeling the moment together, he kissed the top of your head and asked, “Could you feel it?”

You smiled, still drifting in the safe bubble he had made for you. “I felt a lot of things.”

He kissed the top of your head again and let his chin rest there. “When I touched you, could you feel that I love you?”

Your heart started to beat faster, and you raised your head to look at him. “I love you, Y/N. That’s why I don’t want to hide anymore. I want everybody to know it.”

You traced the firm line of his jaw with your fingertip. “Jared...I love you too, but that wouldn’t be good for you.” 

He sat up a little and put his hands on your shoulders. “How do you know? It wouldn’t be the first time an actor and a director were together.” 

“I don’t ever want anyone to question your talent, Jared.” Your heart was full of so many things, the truth of the words you’d just exchanged along with the fear those words evoked. 

His hands moved from your shoulders to the sides of your face. He held your face in his hands, his eyes pleading with you. “And I don’t ever want you to question how much I love you.” He dropped his hands, keeping just one under your chin to ensure you would keep looking into his eyes. “I saw what today did to you, how hard it was; but do you know what it did to me?”

No. You had no idea, hadn’t given it a thought. How could you have ignored his feelings? All you could say was “What?”

He had the most serious and pain filled expression you’d ever seen on his face. “I don’t want other women to come on to me in front of you, knowing what that’s doing to you, and not even be able to brush them off because this is a secret.” He let his hand drop from beneath your chin, trusting your eyes wouldn’t leave his now. “It hurt me to see how much you were hurting.”

“Jared, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

He covered your lips with his fingers and shook his head. “And I was so proud of you for working right through that hurt to put something on film that will make other people happy, that will make them believe in love. It doesn’t matter that what you were showing wasn’t real. Love is real. Ours is real.”

He kissed you before you could cry again. When the kiss ended, you rested your forehead against his. “You’re right. It is real, and we shouldn’t hide it. I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

Jared’s hand was in your hair, holding the back of your head. He was so close, you could feel him breathing. “You mean more to me than anything, Y/N. You always will.”

Everything: @gambitwinchester @princessmisery666 @onethirstyunicorn @peridottea91 @logical-princey @emilyshurley @beenlovingromansincedayoneish @fangirlxwritesx67 @waywardbaby @atc74 @shaniquacynthia @mariekoukie6661 @tumbler-tidbits @67-chevy-baby @fandom-princess-forevermore @terrarium-jpeg @emoryhemsworth @crashdevlin @heycasbutt @jules-1999 @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @cosicas-cuquis @sammyimpala-67 @queenoftheunderdark @dean-winchesters-bacon @mrs-meghan-winchester @timelordy-fangirl2​ @sweetness47​ @hobby27​ @awesomesusiebstuff​ @kickingitwithkirk​ @sandlee44​ @supernaturalgrandma​ @lonewolf471​ @dawnie1988​ @volleyballer519​ @outcastedangel​ @kdfrqqg​ @lizette50​ @sorenmarie87​ @winchesterxfamilybusiness​

Sam/Jared: @girl-next-door-writes​ @stunudo​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @sammit-janet​ @idabbleincrazy​ @evansrogerskitten​ @focusonspn​ @autumninavonlea​ @spnxbsessed​ @durinsbride​ @deansyahtzee​ @wendibird​ @waywardnerd67​ @fullmooner​ @julesthequirky​ 

[drxwsyni]

Fault in Honesty︱Yandere Chisaki Kai/Overhaul x f!Reader

Anonymous asked: “Hi! I love your work! Do you think you could do a scenario with yandere overhaul and fem. Reader where she tells him she hates him?”

a/n: Ngl I’ve been having some writers block lately so doing a good ol’ sfw (or at least in yandere standards) oneshot was very refreshing. Also the section in italics represents a flashback! Thanks for the request babes <3

Warnings: implied stockholm, captivity

1.9k Words

_____

If you could hazard a guess as to where exactly you went wrong, it would be the day you let the comfort of his security first outshine the red flags. To an outsider, they’d be unavoidably obvious. But for you, someone experiencing a side of Chisaki reserved only to make appearances in your presence, they became muted. Vibrant and glaring warnings were but a momentary afterthought, given no more than a few seconds of contemplation before you returned to focusing on the ideal in front of you.

The ideal is still present now, only it’s being held together by the constricting realities that overlooking those red flags have brought about.

Walls seemingly inescapable, corridors twisting and unending. Perpetually trapping you underground, without an inkling of an idea as to which door would lead you to salvation. All coupled with the pain shooting up your legs with each time your bare feet collided with the tile, a dress airy and doing little to shield you from the deep set chill running past your exposed skin.

You shivered, both from the discomfort of the cold, and from the anxieties riddling your system.

By some form of chance luck, your frantic searching lead you to a stairwell, from one door to another, and into an all too familiar room.

The setting was by far more comforting than the bleak hallways below you. Once dull and sterile surroundings faded, your focus favouring the warmth. You spent many an hour in Chisaki’s study mere months ago, keeping the young boss company without question. Sometimes you’d simply exist alongside him, the copious amounts of work keeping Chisaki from indulging himself in conversation with you. Those moments were regrettable, as you could never stay with him all day. So you would leave him to his devices sooner or later, returning home while he continued to manage his ‘business.’

You suppose he detested the fact that you would inevitably take a leave of absence more than you originally perceived. And while his first move to initiate a more domestic closeness with you was endearing at the time, it only served to muddle your thoughts with regret now.

•  •  •

Your hand in his, seated close enough to him that your knees were touching. The leather couch situated in the study was always your go-to spot when waiting for your lover to fulfill his duties as a leader for the day. He managed to do so before you left this time, much to your appreciation.

“Anything you could possibly need is already in place, angel. With you living here we’d be able to spend more time together. And…” Pausing, as if to gather his thoughts while absentmindedly squeezing your hand gently in his, Chisaki soon continued. “...It would be beneficial if I were able to monitor your health more closely.”

You regarded the man with a warm and loving smile, finding slight humour in his predictable ways. For one, your wellbeing was always at the top of his concerns. It felt like such a passive occurrence at this point, Chisaki keeping those interests in mind like it was second nature. And you supposed, with how he so clearly treated you on another level of appreciation compared to everyone else in his life, that the quality would only be expected in a man who ensures such a high level of diligence in everything he does.

Chisaki also had a tendency to rush things with you. So naturally, his offer wasn’t something you were entirely surprised to hear. But unfortunately for him, there still resided some resistance in you.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too soon to be moving in together? Don’t get me wrong, Kai. I’d love to spend more time with you. It’s just―”

“This would be good for you. It’s dangerous for you to be living on your own, so you understand why I’m worried about you, right?”

Although he didn’t explicitly state it, you knew what Chisaki was referring to. The unavoidable fact of your quirklessness. He would never say that it made you weak, but you knew it was the root of his anxieties. You living alone was far more risky than he was willing to accept.

But you loved him. So, perhaps the change wasn’t something you should fear?

You let out a small sigh, still unsure, but resigning yourself for now. “...I suppose, if you think it would be best.”

In an act of tenderness, Chisaki took your hand that he was still holding, raising it to his lips. He planted a feathered kiss to the back of it, maintaining a gaze filled with adoration the whole time. Your heart fluttered at the gentle affection, feeling your face warm with a certain bashfulness.

He was pleased with your acceptance, albeit hesitant and largely unsure. “You’ll come around to the idea.”

And with the way Chisaki’s words and actions―not only now, but also in times before―left your better intuitions molding to match his, you thought you’d come around to it too.

•  •  •

The heavy wooden door behind you, a dark oak cut hand carved and lavish, opened in a swift motion. The abruptness of it earned a startled flinch from your body, you quickly turning around to view the culprit of the commotion in fear.

Like a deer in headlights, your whole being froze in place. Chisaki stood in the doorway, only he didn’t appear to be nearly as surprised as you.

If anything, he was calm.

His eyes trailed up and down your form, taking in your uneasy state. Slowly, he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. “It’s not good for your health for you to be up so late, my love.”

The dismissal of the situation sent a wave of frustration through you. Knowing he didn’t regret any of his actions, what he had put you through, and the reason why you were here―it was infuriating. The possessiveness, withholding your freedom like it wasn’t a necessity, because to him wasn’t. None of your misgivings resonated with him.

You regarded the composed leader, feeling your resistance begin to crumble from his mere presence. “Is this what you wanted?” Regrettably, your voice cracked midways through the question.

He almost looked disappointed, the fact of your apprehension being an unwanted outcome of the decisions he’d made for you. But he was nothing if not steadfast in his ways, a quality outshining the sorrow he felt for finding you so distressed. “All I’ve wanted is to ensure your health and safety. That’s what I’ve done, and I will not apologize for it.”

Another bit of your resolve faltered, your lower lip trembling as you fought to hold yourself together. “Even though I’m a prisoner?”

Chisaki let the words hang in the air for a moment, more so to let you process them instead, hoping you’d understand as much as he did that the statement couldn’t be farther from what you were to him. He moved across the room, taking his black dust mask off while he spoke, placing it on an end table. “I could hardly call you that. You live quite nicely―comfortable living quarters, balanced meals―everything you need and more to get by.”

“Everything except for my freedom, Kai. I mean...can’t you see how wrong this is?” In truth, you knew trying to reason with the man would get you nowhere. It wouldn’t change his mind, and it certainly wouldn’t help you in your now failed attempt to leave him. The thought of the uselessness of the whole thing wore you down, knowing putting up a fight would be for nothing in the end. You’d lost not from the moment he’d stepped into the room, but from the moment you agreed to be his all those months ago.

He faced you once again, mask and gloves removed, able to expose himself in such a way to you only. “It’s dangerous for someone with your connections to live outside of my compound―you know that. There are people who wouldn’t hesitate to use you as leverage against me.” He drew closer, an approach slow, as if trying to ease your nerves. “Tell me, have I ever hurt you?”

You inwardly cursed the man for knowing exactly what to say. His words were meditated, aiming only to lead you into compliance. The question was doing exactly that, because there was no other answer than the one he wanted to hear. The fact that no, he hadn’t. At least not physically. He truly did care for all of your needs. And even when it came to the mental anguish you went through, he always gave you space when you needed it. So really, you had no other choice but speaking that admittance.

Quietly, you did, “N-no, but―”

“So, you can’t deny that everything I do has your wellbeing in mind?”

As he took steps forward, you took some back. Soon enough you were hitting the front of his desk, unable to put any more distance between the two of you as he came closer.

“I can tell you understand that, angel. All I wish is for you to accept it.”

You shook your head, saltine tears falling down your cheeks. Confliction riddled your body and soul, part of you wanting to keep up those feeble forms of resistance, while the other part yearned to finally give in. It would be so much easier if you did, which was the worst part about it. Before you found yourself trapped by him, you truly did love Chisaki.

And somehow, even after all he’s done, those emotions never quite vanished.

“I don’t...I don’t want to be okay with this. Or be okay with you…” Your gaze fell, sniffling through your words. “I hate you―or at least, I’m supposed to hate you. But I fail at even doing that.”

You didn’t have to look up to know he was standing in front of you. Not when the uncharacteristic sound of a softness in his voice was in such a close proximity.

“That’s not a failure…”

Carefully, Chisaki cupped your face in his hands, prompting you to lift your head. Through a blurred vision you regarded his piercing amber eyes. Those set intently on yours, concerned but stern, matching his words to a T.

“You know this is what’s best for you. It’s just taking a while for that to sink in, but you’ll come around to it.” He delicately wiped away your tears as he spoke, the action soothing the torrent of discouragement inside of you. “Now, I’ll get you something to help you fall asleep, and we can forget this ever happened.”

Like always, nothing he did was a simple offer. His statements were final, and you were forced to comply whether you wished to do so or not. Only now, the notion of yearning for free will against his demands was unclear in your mind.

As it stood, and would continue to stand forever, agreeing with Chisaki was the option that had been growing on you as of late. Tonight’s events happened in a spur of the moment. In all honesty, you were unsure of yourself the moment you stepped foot outside your room. It always lingered in the back of your mind that your efforts wouldn’t get you anywhere. So, now that you were faced with that truth, resigning yourself to his whims wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be.

You let him guide you back to your room. You accepted the medication he gave without a second thought.

And soon you fell asleep, sorrows replaced with the calm and comfort Chisaki provided.

[mimosaeyes]

This is a dream, then. A fantasy conjured by the last firing of his synapses in the moment before death. Martin silently thanks his subconscious for it. He’s never had faith the way his mother did, but if there is a heaven for him, he’s quite sure it would have Jon in it.

Post-200. Jon and Martin wake up somewhere else. 2.2k, fix-it but not really.

In case this turns out to be the last fic I finish in this fandom, I want to especially thank my beta @emberidzae for introducing me to TMA. Or, at least, for talking about it enough in my general proximity that eventually I got curious.

Someone is cradling Martin’s head on their lap, and running their fingers through his hair. Jon, he thinks absently. He’d know him anywhere, even by such tiny details as the shape of his calluses where he grips a pen, and the texture of his burn-scarred skin.

But that can’t be right. Jon is dead. He’d killed him in the Panopticon, hands shaking until the instant before the knife had plunged in. The only way he could force himself to do it was to make it as quick and painless as possible. He couldn’t falter and draw out Jon’s suffering, not when it was already such a torment to hear him groan and scream as the building began to crumble around them. Or to see the look in his eyes, the utter trust and love warring against the Beholding’s hold on him.

This is a dream, then. A fantasy conjured by the last firing of his synapses in the moment before death. Martin silently thanks his subconscious for it. He’s never had faith the way his mother did, but if there is a heaven for him, he’s quite sure it would have Jon in it.

He breathes, even and steady like he’s trying to fall more deeply asleep. If these are his last seconds of awareness, he wants to spend them just like this.

Then he hears Jon quietly ask, “Are you awake?”

Martin opens his eyes. Jon is peering down at him, his expression tender and tentative. In the weak sunlight, he looks washed out, his features rendered nearly in greyscale. There’s no trace of the bright red from when Martin had lifted a bloody hand to cup his face. The only indication of everything that’s happened is a faint mistiness about Jon’s eyes.

Furrowing his brow, Martin reaches up and touches his cheek. It’s wet; he leaves behind a fine dusting of black sand that has stuck to his fingers. “Are you crying?” he murmurs, almost confused. Surely, if this is all in his imagination, he’d have made Jon happy.

Jon surprises him with a soft laugh. “Tears of relief, Martin. Look around.”

Reluctantly, still half-convinced none of this is really happening, Martin rolls to one side and sits up. Jon scoots over a little for him, even though there’s plenty of space. The shore is completely deserted apart from them, and silent but for the gently lapping water.

“Is this...?”

At Martin’s questioning look, a smile slowly spreads across Jon’s face. It’s a complicated one, balanced between joy and disbelief, sadness and resignation. “Somewhere else,” he affirms.

“But I—” Martin stares at Jon. There’s no blood on him, no wound; only a tell-tale rip in his shirt where the knife had gone in. “I killed you.”

“I told you to,” Jon objects. His hands come up as if to touch Martin, who rocks back on his haunches.

“I killed you,” he repeats, this time in a whisper.

Jon watches him for a moment. His shoulders lift in a helpless sort of shrug. “Or maybe,” he says, “you killed everything that wasn’t me. Everything tethering them there.”

Martin can feel tears welling up in his eyes. He’s shaking his head slowly, but he doesn’t know why. It’s not like he can deny the physical fact of Jon, here with him, miraculously unharmed and apparently, entirely human. It’s not like he wants to, either. He just hadn’t been expecting to wake up again — in a world he may have helped to doom, next to a boyfriend he was supposed to have died with.

It’s a lot to process.

A single sob escapes Martin, and at once Jon is hushing him, almost vaulting forward in his rush to pull him into a hug. They meet awkwardly halfway, in a tangle of clumsy limbs and warmth. 

With Jon’s arms around him, Martin lets himself just cry for a while.

It feels long overdue. The back of Martin’s throat has felt tight and strained since the moment he woke up to find Jon gone. He’d rushed to find Georgie, Melanie, and Basira, and then he’d rushed up the countless flights of stairs in the Panopticon, not daring to stop and catch his breath for fear he’d be too late. He was, anyway, and the moment Jon had turned around to face him, voice crackling with static and eyes illuminated as if from within, it had all come crashing over Martin: Jon had left him behind after all. He’d broken his promise, been so willing to die in some perverse kind of atonement that he hadn’t even waited to say goodbye.

Martin hardly dares to believe he’s here now, rubbing soothing circles over his back and murmuring, “It’s okay. Shh. I’ve got you.”

It takes some time, but eventually Martin subsides. The trembling stops and his breathing slows. Mildly embarrassed, he pulls back from the embrace. “Don’t ever,” he says wetly, poking Jon in the chest, “do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” Jon says softly. He waits until Martin has settled back on the sand, then takes his hand and interlaces their fingers. 

For a while, they both stare out at the water, the way the seafoam stands out against the dark beach.

“Any idea where this is?” Martin asks.

Jon shakes his head. “I think Iceland has black sand beaches, but... you know. That’s back in our reality.”

Martin lets out a long breath. “It worked, then.” His voice is muted with weariness. “We saved the world.”

“And doomed every other one.” Without letting go of Martin’s hand, Jon pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them.

“Not everything is your fault, Jon. We all agreed on the plan.” 

He waits, but Jon gives no sign of having even heard the words. He watches him for a long moment, biting his lip. Then he clambers to his feet and pulls on their linked hands. “Come on.”

Jon blinks up at him. “Where are we going?”

“On a walk,” Martin tells him.

The beach looks the same in either direction, and a steep wall of volcanic rock prevents them from going farther inland. Undaunted, Martin starts off towards the left. Jon follows, possibly from force of habit. They’d gone on many such walks together, in the halcyon days at the safehouse before the world ended. 

Normally, Martin would point things out as they passed them by — good cows being a bonus, of course — but this place seems eerily devoid of life. There aren’t even any seashells or bits of driftwood. The air is still. The fog sits in heavy reams.

He’s just wondering if he should bring it up when Jon abruptly starts talking. He’d given one last statement, he admits, up in the Panopticon before Martin arrived. Becoming the pupil of the Eye had given him answers, at long last, about how the entities came to be. 

Jon’s train of thought is uncertain, and he frowns a lot as he rambles. Sometimes he stops and gazes out across the water, the look in his eyes vacant. It’s probably just a side effect of his being ripped away from the Ceaseless Watcher, Martin tells himself. Probably.

“We created monsters,” Jon says at last, “and then I set them loose on the whole universe.” He stops walking and hunches his shoulders. “What does that make me?”

Martin closes his eyes for a moment. “Jonathan Sims, you are not a monster.”

Beside him, Jon’s breathing goes shaky. “But I told you—”

“That I wouldn’t want to see what was left of you?” Martin interrupts. He hasn’t forgotten the desperate look on Jon’s face in that moment, when he’d first refused to leave him. “I’m looking at you right now, Jon, and you know what I see?”

Illogically, he’s almost angry at him; that’s how frustrated he is that the man he loves cannot seem to stop blaming himself for everything. “I see someone who has given everything to make things right. Who chose kindness, even though he’d been marked and manipulated. Even though he kept getting kidnapped and hunted and hurt and — and used.”

Jon is staring at him now, wide-eyed. Martin thinks about the way he’d looked in what he thought were their last moments together. Beautiful and beatific. He touches two fingers to Jon’s chin, tilting it up. “It’s not monstrous to protect the people you love,” he says. “It’s human.”

With his free hand, Jon swipes at a tear that’s running down his cheek.

“Okay?” Martin presses, but gently.

Jon sniffs. “Has anyone ever told you,” he says, “that your pep talks can be rather aggressive?”

He’s deflecting, but Martin decides to let him get away with it. He’s pushed hard enough for now. In any case, he thinks his words have hit home, at least to some extent. There’s still guilt in Jon’s eyes, but although it runs deep, Martin thinks it looks a little less sharp.

Pulling back and turning to resume their walk, he says, “They have to be, to get through your thick head.”

A corner of Jon’s lips quirks up. “That sounds like something Basira would say.”

“Is she alright, do you think? And Georgie and Melanie?”

Jon waves a hand. “I’m sure they’re fine. They’re probably putting the world back together already.”

“Probably make it better,” Martin muses. He sighs. “They’ll have their work cut out for them.”

A beat. “And what about us?” Jon asks quietly. “What do we do now?”

They fall silent, each contemplating the question. 

If they’ve ended up in the same world as the entities, Martin figures, at some point they’ll probably have to start seeking out organisations like the Magnus Institute, working out who the next Archivist is. And if they somehow stop the apocalypse from happening, it’ll only be for a while. There will always be another attempt to foil. 

By some miracle, they’ve made it here. Maybe they’ll be able to build a life together, and enjoy it for a while. But mostly, the future Martin sees stretching ahead of them is just full of more danger and guilt and sacrifice. 

Jon must be thinking along the same lines, because he sighs and says, “Do you know what this reminds me of? It’s like I thought the play was over, but it turns out it’s only the intermission.”

“What did you want it to be?”

For the space of several breaths, Jon is silent. “A good epilogue,” he says at last. “I’d like to think we deserve that much.”

Martin swallows past a sudden lump in his throat. There isn’t really anything he can say to that, so instead he gives Jon a little nudge, and keeps walking.

When he next looks up, his eye snags on a shape on the shoreline ahead of them. It’s the first thing they’ve come across since they woke up here and started walking. In tacit agreement, they both wander over to get a closer look. 

It’s a small boat, complete with a set of oars. The wood has only the faintest suggestion of brown. It’s been bleached to a light grey, though how long that would have taken, Martin can’t guess. 

He clears his throat. “Is anything about all this just a little bit on the nose to you?”

“What?” Jon asks, still peering at the boat. Then: “Oh.”

This looks more like an ocean than a river, Styx or otherwise, but Martin can’t deny that there’s something ethereal about this place. Interstitial. Plus, there’s the otherwise inexplicable fact that Jon’s wound is gone. Honestly, he should have put it together sooner.

He notices Jon watching him then, his head canted and his expression fond. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Jon says. “You’re just... taking the possibility that you’re dead very well.”

“So are you,” Martin points out.

Jon shrugs. “I’ve had time to get used to the idea. Besides, you’re here.”

His smile, at that moment, is a brittle thing. Martin finds he has to look away from it.

They never seem to get enough time, do they? The cottage in Scotland. That week at Upton House. And now this. Part of Martin is tempted to try and stay here, in this final pocket of respite. He knows that’s irrational, though. 

Maybe this is just a very dramatic-looking beach, and they’ll feel very silly when they wash ashore. Or maybe they’re right. Maybe they’ll get in that boat and... pass on, head towards the light — any one of the phrases people have invented to give shape to the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.

Either way, Martin realises, they have to find out. And at least they’ll find out together. Subconsciously, he tightens his grip on Jon’s hand.

“What are you thinking?” Jon asks softly.

Martin looks at him for a long moment. “I did want to take you rowing.” Such light words for the weight of what they imply.

“Where you go,” Jon says, “I go.”

Martin smiles. “That’s the deal.”

It takes them a while to get a rhythm going after they push off from the shore. Martin rows, and after a while, to his mild delight, Jon starts singing a sea shanty under his breath, keeping time to the beat of the oars. 

And as the shore disappears behind the fog, Martin is surprised to find that colours start to filter back into the world. Pinks and yellows, the likes of which the sky above his head hasn’t contained in so long.

He looks at Jon, who looks back at him and nods. 

They meet the sunrise. They leave the world behind.

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

[malucy31]

Time in On Our Side

Here's chapter 2 a day earlier 😊

cw: nothing too heavy, but this version of Magnus isn't the happiest version of Magnus...

Chapter 2/3 - Times of joy, times of sadness

Read on ao3: chapter 1 - chapter 2

They talk and the weight of the centuries separating them evaporates.

Magnus tells Alec stories he has already heard, minus some details that make him wonder if his warlock husband didn’t invent them. He hopes he will remember everything so he can tease him a little when he gets home.

A twinge of sadness takes hold of Alec whenever he realizes that Magnus isn’t trying to find out more about him. His Magnus would. Danger be damned, he would try. He would have a lot of reasons to after all. Curiosity, suspicion, or simple intuition. Magnus’s magic never lies, and Alec knows he felt something. It must be gnawing at him.

But this Magnus doesn’t even bring up the subject. It would be fine if Alec couldn’t detect resignation underneath it. Now that he feels awake and perfectly healed, he can see it as brightly as the Sun on a clear blue sky. This Magnus is sad. The spark of joy and life that Alec is so used to seeing in him has been smothered. It sparkles every now and then, when he brings up the kinds of subjects and anecdotes he knows Magnus loves. But the moment the conversation dies down, a heaviness falls on the small kitchen like a lid. The only times his Magnus was like that are times Alec would rather not think about.

He takes a sip of wine, wincing at the sour taste a bit more than he normally would. It makes Magnus huff a laugh and the lid vanishes. Small victories and all…

It’s when Magnus gets up to check on his sandalwood blend that Alec looks around and notices something that makes his stomach drop. There are no windows in the living room. In fact, now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t seen any window outside the small room adjacent to the apothecary and the kitchen.

This is very unlike Magnus. Magnus loves natural light. Their loft has floor to ceiling windows everywhere. On a whim, Magnus sometimes redecorates the whole place and replaces walls with windows just because the light is incredible. Alec has seen Magnus lie in the sun for hours when he is having a bad day, or when he has exhausted himself with a spell.

Having no windows makes no sense. Why would he want to avoid the Sun?

Magnus’s voice snaps Alec from his thoughts. “I’m still missing an ingredient.”

He watches him sit down across the table again, taking his napkin back on his lap and reaching for his glass of wine.

“I swear, I will find it.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Alec sends him back his smile, adding something about how much he loves the scent of sandalwood, but Magnus must feel that something has shifted in Alec’s stare because he sets down his glass with caution, scrutinizing Alec the way he must be doing too.

“What is it?” Magnus eventually asks.

Alec is about to say something about the windows when something else catches his attention. He would slap himself for not seeing it earlier, but he is so used to seeing his Magnus underneath any kind of armor the warlock owns that he doesn’t always pay attention to what lies on the surface. Even today, Alec still reads between the lines, still sees Magnus’s kindred soul and open heart, the tenderness in his gaze. He still sees the most generous and beautiful man he has ever met.

But how could he not notice the obvious thicker black eyeliner? The way it enhances the dark hazelnut brown of Magnus’s eyes a little more than usual? A little differently? There isn’t a single round edge about him. His hair is spiked and even his jewelry seems to be part of a shield. I dare you to come close and find any weakness, it says. Even if there is something a little different about it today, the basic lines remain. Show them what they expect. Don’t be too much.

Alec is suddenly overcome by the need to protect him, to be the shield between him and people who can’t fathom that there’s no such thing as too much when it comes to Magnus. He just is, plain and simple.

If they were home, Alec would run a hot bath for his tired husband and kiss words of reassurance and love on his skin, remove his makeup with careful gestures until it’s just them. No armor, no one else. Only them and the walls they built around their life.

But he isn’t home, and neither is Magnus.

Alec’s chest tightens when he puts two and two together. He doesn’t know everything about Magnus’s life, but he knows enough to understand what is happening. Magnus needs protection for the same reason he has no windows outside from the rooms where he spends his time, his safe haven.

He is entering a battle that will last a few centuries, and he probably already knows it.

This battle has a name that, to this very day, makes Alec’s muscles stiffen, calls out his soldier reflexes.

Camille.

Alec doesn’t ask about the windows. He doesn’t need to.

Magnus will never open up to a stranger about this anyway, no matter how easy the conversation is. Even if he did, Alec will be gone in a few days and what good will it have done? The thought sends him into a downward spiral. He knows what is ahead of Magnus. Centuries of abuse, of loneliness, self-hatred, and despair.

This Magnus doesn’t need to be forced to open up by someone who will disappear from his life. He needs something strong enough that he can hold on to. He needs hope.

And Alec has an idea.

“I was thinking of a way to repay you for healing me and welcoming me into your home, but I don’t have any money… So, what about a small clue about who I am? Something harmless.”

“Please, do tell!”

Magnus’s eyes sparkle, and Alec is almost certain he can see his golden irises flickering for a second. There, trapped in the brown glamor that is supposed to make him presentable, a hint of gold. A hint of his aching soul searching for an escape, looking to this stranger for an answer to a question Magnus has been asking for centuries.

A pang in Alec’s stomach echoes that ache, the want and need to give Magnus everything he has ever wished. In times of joy as well as sadness, said their wedding vows. No matter the version of them, Alec will always give Magnus all his love.

“What you felt in me, what made my body accept your magic and kept you out at the same time. It’s magic.” Alec pauses for a second, considering exactly how much he can say without raising any suspicion in Magnus’s mind. His idea sounds too bold now. He could lie, invent something about being some kind of warlock, but he can’t. Not when Magnus’s eyes are begging for something, anything, as long as it’s different. The words are out before his brain has time to process them.

“It’s my husband’s magic.”

Magnus’s eyes widen and Alec is glad he didn’t backpaddle.

“Your… Your husband?” He pronounces the word with such delicacy that Alec’s heart breaks.

“Yeah, my husband.”

“H… How?” His voice is almost a whisper, his smile full of centuries-old, dried tears and smothered dreams.

Alec fights hard against the reflex to sit closer to him, take him in his arms, never let go.

“Where are you from?” Magnus asks.

“Far away.”

“You don’t say… You seem…suspended in time, like you… I couldn’t even find the words.” Magnus lowers his gaze, shaking his head and quickly trying to erase all trace of emotion on his face. But it doesn’t fool Alec. Longing is already coloring his tone. “I won’t know more, will I?”

Alec is about to apologize again when Magnus raises a hand between them. “You know what? It’s okay. Like I said, there is clearly something unique about you, and I wouldn’t want to put you or your husband in danger by knowing too much. But thank you for trusting me with this.”

Alec doesn’t know how to respond to that. There are too many things he could say and none of them would make sense to Magnus, so he nods, smiling.

“There’s one more thing I would like to know about you, though.”

“What is it?”

“Your name. You haven’t told me.”

“Oh, Gideon. I’m Gideon.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Gideon. I’m Magnus.”

Alec can feel giddiness forming on his lips. How many people get to relive a first introduction?

When the conversation resumes, Alec can’t help noticing a difference in the way Magnus holds himself and speaks. Less guarded, more himself. It sparks something in Alec’s stomach, a need to be home already, an urge stronger than he has felt in the past month and a half. He can’t wait to be home, can’t wait to hold his husband in his arms and have living proof that Magnus did overcome everything, that Camille is a long-forgotten nightmare.

Neither of them realizes how late it is until Magnus has to conjure up some light in the form of tiny bulbs floating above them. The light they cast reminds Alec of home again, of improvised date nights in the middle of nowhere, of late dinners when they refuse to go to bed before the other one has returned. It makes it even harder to pronounce his next words.

“It’s late, I should… I should get back,” Alec says, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Where are you staying? Let me walk you back. The streets aren’t safe at night.”

Alec is about to decline when he realizes that he has no idea how to go back, no cell phone to help, and that Magnus hasn’t invented portals yet.

“If that’s not too much trouble, I’d like that.”

“No trouble at all, but before you go, let me give you something in return of this lovely night.”

“Magnus, you don’t—”

He snaps his fingers, and a small pouch appears in his hand, the scent already tickling the corners of Alec’s mouth. Sandalwood. “Since you liked the scent… It’s not exactly what I want it to be yet, but maybe you and your husband will find the missing ingredient. You’ll have to let me know if you do.”

Magnus adds a wink as he hands the pouch to Alec in a way that reminds him of his own Magnus. It feels so good that Alec lets his grin grow wider than he has in a month and a half.

“Thank you. I’ll… I’ll let you know if we find something, but I’m sure you have the solution around here.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, but he can’t help it. He knows what ingredient is missing, it’s actually right there on the table, and he doesn’t always get the chance to tease Magnus.

For the first time since Alec woke up, he recognizes Magnus’s smile. It’s a smile that ends in a very soft laugh, the one that modifies his voice a little and makes him sound like a young man with no burden on his shoulders, no heaviness on his heart. It’s beautiful. He is beautiful.

Alec misses him so much.

*

He knows he can’t bring Magnus to the Shadowhunters’ lair, so when he recognizes the streets, he comes to a halt and stops in front of an inn.

“This is it… Thank you for everything. I… I really wish I could give you more to thank you.”

The moonlight accentuates Magnus’s soft features, but it also accentuates the ache in his eyes. Alec didn’t know he could want to take him in his arms even more than he has for the last month.

“You already did, Gideon.” He smiles, but sadness lingers at the edges of his lips. “Hope is a rare and valuable thing. It’s usually fleeting, but yours… There’s something about you, you radiate joy, hope and freedom. You let me have a glimpse and dare I say, a taste of it. It was an honor to meet you. I wish I could meet your husband too. Maybe someday?”

“Maybe, yeah…”

“In the meantime, tell him Magnus Bane sends him his best regards, will you?”

“I will.” Alec knows he has been reduced to monosyllabic words, but he can’t do more in this instant. His voice is choking with emotions.

“Thank you. I needed this, I needed to meet you, more than you know… Good-bye, Gideon. Travel safely, and I hope we’ll meet again sometime.”

There’s a lot Alec would like to reply, but no words could ever convey the depth and extent of all his feelings, not in this time or place. There is no space here for their love. There can’t be. Magnus doesn’t give him the time to say anything. He is already walking backwards, and that’s probably for the best.

“I hope so too. Good-bye…” Magnus stays trapped in his throat as he watches him walk away. He can’t shake the feeling that he didn’t give him enough. He shouldn’t have let him go before there was only joy on his face, in his eyes… Alec almost calls him back, but he can’t. Not for another two or three centuries at least. This had to be enough.