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lizziespoem · 6 months

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damsel in distress | itadori ͏⸺ one shot

͏⸺ Among the trees, alive with woes and heartaches, tall enough to almost reach up to the sky and something magical in the cold air as the silent forest almost seem to be enchanted, the young boy with the pink hair imagined how many adventures and stories those tall trees must have seen. A heavy sigh escaped the mouth of Yuji as his white shoes sinked into the soft grassy hill, that made the boy's breathing difficult as the calm air blowed a gentle breeze through his light hair before he muttered in another voice than usual "we should split up"

"such a stupid idea…" Yuji commented with an annoyed look on his prominent face as he kicked against the little rock, causing it to roll a couple inches away from him as he puts his hands in the pockets of his pants "have they never seen a horror movie?"

Yuji wanted his life to be an adventure, traveling far and abroad, stretching his legs out over the seas, improving that he could be more than just a vessel for the king of curses, that he wanted to help the world to be a better place and yet it only felt like he was trying to escape what was meant to be his path, to be a vessel with the destiny to be destroyed, which soul was meant to die before it found it’s place to be and the reason why everything was meant to be.

"a stupid idea…" the pink hair boy mocked but before he could finish his sentence a oddly pathetic scream teared him out of his thoughts.

The boy didn’t even hesitated as he heared the frightened cry out of help, of chivalry and sheer noblesse, he runned through the mossy grass like windborne blossoms nearing himself to the echoing scream and Yuji didn’t even thought about which dangerous curses could lingered behind those tall trees, about which strange powers they could possess. Like a haunting symphony he followed the wildflowers into the depths of the forest, adrenaline floating through his veins as he knew he couldn’t return without knowing if everyone is safe, and even if his feet’s couldn’t hold his weight any longer he would crawl on his knees to keep anyone safe.

A exhausted moan rustled behind those thick green bushes, as Yuji's hand carefully pushed a couple of the branches to the side to peak through the little gap in the bush.

The delicate hem around your ankles soaked the muddy water into the material of your purple dress as you quickly rushed over the stones under the water of the creek, your hair bounced with every step you made and as soon as your pretty eyes dared to see back over your shoulder, your feet stepped onto one of the mossy stones, causing you to slip to your knees into the water.

"Running away from me, I see" a smoky laugh made the boy's ears perk up as he saw a gigantic blue hand grabbing you by your waist and pulling you up into the air.

Roughly you slammed you hand against the back of the gigantic blue hand, that was tightly wrapped around your waist as you tried to kick him with your feet’s when you scoffed unimpressed "you ruined by dress, Nessus"

The gigantic curses chuckled as he brought you closer to his face you could already smell the decay on his grey flaky tongue and see the plaguing hunger lingering behind his black eyes, when suddenly a boy with pink hair stepped in front of one of the blueberry bushes "excuse me, would you mind to release.."

"keep moving boy" you interrupted the boy as you rolled your eyes while you relaxed yourself under the grip of the curses, as Yuji studied you with a gap between his lips and his eyes twitched "but you’re a damsel in distress"

Recursing a damsel in distress, a shining knight becoming a glorious hero, fixing hearts that are broken as his sensei Gojo taught him.

"I can handle this" you replied with a sarcastic smile on your lips, when a grin hushed over the lips of the curse as he looked down at the young sorcerer, who cleared his throat and stepped a bit closer "uhh, i think it’s my duty to.."

Another exhausted moan escaped your mouth as you lean your head into your palm "move boy"

"hey, if you didn’t noticed I’m trying…"

A rough punch against his guts made him tumble a couple steps back, letting him fall onto his butt into the cold water of the creek as his wet hair fell into his face and some of the water dripping down the corners of his lips as he split out the dirty water out of his mouth.

The glit of grueling anger filling the eyes of Yuji as he crudely pushed up the sleeves of his uniform before he muttered quitely to himself "you can do this, itadori"

"Giving up already?" the curse mocked the young sorcerer as he swinged you in the air, but before his enormous eyes could fall onto the jujutsu sorcerer he was punched roughly into his bloated stomach, causing the curse to let go of you and falling a couple inches deeper into the creek, when Yuji gently wrapped his arm around your hips, so you didn’t fell into the water again. Carefully he guided you to a rock near the edge of the bay as he sends a apologizing smile to you "I’m back in a minute"

There wasn’t a way to hide the grin on your lips as you silently watched the young jujutsu sorcerer fighting against the curse with which you still have to pay off your debts, there was something exiting within the way Yuji moved, how his muscles flexed around his armes under the wet material of his uniform and how his pink hair fell down into his tired face, while his jaw was clenched. Even though you knew you could easily win against Nessus, you let Yuji have his little win, while you leaned over the edge of the little creek drenching out your soaked hair till he finished his business.

"so you’re alright?" the boy asked a bit flustered as he watched you lean over the edge of the water, rubbing over the back of his neck with the wet palm of his neck, trying to hide the exhaustion of fighting the curse.

A seductive smile crosses your plump lips as you gently straighten your back and moved a bit closer to him, till your soft fingertips could brush away those strains in his face "I’m y/n y/l"

"yuji" he stuttered a bit and tried to hide it with a panicky laugh "Yuji Itadori"

With a amused look on your face you moved a couple steps away from him, turning your back to him to drench the hem of your dress and as soon as you turned back around, yuji had already leans his body against one of the large trees and crossed his arms over his chest "so, how got you mixed up with this…"

"Well you know how men are. They think no means yes and get lost means take me I’m yours" you rolled your eyes as studied the boys face, letting your fingers brush under his chin holding it a bit up.

You couldn’t deny that he was gorgeous, even if you should feel this way.

"well thank you for everything, Itadori" you give him a little wink and saluted before you pulled your hand carefully back and walked over the soft grass, but his desperately voice holded you back “wait.. are you sure you wanna go alone?"

Again a satisfied smile crosses over your lips as you looked over your shoulder, noticing how one of the straps of your dress had slipped down before your eyes moved onto the boy behind you "I’m big and tough and I tie my own shoes, don’t worry about me”

"Am I going to see you again?" Yuji didn’t wanted to sound as desperate as now, but he could miss the chance of seeing you again.

Like dripped in honey a laugh escaped your mouth as you moved between the trees "if you find me"

Yuji swore he would find you again, but he didn’t knew you were on of the most dangerous curses he’ll ever met.

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waywardcollective · 6 months

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you’re not like anyone else i’ve ever met . ( from Abaddon maybe? (: )

The Dusty Toybox II @helllords

"Is that so?" Words muffled by the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips, there was a pause as he procured a lighter from his blazer pocket. With a quick show of flame - the brief spark momentarily highlighting an unnatural glow to his eyes before disappearing - the end was lit. Eli chuckled, settling his attention on the other man with an air of amusement. "How many others have you said that line to?" Wisps of grey smoke dissipated against the night sky as he took a couple of drags before assessing the aftermath. Two Synths lay broken in the alleyway, their bodies distorted and rendered void. It was all his doing. But it was their mistake for following them, clocking the two wandering the streets after curfew. Fuck that. He was in no mood for dealing with them tonight. All he wanted to do was either get drunk or high off Happiness -- whichever came first. The worst part about being based off a human who once existed was the turbulent emotions woven into his system, forcing him to experience recklessness. When the real Eli lost everything, staying on the straight and narrow proved difficult; he slowly destroyed himself with quick fixes. And now the perfect image Dr. Jacob Mahoney carbon-copied was no different.

"I need a drink," he mumbled, releasing a quiet sigh. But first, they needed to leave immediately. Every Synth was tracked, and the sudden extinguishing of two was sure to be noticed. As Eli held his cigarette to the side, he noticed the split skin on his knuckles. Bright blue liquid rose to the surface, a few droplets falling to the ground below and settling like oil upon water. Apart from that, he could have quite easily passed as being fully human. But he was a brilliant actor. Nobody knew what he was, not even his friends from P.A.S.E. "We should go before more arrive." Crushing his cigarette against a nearby wall, Eli dropped it into a grid and quickly pushed his hands into his coat pockets before making his way towards the entrance of the alleyway. It was clear so far. "I can think of much better things to do than deal with these bastards." He was usually a lot more civilised, but he was restless. His last hit was well over two weeks ago and it was beginning to affect him. Nightmares came thick and fast, visions plaguing him during raids, and his paranoia spiked tremendously. It was certainly not his idea of fun.

#helllords #v; only as good as his maker #making a personal debt ( prompts )#( can be pre-estab or strangers caught in a predicament !! totally up to you :) )#( I'm down for either ! )

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your-highnessmarvel · 3 years

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From Bleak to Bright

Requested by Anonymous: the world is in black and white until you meet your soulmate. you’re Bruce’s little sister. you want to go with him during Avengers 2012 because you’re the only one that “can calm the beast” if ever he pops out. so you’re just chilling with the avengers in the flying thing. then they bring Loki in. the world goes to bright, bright colors. you don’t want it to be him. but it is. no one knows. no one knows but him.

AN: IM BACK. YES. AFTER LIKE A WHOLE YEAR. the flying thingy. me too i had to google it, ahaha

Warnings: angst, language

*gif not mine

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MASTERLIST

You spun on the stool, facing your brother with a sigh. He scratched the back of his head, the glow from Loki’s scepter reflecting on his specs in a grey light.

“One more hour?” he asked with a wince.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay,” you groaned. “But then we’re off to bed. And I’m putting Celine Dion on the stereo to sleep.”

“Not her again,” he groaned.

You raised a finger, brows crawling up your forehead. “You made me come here on this ridiculous flying tank with the God damned Avengers, of all people, and we’ve been here for four days listening to sounds of water dripping and Cap’s fifties music.”

Bruce sighed, leaning his forehead into his palm. “Fine.” His hands went up in mock surrender. You could see the tension in his shoulders, straining against the material of his chemise.

Not that you could see the color of it. You imagined it was blue. Bruce liked blue. Bruce knew colors. Of course he did. He’d met his soulmate such a long time ago, you’d forgotten she even existed.

But not you. You’d gone through life in the dreary black and white of a world without a soulmate. But now you were curious. You knew the colors by name, but not sight. What does green even look like? Bruce had told you trees and grass were green. Some people’s eyes. Ever since he’d told you that, green became your favorite. Maybe blue could beat it, since Tony Stark had told you the sky was all shades of blue combined.

An alarmed blared overhead, and your first instinct was to run to your brother’s side. Bruce’s eyes met yours, his mouth tugging up at the corners.

He’s fine.

Your hand found the curve of his forearm, still. No one really knew what actually triggered the Hulk, and you, being his little sister, were the only human alive able to tame the beast.

You heard footsteps, many, clambering loudly down the hall. The door to Bruce’s workspace was wide open, and you heard the telltale sound of security making their way down the hall. You frowned. What could they be doing so late at night, and so many all together?

At first, from the windows in the workspace, you only saw the black suits of the security patrol, their reflective masks bright in the hall. They walked in patterned, simultaneous movements, guns held firm in their grasps.

You saw the top of a really - no, seriously, really! - tall head, black hair. White skin. And as the small platoon of security walked passed your door, you saw the man walking in their midst, tied in shackles.

He turned his head, buzzing in your mind, something deep in your chest tightening. And then you saw the color of his eyes.

You couldn’t tell at first. Because the world became so vivid, so bright. He went from black and white to stark and bright and whole before your eyes, stealing the breath from your lungs.

A ringing started in your ears, a burning in your throat. You couldn’t help but stare, watching his eyes drink you in as well, watching his own world turn from ash to bright as the sun.

No, you thought. No. Not him.

Anyone but him.

And just before he rounded the corner, his lips stretched into a smirk.

A cold hand on your arm brought you back. As if slamming back into your body.

“You okay?” Bruce asked.

You gulped. Nodded. Felt your cheeks blooming with heat. “Yeah, of course.”

You could see the colors on your brother, now. Albeit, not being able to tell which specific color it was. And yet he was beautiful. Later, after hours of searching online for colors, you’d be able to tell his hair was black, his eyes a warmest brown, his skin a shade of white a few degrees darker than yours.

But now, it took everything in you not to scream.

You could finally see the entire world for what it truly was and all because of a demi-God wrought with darkness.

No. It couldn’t be him.

You separated from your brother, your mouth dry, feeling his eyes on you. He could always tell when you were troubled. But there was just no way, no freaking way, you’d tell him that you’d just met your soulmate. If he knew who it was... No. You wouldn’t tell him. You wouldn’t tell anyone.

You went to the computer and turned the screen away from Bruce, clearing your throat. Bruce went back to his own computer.

You didn’t even search up colors yet. You searched up the possibility of soulmates being wrong for each other. The computer spat out articles and data from hundreds of years, all proving that the soulmate trigger worked. That the signs of color all proved one had met the person right for them.

You sighed, dropping your head in your hands.

You rubbed at your eyes, steeling yourself for what you were about to ask.

“Bruce?”

“Hmm?”

“Did they just bring in Loki?”

His head raised from his computer. “Yeah.” He frowned. “I’m going to go ask why. Does it disturb you that he’s here?”

You scratched your jaw. “No, not at all,” you said quickly, too quickly. You cringed internally, hoping your face didn’t mimic the shame you felt. “Just - why?”

“I’ll go ask,” Bruce said. If he had any inkling as to why you were suddenly intrigued in God of mischief, he didn’t give any clue.

He left. You took a second to steady yourself. You counted your fingers. Felt the shape of your face.

Then you took a breath in and all but flew out the door.

You followed the maze that was the inner organs of the Helicarrier until you reached the “jail”, which was, upon inquiry, meant to hold your brother if ever you weren’t there to calm him in time.

You watched from outside the doors as Fury talked to Loki. You couldn’t help the fire in your chest as you watched. Loki seemed trapped, looking discreetly around the room, around his glass cage, his green eyes keen on any weakness.

You felt the sweat collecting in the palm of your hands. You waited patiently, praying whatever Bruce was up to would keep him long enough that he wouldn’t come looking for you. You heard broken pieces of the conversation on the other side of the steel enforced doors, but Loki’s voice was even, steady, unafraid.

He knew he wouldn’t be beat here.

You counted to one hundred the moment Fury walked out. Your heart beat vehemently between your ribs, battering your bones. Your knees were putty when you finally, slowly, opened the doors.

The air ruffled your hair, blowing it out of your face.

He stood tall, straight, unmoving, statuesque in the middle of his prison. Hands at his sides. Eyes mild. Mouth straight. He gave no indication that his world had finally shifted after millennia of black and white.

“I didn’t have to wait long.” His voice sent shivers down your spine, your body so reactive to even the sound of his words that you wondered, for just a second, what his touch would do.

You closed the door, tentatively approaching the control board. You saw a big red button and decided maybe touching random buttons wouldn’t do any of you any good.

“What’s your name?” he asked, following your movements with his sharp emerald gaze. He still stood there, like cement was poured down the length of his spine.

You darted your eyes back to his. He was glad in - what you later learned - was a green and gold ensemble, a green cotton cape grazing the floor of his cage. He was beautiful, really. Cut by the finest knife to the most perfect edge.

He smiled then, creasing his cheeks in what you could only feel as adorable.

“Didn’t expect it to be moi, did you, princess?”

You tried not to react, but heat bloomed across your cheeks, giving you away.

“Why?” you asked.

He rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically, breaking his statuesque stance to throw his arms up. “By the Gods,” he groaned, accent thick on his tongue. “You humans are so pathetic. Why this? Why that? Why me? Oh, you want to be so special that you question the straight line of fate as if the entire meaning of the world revolved around you.”

You raised your brows. Wow. He’d been thinking of that for a while.

“Do you know the colors?” you asked, approaching the glass that separated you from your soulmate.

He took you in, green eyes drinking you in from head to toe. He didn’t seem to think anything negative about his soulmate. “I’ve taken sense-enhancing drugs in my lifetime,” he said. “I’ve known colors briefly. Thor taught them to me.”

You nodded. “Your eyes are green.”

His lips split in a grin. “You’re very perceptive,” he chuckled. “And you’re wearing a powder blue sweater. Childish.”

Something in you shifted and you wanted to say something, something bad. Something along the lines of, “what is your favorite color?” and then run and wear it.

Instead, you approached the glass even more. By this distance, you could see he was significantly taller than you. He eyed you down his nose.

“A human,” he said with distaste.

“Maybe that’s your punishment,” you ventured, your heart railing against your ribs. “Maybe that’s your conundrum. You’ve thought nothing of humanity but the possibility to dominate and squander us under your boot like ants. Isn’t it fitting?”

You saw the anger cross his face before his lips spat the vile things he thought in his mind. “You are not worthy of a God, you fleeting, imbecile, nothingness of a human. I will outlive you before I even grow a white hair. Our children will watch you wither before they’ve even gone to school.”

“Our children?”

That seemed to faze him.

Wow, you thought. Of all the things Loki was, he was traditional. He very well intended to follow through with the soulmate script; to marry you and have children with you.

The thought first amazed you, burning bright in your mind’s eye. Then you thought twice and feigned disgust.

He laughed. “Oh, please, you’re the luckiest woman in the universe to have been bound to a God.”

“Aren’t you a demi?”

His gaze placated you. “I am, but the fact remains that I am greater than you, greater than anything your pathetic little human brain can conceive.”

You rolled your eyes with audacity you didn’t know you had. “Well,” you sighed, shrugging, hands in your back pockets. “What now?”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“Are we to start this - thing, or are we to go back to our normal lives and, hoping you don’t obliterate the planet, we never see each other again?”

His jaw clenched, working. “You know it’s physically impossible now for us to be apart.” He said this through clenched teeth, hands in fists.

You shrugged again. “I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t mind never having to look at your ugly mug ever again.”

He frowned deeply. “Try it, then, you’ll see, mortal.”

You sighed apathetically, turning your back to him.

“Before you go!” Loki called. You turned slowly on your heel, offering him nothing but your side profile. “Let your brother know I’m hoping to meet him soon.”

The blood in your veins went cold.

Part 2? Anybody?

#loki #Loki Laufeyson #loki fic #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki oneshot #loki imagine #imagine loki #loki x you #lokixyou #loki x yn #lokixyn #loki x reader #lokixreader #fluff #angst

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

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🥺 babe 🥺 bAbE

What if Jask gets sick at Kaer Morhen but tries to hide it from Geralt bc he doesn't want him to think he's gross/weak/etc? And Geralt has the Feelings Braincell for once?

oh babe... thank you

tw: sickness, falling unconscious, fever, whump/angst with a happy ending

---

Jaskier knew he had a fever the moment he woke up. He could feel it burning beneath this skin like a forge, flushing his face a more vibrant shade of pink than usual. He glared at his reflection in the small, round mirror above his dressing table and willed himself to feel better. It was his first winter at Kaer Morhen, and he didn’t want Geralt to think he’d made a mistake by inviting Jaskier along to stay. The bard knew that his stoic, self-loathing Witcher would blame himself immediately for any misfortune or illness that befell Jaskier. Geralt might even reconsider inviting him back again someday. So he had to keep his little bug a secret until he was well. Surely it was nothing major. Surely it would pass after a few days, unnoticed and unremarkable.

He should have known better.

Jaskier dabbed a bit more perfume than usual (which was generally none at all) beneath his ears and along his wrists. He hoped the peony-lavender mixture would mask whatever kind of scent his illness might carry and slowly, carefully made his way down the long stone staircase that led from the guest bedroom to the enormous kitchen. His limbs felt achy and tired, even though he’d slept heavily the night previous. His head sat heavy and unbalanced atop his shoulders; the world wavered and spun around him as he desperately tried to keep from pitching sideways into the wall.

“You alright there, boy?” Vesemir asked, catching his eye from the bottom of the stairs. “You seem a bit… nervous.”

Maybe his anxiety was doing a better job of hiding his secret than the perfume.

“Just a little wool between my ears this morning,” the bard laughed brightly, ignoring the searing pain that throbbed through his chest with the movement, “I think I might go chop some wood and see if the brisk mountain air helps clear it out faster.”

“Hmm,” the eldest Wolf nodded sagely. There was no doubt which teacher Geralt had admired most as a pup. “Alright. Be safe, take care. I’ll send someone to fetch you when breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Vesemir,” Jaskier bowed shallowly and headed for the kitchen’s back door. He took the axe into his hands and tried not to sway on his feet from the added weight. The bard covered his tracks by throwing a smile back over his shoulder and pushing the door open. “See you for breakfast!”

He stepped out of the keep and let the heavy slab of wood slam shut behind him. The early morning sky above Kaer Morhen was cloudless and the sun was bright, blinding him entirely. His situation only worsened when the sudden change in temperature, from the warm kitchen to the freezing mountainside, punched the air from his lungs in one thick cloud. He struggled to regain it as he wove his way through the snow drifts to the woodpile. Slowly, and with great effort, Jaskier lined up a thick log to be split.

The world felt watery and far away. His hand, which he knew to be attached to the end of his arm by some miracle, would not obey his command to pick up the axe again. His lungs felt heavy in his chest cavity and his legs suddenly ached with a fierce intensity.

With a quiet cry of protest against his own body failing him, Jaskier collapsed into the snow.

---

Jaskier’s heartbeat was so slow and quiet, his limbs unmoving and his lips nearly blue from the cold; Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been so scared before in his life. He turned to Vesemir and asked, barely keeping the frantic terror from clawing its way out of his throat: “How long was he out there?”

“Half an hour at most,” the grey Wolf shrugged. “I don’t really remember, Geralt. I was busy taking care of the breakfast arrangements.”

“Fuck!”

“Calm down,” Eskel ordered. He frowned at Geralt from his place at Jaskier’s opposite side. He’d helped carry the bard from the courtyard to Geralt’s room and was just as worried about the human’s wellbeing. “Panicking won’t help him. Now, what’s the problem?”

“It’s hard to tell over all that stupid perfume,” Lambert snarled. “Stupid fucking bard fucking knew we would be able to smell it on him. He covered his gods-damned tracks.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, having grown suddenly calm. He let the back of his knuckles drag softly across the bard’s too-hot cheek until he could stick a stray lock of sweaty brown hair back behind his ear. “You idiot.”

The bard shifted against the blanket they’d laid him on, his brow wrinkling. His arms twitched slightly, as if he was trying to move them, and he whined plaintively: “G’ralt.”

“I’m here, Jask,” the Witcher replied quickly, forgetting they weren’t alone in the room. He took one of the bard’s freezing hands into his own and began rubbing the warmth back into his fingers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you better. You’ll be alright.”

“Who are you trying to reassure?” Lambert huffed a short laugh. “You or the bard?”

“Leave off,” Eskel shot his younger brother a glare. The redhead rolled his eyes and moved to lean against the wall near the door. Eskel continued speaking to Lambert, but his eyes were back on Jaskier, who kept trying to get closer to Geralt even in his sleep. “Why don’t you go grab some clean clothes from his room while we get him warmed up and conscious again.”

“Fine,” Lambert spat. But he took off at a quick trot, regardless.

“Geralt, get his wet clothes off and get him wrapped up. Eskel, you come with me to the kitchen. I’ll need help carrying things and I’m sure the bard would prefer some privacy in this particular matter.”

Eskel nodded his agreement and followed Vesemir from the room, leaving Geralt alone with Jaskier. The White Wolf hurried to undress and swaddle the bard with a warm, heavy wool blanket and several furs, talking all the while in a low, worried voice. “Fuck, Jaskier. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened and that you- Why did you hide it? Why wouldn’t you- Are you afraid of me? Is that why you didn’t come to me for help?”

Jaskier’s lids fluttered open and Geralt watched with nervous anticipation as two of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, blue as cornflowers and brighter than the spring sky, tried their best to focus on his face. “Geralt?”

“I’m here, Jaskier. What’s ailing you? Please, tell me how I can help you.”

“Hurts,” the bard managed to groan. “To breathe.”

“Fuck,” Geralt growled. “We need to get you warm. Lambert should be back with your clothes by now.”

Jaskier’s head lolled back against the pillow and he struggled to reach for his Witcher, “Hold me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll warm up-” he gasped between words, as if every syllable pained him to expel “-faster if… you hold me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s brows furrowed in frustration. He knew Jaskier was right, that he’d feel better faster with skin-on-skin contact, but he also wanted to hold Jaskier for other, less emergency-based reasons. That was unacceptable. Losing Jaskier to death or sickness or other human reasons was intolerable but losing him, in all senses of the word, because of Geralt’s impossible feelings? That would be truly horrendous.

The warring factions of his heart were still clamoring over a decision when Eskel and Vesemir re-entered carrying two large trays. One was covered with foodstuffs and the other held an enormous clay teapot and mugs. A small pot of honey, gathered from Vesemir’s very own beehives, was the most obvious sign of affection Geralt had ever seen the older man display for a near-stranger.

“I’m gonna… get… spoiled,” Jaskier gasped. The eldest Wolf shot Geralt a glare.

“Why aren’t you in there with him? You know the best way to warm up a hypothermic person is skin contact, Geralt! I certainly taught you better than this.”

“I didn’t-” he stuttered. “I wasn’t-”

“He’s afraid,” Jaskier smiled sadly, cuddling himself deeper into the furs as he turned his gaze towards the fire. All three of the Witchers could smell his sadness, even more potent than the illness ravaging his delicate human body. Geralt winced when his brother and father glared at him in tandem, expressions nearly matching in fury. The bard was still looking away, watching the flames send dancing patterns of light against the stone walls. “Don’t worry… won’t ask… for any more.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. “May I hold you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s our cue to leave,” Vesemir smiled beneath his mustache. Jaskier was too tired to blush, and opted to bury his head in Geralt’s shoulder instead. “Come along, Eskel. Let’s see what Lambert has gotten up to.”

“What about Jaskier’s clothes?”

“He can borrow Geralt’s for now. I’m sure our White Wolf won’t mind sharing; he’s the possessive type, after all.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and grumbled out of habit more than disagreement.

When Vesemir and Eskel had gone for good and the door was closed, Geralt pulled Jaskier out of the furs and removed his own shirt. He settled the bard against his chest and buried his nose in Jaskier’s dark hair, breathing in the scents of sweat and sickness and now, thank the gods, tangy-bright happiness. “Gods, Jaskier. Don’t scare me like that ever again. I can’t lose you.”

“I didn’t… want… to disappoint.”

“You never do and never will,” Geralt intoned. He pulled the furs over them both and splayed his large hands across Jaskier’s back. The bard’s skin was overly hot in some places and freezing in others; Geralt buried his panic in order to care for... for the man he loved. He took a deep breath and rubbed slow circles between the bard’s shoulder blades. “I… I love you, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” the bard hummed tunelessly. “Love you… too.”

Geralt helped him sit up and drink a mug of tea. He listened, slowly allowing himself to relax, as Jaskier’s breathing eased and his heartbeat balanced. When the tea was gone and the fire was re-built to Geralt’s satisfaction, the Witcher tucked Jaskier’s head beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around the bard’s shoulders. “Oh, my little lark. I’ve been so foolish for too long.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier grinned into the Witcher’s warm pectoral. “Me... too.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time when you feel better,” Geralt murmured, lips pressing over and over to the top of the bard’s head. Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from smiling, even as he drifted back to sleep. The Witcher felt something settle in his chest when he whispered: “Rest up, dear heart. There are many more adventures to be had.”

#geraskier #sickfic #geraskier sickfic #geraskier fluff #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #jaskier whump #winter at kaer morhen #wifey's prompts #comfy's prompts #anything for you boo #geraskier fluffiness #geraskier ficlet

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starlessea · 3 years

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𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Prologue 0. Closing Time

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 6286

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

The sky was empty — save for one bird.

Daryl watched it fly above him, so close to the ground that he could make out the beating of its wings and swore he saw individual feathers flutter in the breeze.

His fingers itched over his crossbow, as he contemplated shooting it down from the sky and plucking it clean. He'd have something to eat then, at least. Though, for some reason, Daryl Dixon couldn't bring himself to let loose his arrow, watching as the bird soared overhead — and disappeared beyond the trees.

The man sighed as he kicked up some loose stones with the toe of his boot. What a waste, he thought, before trudging through the field once again.

The sky remained cloudless for the rest of the day, existing as a pale, washed-out grey that made Daryl feel uncomfortable as he hunted. The game must have felt the same, since the deer he'd been tracking made itself scarce, and the string of squirrels hanging from his belt seemed no heavier than it had done when the sun rose that morning.

Still, he trekked onwards over the thick, winding grass and through damp forest overgrowth. He was nearly back at the quarry already, but he hardly had anything to show for it. A few measly rodents and a sprained ankle were barely worth his trip in the first place; they sure as hell wouldn't be enough for all of the mouths he now had to feed.

Daryl cursed at himself for hesitating to shoot that bird straight out of the sky, and clip its wings. It wasn't much, but maybe it would have lasted a day if he was lucky. Still, there was no use wondering now, since it had swooped so close to him that he almost felt the downward draft on his cheek — and then he let it fly away.

He thought that it had been a jaeger; it definitely looked like a seabird that had veered too far from the shore. It was a gull with a white breast and dark, blackish feathers — and a wingspan that made sure you couldn't miss it.

He remembered you pointing one out to him, at 3am, parked up on that deserted beach as the two of you stared out into the rocking ocean.

"Ya thinkin' 'bout 'er again, baby brother?"

Daryl could hear Merle's voice taunt, in the deepest, darkest corners of his thoughts.

"Tha' lil' birdie of yours?"

He quickly shook his head — even though it was the truth.

It had been Daryl's own mind that conjured up those words, after all. Merle wasn't actually here. He was probably back at the campsite, lazing about and leering after women far too good for a beaten-up redneck like him.

Though, funnily enough, Merle had said the exact same thing to Daryl when he noticed his gaze settling over the new bar server, who swiped away the froth spilling over from their draught beers. Merle had given him even more of an earful when he realised that his younger brother was waiting for her shift to end.

Daryl took a deep breath, before rolling his neck to try and relieve the tension that had built up there. Once his mind drifted into thoughts of you — even if only for a split second — it often sank to the point of no return.

You were all consuming; you had been from the first time he laid eyes on you in that old, country auto-repair shop.

He remembered the way your voice chirped like a bird's, despite the curses that often fell from your lips.

You even made those sound sweet.

And he could also recall the way you yelled over the rumble of his bike engine, and competed with the screeching that came from his tyres losing their grip on the worn-out tarmac.

You'd told him that it felt like you were flying — and that was probably the reason why Daryl Dixon couldn't shoot that jaeger.

Then, the man heard something louder than he had done since the world ended — and suddenly, the sky was no longer empty.

There was an explosion, and that dull greyness was set alight with brilliant hues of red and orange. It made fire start to rain down upon Daryl, who could only stand and watch below. Debris fell out of the sky like a meteor shower, landing beyond the trees in the distance — to a place that Daryl couldn't quite make out, no matter how much he squinted.

The air became full with the sounds of scraping metal and flickering flames that caught the leaves and made them burn up like the end of a cigarette. Daryl felt his heart race as the adrenaline pumped its way through his veins, and made him flinch each time something crashed heavily to the ground.

There was often a moment in a person's life where their brain got kick-started into gear — and they awoke from whatever auto-pilot they'd been functioning on until that point.

For most, it was probably a mundane milestone like marriage or parenthood.

For others, it might have been a life or death situation that made them re-evaluate their perspective.

For some, it had only happened when the world actually ended, and the apocalypse began.

And perhaps, if Daryl had been a smarter man, it would have been this instant — as he gazed up at the sky and watched it burn above him. Maybe this was his second life-changing realisation; maybe he was lucky enough to get two.

But, for Daryl, the first had just been a regular Tuesday.

The garage was sticky hot that day. It was the kind of heat that made you sweat no matter how many fans you had blowing — since Old man Dean was too cheap to install air conditioning. His boss was a bit of a stickler for paying his bills, and nit picky with his nickles, but he'd always been kind to Daryl.

That being said, working as a mechanic wasn't exactly where Daryl had pictured himself at his age; but then again, he couldn't really picture himself anywhere at all. He felt like that last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, which didn't quite fit in with the others — the one that you had to bend into shape just to make it work.

Sure, he enjoyed seeing the different bikes roll in and out of the shop — those models he would never be able to afford — and Daryl appreciated having a few extra dollars in his pocket for when Merle raided his savings to score some pot.

Besides, there wasn't much else to do in the boonies. Daryl's old man once told him that the only interesting thing to rear its ugly head out of Georgia's backyard in the last fifty years was Dean's Auto Shop. That's probably why Daryl started working there in the first place, as a summer job when he was teenager — and had never really left since.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, his old man had been right about one thing — despite the bastard never catching on to the role of father. He'd been right about the shop being the only interesting thing around.

Because it was the place where he met her.

And then she became the only thing in that small town even worth being interested in.

Daryl didn't hear a car pull up into the shop, but he heard the mumbling outside from where he sat in the breakroom — chewing on some of Dean's leftover pizza that was bordering on stale.

"Dixon, get your ass out here for a second, would you?" the old man yelled, banging on the thin wall that separated them with his fist.

Daryl cursed below his breath, throwing the rest of his food into the trash and dusting off his hands over his jeans. He stepped out into the shop, and was met by an unfamiliar face — looking over at him curiously.

He suddenly felt unexplainably nervous, and dropped his head down to his feet as though it were a reflex he didn't know he had.

"This is your guy," he heard Dean say, before letting out one of his usual chesty coughs.

The man smoked a pack a day too much — and that was coming from Daryl.

"Owner of that bike you've been eyeing, too," he went on.

That caught Daryl's attention, and he instantly glanced up at the woman in question. She was breath-taking, but she also looked very much out of breath. She seemed as though she had run here, despite the Georgia heat.

"You ride?" he asked, but his gruff voice made it sound like more of a demand.

He grimaced at his own tone, but the woman didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest.

She laughed, and it sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before. "I wish," she said, running her palm along the polished metal and tracing her finger over that shiny logo.

Usually, Daryl would bark at anyone who touched his bike, and Dean seemed as though he expected him to do just that — from the way he raised an eyebrow at the daring woman, too oblivious for her own good.

Except, Daryl stayed quiet.

"Was never allowed within a mile radius of one," she went on, before turning back around to grin at Daryl like it was easy. "My folks were scared I'd take off into the sunset, never to be seen again."

He could relate to that. After all, it was exactly what he and Merle had done as soon as they'd gotten the chance.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before glancing over at the car parked in the middle of the shop. "She's pretty."

It was a steel blue colour — would definitely benefit from a lick of paint, but still pretty nonetheless. The tread looked good on the tyres, and Daryl couldn't see any signs of the rusting those models were prone to. Someone had taken good care of it.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, and suddenly Daryl was reminded of just how bad he was with words.

He cleared his throat, and ran his hand over the hood.

"Yer car," he explained, "'69 Chevy Camaro?"

Daryl asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah, that," she replied, sending him an apologetic look. "It's my grandpa's, so we're going to have to be real discreet about this situation over here."

Daryl raised an eyebrow as she beckoned him to the other side of the car, crouching down near the wheel arch.

"Some bastard left a nail in the road, and I ran straight through the thing like it was a stop sign," she grumbled, pointing out the puncture.

Daryl almost laughed at that — but he was still much too jaded from being caught in the middle of his break.

The woman stood back up and toed the deflated tyre with her boot, scowling at the sight of it.

"I know you're closing soon, but I had to push it half a mile just to get here," she said, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

Suddenly, her appearance made sense. Since he'd first laid eyes on her, all she'd done was tug at the collar of her vest, and try to stand in front of one of those poor excuses for a fan. But even then, Daryl couldn't quite believe her story.

"Ain't no way ya pushed that thing 'ere by yerself." The words left his mouth before he could consider them twice.

And the look she shot Daryl in return made him want to take them straight back.

But then, she smiled.

"I'm stronger than I look," she protested, leaning against the hot car. "You can ask the dozen assholes who catcalled me on the way but never offered their help."

This time, Daryl did let out a chuckle.

"Damn lucky y'ain't pass out," he quipped back, "heat's no joke."

She grinned again, and Daryl wondered whether she had an endless supply — or if she'd saved them just for him.

"Tell me about it," the woman teased. "Never liked visiting Georgia because of it."

Then, it all made sense to Daryl — the reason why she intrigued him so much.

"Y'ain't from 'round here, are ya?" he asked, surprising himself.

Usually, he couldn't give a 'rat's ass', as Dean called it, about anyone who stumbled into their shop. Never did they get more than a half-hearted greeting from Daryl, or a grunt as he told them to mind their head on that low door frame (she didn't have that problem). Though today, he seemed oddly talkative.

"Haven't seen ya before," he added.

The woman folded her arms over her chest.

"Would you recognise me if you had?" she asked.

"E'erybody knows e'erybody in this place," he answered. "I'd remember if I saw ya cross the street."

It was partially the truth. Daryl knew most people — but he only bothered to remember a select few.

"Moved here last week," she caved, proving him right. "I'm keeping my grandparents company watching daytime cable and doing grocery runs."

Daryl smirked. "An' runnin' over nails with their car, apparently."

"That, too," she confessed.

It was silent for a few seconds, and Daryl realised that he should probably give her a quote for the job. Though, she interrupted him before he could.

"Listen, your new neighbour would be really grateful if you could cut her a break," she said, eyeing the Camaro like she was considering whether it was even worth the hassle. "The old man's going to kill me if I come home on foot tonight."

Daryl knew what she was asking. The notice in the shop window made it clear that they'd be closing in half an hour; Daryl had been all but ready to flip the sign himself. Before she'd arrived, he'd even dared to think that he could shut early — and possibly get to crack open a cold beer and enjoy the breeze of his porch.

He sighed.

"I'll see what I can do," Daryl mumbled, "but I ain't makin' no promises," he warned — as he caught the way her eyes lit up at his words.

But that was a lie. Daryl knew he wouldn't let himself go home until it was finished.

The woman was utterly gleeful. He watched her smile much too widely for her face, and for a moment Daryl thought that she might even jump at him. But she seemed to catch herself at the last second, and abruptly stopped.

She didn't falter long, though. "Thank you, thank you so much!" she said, excitedly, before pausing to tap at her jean pockets. "I don't have any cash on me for a deposit, but I'm heading to work now."

She looked sheepish as she explained herself.

"I'll come straight back and pay in full," she added, trying her best to convince him.

Daryl narrowed his eyes like he didn't quite understand. Then he did, and he laughed properly.

"Deposit?" he asked, shaking his head. "City girl, here we jus' keep yer vehicle if ya can't pay."

The woman's expression was priceless. She looked as though she couldn't figure out whether he was joking or not, and stared at Daryl with her mouth slightly agape as she debated which it was.

He couldn't watch any longer.

"Where ya workin'?" he asked.

Then, he cursed himself for doing so. Time was ticking on, and he already had to stay overtime because of his inability to say no. Well, usually he had no problem with the word; it just seemed like it was stuck in his throat today.

"Joe's bar," she replied. "It's a few blocks over and-"

"I know Joe's bar," Daryl interrupted.

Everybody knew Joe's. It was the only place around that sold a decent draught beer. He'd been going there since he was a teenager — younger than he should have been, but old enough to know better.

"Me an' my brother go there a lot, but I ain't seen you 'round."

She nodded.

"Only started a few days ago. Hopefully they don't fire me for being late."

Daryl glanced at the clock. It was approaching his closing time and her opening one.

"Ya better get runnin', Camaro," he noted, tapping at his watch that didn't even work. "Rush hour soon."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the nickname. Daryl didn't know her real one yet, and felt like it was too late to ask for it. He'd have to catch a glimpse of Dean's log book later to find out.

"Will do," she replied with a smile. "Thanks again, Dixon."

Though Daryl couldn't quite work out how she knew his name, either.

He watched her scurry about collecting her things, and walked her to the entrance. The sun was starting to set — leaving the sky a pinkish orange that only made him squint the more he looked at it. He held the door open for the woman, and heard Dean snort from the back of the shop. But the way she thanked him made it worth the teasing.

"Take care of that sixties Honda," she winked, "she's a real beauty."

Daryl was surprised that she knew the model of his bike, considering she'd never even ridden one.

"If only ya knew," he mumbled back as he saw her off. "Will take ya for a ride one time if yer willin'."

She stopped in place. Daryl didn't know why he said that. It had just slipped from his mouth like oil from a can.

The woman laughed and rolled her eyes like she didn't believe him.

"That's what they all say."

Then, she started to jog down the street — just like she said she would — and Daryl thought her crazy for even attempting it in this midsummer Georgia weather. That woman had entered the shop like a whirlwind, and when she left Daryl couldn't remember what he'd even been doing before.

Dean cleared his throat and threw a rag at him that he barely managed to catch.

"Keep it in your pants, boy."

Daryl scowled at the man; he knew him better than that. So, he didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply, and instead got started on setting the Camaro up on a jack.

"She's a beauty, I get it," Dean went on, despite his silence. "Her type don't belong in a place like this, that's for damn sure."

Daryl had to agree with him there. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the wing mirror of her car and grimaced. He had grease on his face, and part of him cursed Dean for not telling him before he'd left the breakroom.

"But you know Mike and Doreen?" the old man asked, and Daryl nodded. "That's their granddaughter."

Daryl furrowed his brow — not realising he'd done it until he caught himself in the glass once again. Mike was a hard man, the type to straighten out any kinks in a person with brute force and that baby boomer spite.

"She may be real pretty, kid, but that one's trouble," Dean noted, confirming his suspicions.

He ignored the way he called him 'kid'. The old man still hadn't grown out of the habit — despite Daryl being well beyond his teenage years now.

"Trouble?" he repeated, like he couldn't quite comprehend the word being associated with someone like that.

Dean chuckled — but it turned into one of those coughs that made Daryl wince.

"Maybe more so than you," he said. "Got kicked out of the military, I heard."

Daryl spat at the floor, and Dean laughed again. They both hated those military dogs who often paraded through their town, looking at them as though they were trash beneath their government-issued boots.

But, if she'd been kicked out then maybe they could find some common ground.

Old man Dean wagged his finger at him, recognising Daryl's no-good expression; he'd become familiar with it by now, from all the times he'd worn it throughout the years.

"So don't go losing your head over her, Dixon," he cautioned, pretending not to know how good Daryl was at throwing caution to the wind.

"And remember to close up before you leave."

But it was too late.

Daryl had already lost his head, and his heart — but he wouldn't know that the latter was missing for a very long time.

You ran the cloth along the oak bar surface, wiping away any sticky beer rings that had been left there.

This is why we have coasters, you sighed.

It had been a slow Tuesday night, but you'd somehow still been roped into working the close. You tried to tell your boss that you were having car troubles, and had plans to stop by the garage on your way home — but he seemed to prioritise his own date over yours.

Well, you wouldn't exactly call giving the local mechanic his cheque a date; usually, you didn't have to pay for those. But you couldn't deny how it had made you feel when he smiled that smile your way — so small that you'd almost missed it — before you took off running out the door.

It gave you whiplash.

Perhaps he was just being friendly. But, then again, he didn't seem like the naturally friendly type. You shook your head, throwing the beer-soaked rag into the sink. You didn't trust that man in the slightest.

That wasn't a new development, really; you didn't trust most men. And, you often found that the ones who made your heart race like that were the worst of them all. He was trouble, that one, and you'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

You untied the double knot of your apron, and folded it up neatly. There were a few whiskey stains on it — you'd caught a whiff of that top-shelf scent a few times now — but you were already too late to even consider putting it in the wash. Instead, you left it at the end of the bar, and swapped it out for the ring of keys lying there.

It was closing time, and you prepared yourself to run three blocks in the dark. You stepped out into the night, feeling the cool breeze on your cheek as opposed to the midday heat that had been there when your shift started. You flipped the latch and turned the key in the lock until you heard it click.

Then, you held them between your knuckles so that the jagged edge poked out.

"Ya done for the night?" a voice came from the shadows, and your heart dropped.

That brief second lasted a lifetime as the blood rushed to your ears like a strong current through running water, and your grip tightened over those keys. But then, you noticed the reflection in the glass panels of the door — and relaxed.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," you scolded the man, "thought you were a dejected patron tryna jump me or something."

Perhaps he was; you still didn't know any better.

Dixon was leaning against that dingy brick wall, opposite the back door of Joe's Bar. You didn't even know what that other building was — but some sketchy figures usually loomed about it, so you tried to stay clear.

Maybe he didn't get the memo, you thought.

"Tha' happen before?" the man asked back, casually.

Though, the dim street lights overhead illuminated his face, and you caught a glimpse of his serious expression before he let it drop. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers — almost smoked down to the butt already — and it made you wonder just how long he'd been waiting for you.

"Maybe once or twice," you laughed, but it didn't sound as natural as you had intended.

You noticed the man's eyes flicker down towards the keys held between your knuckles, and you quickly slipped them into your jean pocket — hoping that he wouldn't pry. Luckily, he didn't seem like the type to unnecessarily butt into other people's business.

The smoke trailed from his lips and caught the stark light of the street lamp. He almost looked cold — bathed in that bluish tint which made those cigarette fumes seem nearly luminescent.

"You here to make sure I don't run off with your paycheck?" you teased, fishing out the wad of bills from your back pocket.

You waved them at him, and considered how precarious the situation may seem to an onlooker if they happened to pass by. The man looked as though he felt the same, since he quickly glanced over his shoulder down the alleyway — checking to make sure you were alone.

"Don't worry, Dixon, I busted my ass tonight just so I could leave you a nice tip," you said with a smile, handing the money to him.

He took it, slowly, as though he had to remind himself what it was even for.

Then, he let that cigarette butt fall to the floor, and stamped it out with his boot — before dragging it along the concrete until it was nothing but embers.

The man shook his head at you. "'M here on behalf of the welcome committee."

You snorted as you processed his words, and followed him out of that narrow alleyway into the main street.

"Bullshit," you called, "as if-"

You rounded the corner after him, and stopped. He was there, leaning against that pristine sixties Honda bike — spare helmet in hand.

It was parked up on the sidewalk, polished metal glinting in all its glory under those neon lamps. Dixon was almost camouflaged against it — his black leather jacket also speckled with white light. He held out that helmet, as if it were an invitation he was waiting for you to accept.

But he seemed shy — as though acutely aware that it was only an invite, and nothing more. So, you took it, and shook your head as you realised that it wasn't his spare helmet he had offered you; it was his only helmet.

"Said I'd take ya," he murmured, fastening the strap gently under your chin.

It was too big, so the man compensated by tying it tighter until you felt like your jaw was wired shut. But, you just smiled.

"An' I ain't no liar," he said when he was done, and kicked his leg over the bike.

Then, you sped off into the night.

You yelled over the sound of the engine for him to go faster, and laughed as you had to spit out the stray hairs that had blown into your mouth. Your clothes whipped in the wind, too, and you clung to the man in front of you as though you were afraid they might catch the draft, and make you fly away. It was electrifying; your whole body felt like pure static as you rode past shop displays and windows that made your reflections look like hazed blurs.

That whole trip felt like a hazed blur, really, because suddenly you were there.

"Where are we?" you asked, unsure of where 'there' even was. "Why'd we stop?"

You pulled the helmet from your head and cocked your leg over the bike. The man let out a chuckle at the sight of your hair, sticking up from the static — as though lightning might strike at any moment.

"Smoke break," Dixon grumbled, before coaxing out the squashed cardboard packet from his jeans. "You want one?" he asked, offering it to you.

You shook your head; you didn't smoke.

He shrugged in response, cupping his hands to his face to get a flame from his lighter. You left him to it, and turned away from the bike to catch the view.

And what a view it was, indeed.

You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the lapping ocean waves before you saw them. The cliff overlooked the beach below, desolate, with a high tide that drew the shore into you. Your grandmother had told you about this place once, on the phone a few months back as she tried to sell rural Georgia to you.

It wasn't like you were given much of a choice, anyway.

But now that you'd been shipped out here — against your will, no doubt — you had to admit that she'd been partly right. It was breath-taking. Back in the city, a place like this would be littered with beer cans and tacky, disposable barbeques within a week of someone posting about it online. Here, however, it looked untouched.

It was as though the two of you were the first to ever set foot here, on this particular crag that overlooked the waves — leaving your footprints alongside tyre treads for the next pioneers to discover.

You glanced back at Dixon over your shoulder — who was busy trying to look as though he wasn't already looking at you — and smiled.

He was one hell of a welcome committee.

Daryl almost choked on the fumes of his cigarette — letting out a cough that reminded him of the way old man Dean spluttered in the mornings. He really needed to kick that habit, he thought, and snubbed out his cigarette on the ground.

Then, you scowled at him, so he picked the butt back up and stuffed it into his pocket, grimacing at the thought of having to clean it up later.

He had been lying about the smoke break, really, but then he needed to carry out his excuse. Initially, he'd only thought about picking you up from the bar and offering you a ride back to the shop. He hadn't the slightest clue of how that plan had become this.

Somewhere along the way, Daryl might have accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the most scenic place he would think of. Stupid damn street signs, he cursed, as though he hadn't driven those roads a hundred times before.

Camaro seemed to call him out on his bluff, too, since she turned to face him and immediately shook her head.

"You're lying," she said, as though she were certain, "but the view is extraordinary, so I'll forgive you just this once."

Daryl swallowed thickly, tasting the tobacco that had made his throat so dry. For someone who claimed himself not to be a liar, that was all he seemed to be doing today.

Then, he watched you make your way towards the edge of that cliff, like you couldn't even hear him warning you to be careful. It was like you weren't paying him the slightest attention. Daryl was used to that from women — but somehow, this was different.

You didn't look down on him, nor at him with any hint of prejudice for wearing jeans still coated in oil, and boots he'd had to tape the soles of just to keep them together. In fact, you weren't looking at him at all. You seemed far more concerned with the stars that flickered in the night sky above you, but at the same time grateful towards the man for having brought you to them.

"You treat all your customers like this, Dixon?" you asked him.

He watched you turn around and look at him like you'd only just remembered that he was there. But, then you beamed a smile at him so bright that it put the stars to shame — and made all of your other ones look dim in comparison.

"Y'ain't special," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Jus' given' ya a lift home 'cos Dean told me to."

Though, Dean had left the shop hours ago.

Daryl watched you laugh like you'd caught him out one more time.

"There you go again," you said, teasingly. "Do you ever tell the truth?"

No, he didn't. He always tried to, but oftentimes it never did him any good. The people of this town had already made the assumption that he was a natural born liar. You were the first person to ever make the distinction between his white lies and those other types.

All his life, Daryl had been pigeon-holed into the role of good for nothing redneck, and had only recently graduated to the slightly less stereotyped town mechanic. But that night it was as if someone, for the first time, tried to get a peek at whatever was underneath.

Old man Dean was right. You were trouble — but not for the reason he had said. You were trouble because you seemed entirely unaware of your place in the world, and it made Daryl start to question his own. You seemed nice — perhaps even lovely — but Daryl never trusted those types. He knew you were far too good to be wasting away the early hours of the morning with the likes of him — and it left him wondering what exactly you wanted.

You'd already paid for his services, after all.

"Thank you for letting me see the stars again," you breathed, stretching your neck which ached from staring at the sky. "It's been a while."

Back then, Daryl didn't quite understand what that meant. He'd thought perhaps that you'd been talking about city pollution.

On the way back, Daryl felt you cling onto him tightly as he drove through empty roads, and passed the old, flickering street lights that blinked like camera flashes. But, when his fingers accidentally brushed up against yours, as you both reached for the shop door, you pulled your hand away.

It had only been a random Tuesday — that had eventually rolled into a Wednesday by the time he'd gotten you back into your repaired Camaro — but that was the moment in his life where Daryl felt like he had finally woken up.

But even awake, he often found himself lost in daydreams of the woman who crash landed into his life, and disappeared from it just as quickly as she came.

Daryl followed the trail of debris that had fallen from the sky, as though he were tracking some giant, metal bird. He didn't want to stick around too long, given that the noise had probably attracted every damn walker in the area; he just hoped that he was still far enough away from camp that they wouldn't be drawn there.

He stepped over the hunks of hot wreckage, some of it still ablaze, until he eventually came across something soft and not made of metal.

It was that jaeger. It was dead.

It looked as though it had been struck straight out of the sky. Its feathers lay scattered around it — the white breast now red with blood — and its wing was bent at a crooked angle, broken.

Daryl scowled. If he'd known that it was going to have such a meaningless death, then he would have shot it himself. Though, he still didn't add the bird to his string of dead animals; he thought that it had suffered enough.

He continued onwards through the brush until he stumbled across what he'd been looking for. But even as he saw it with his own eyes, Daryl couldn't quite believe it. Before him was the husk of a downed helicopter, burning in the middle of the forest.

Immediately, he ran to it, tripping over the wreckage as it got thicker and harder to navigate.

Though, there was no pilot inside — only radios and machinery parts that Daryl didn't know the names of. They screeched high frequency sounds as they caught on fire, and it made his ears ring the longer he listened.

So, he turned back.

That was when he saw it — them — a few meters away. His stomach dropped. Guess that's the pilot, he thought, looking up at the body tangled in the trees.

He'd never seen a parachute in real life before — only ever in the movies. He'd also never understood how that flimsy material could stop someone from plummeting to their death.

Well, in this case it hadn't.

The pilot was dangling from one of the branches, all caught up in those wire cables like a fish on a line. The limbs were contorted awkwardly, and Daryl swallowed thickly at the sight of their arm which had definitely been broken — reminding him of that miserable jaeger's wing.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave. The smell of burning rubber and the white noise from those radios would probably keep him up for the next few nights, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave, but then the body spoke to him.

"Dixon?" he heard it gasp.

And Daryl wondered just how many impossible things he might encounter today.

The voice startled him, and he almost stumbled over his own foot in return. Walkers couldn't speak, and they surely wouldn't know his name, either. Then, he caught the slightest movement, and recognised a jacket much too familiar. It had been his, after all, before he'd given it to you.

The pilot groaned, and Daryl recognised that tone of voice, too. He quickly fumbled about for his pocket knife, not even stopping to consider how the hell he'd be able to cut you down.

He couldn't even comprehend how you were alive-

"How's it hanging?" the voice spluttered.

-and how you'd kept that same god awful sense of humour.

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A/N I’ve tried so hard to post this, sorry for all the technical difficulties...

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #twd #twd fanfiction #twd imagines #twd fanfic #the walking dead #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl x reader #daryl x you #daryl x oc #daryl dixon x oc

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wildroseparadise · 3 years

Text

Time Exposes All: Pietro Maximoff x reader

Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x reader

Word count: 2,3k words

Requested: Yes, for Anonymous. I hope you like it!! ♡

Summary: Imagine being able to turn invisible and accidentally overhearing Pietro profess his feeling for you.

Warnings: Fluff, fluff, and even more fluff, (probably butchered) russian pet names, sparring (ig?) [Please tell me if I missed any!]

Want to join my TAGLIST? Follow the link, please!

Grunts echo through the room; the ends of your hair sticking to your shoulders and back when you move around the circle. Your eyes scan across the length of your opponent, studying the way Pietro's body twists and bends in response to your movements.

You have been like this for hours now; at first you had been accompanied by the super soldiers, as well as Wanda and Nat, but they had all left by the time the sun had reached its peak on the sky.

Although the time just kept on ticking for the two of you. Had you looked out the glass-specked wall you would have seen how the sun had been covered by multiple rounds of clouds and was now closely approaching the horizon- not once disrupting the heatwave that seemed to move steadily outside the tower.

Hands propped up in front of your face, you jumped tentatively towards your sparring partner, pushing out your wrist and hitting him square in the face before moving back again. Thighs burning from hours of keeping the fighting stance.

You looked down at your bruised knuckles for a split second. They were covered by carefully wrapped, and re-wrapped, bindings but you could tell that it had stopped preventing the swelling long ago. Drops of sweat ran down your arms, racing towards your bent elbows, in a silent attempt of cooling down your body.

"You getting tired, Y/l/n?" you roll your eyes at your companion's taunt, his exhaustion clear from how his thick accent barely makes it past the wheezing and heavy breathing.

"I was about to ask you the same, Pie," the speedster frowns at the nickname, trying to hide his fondness of it under feigned annoyance.

You chuckle, ducking when he tries to swing his arm at you. Successfully throwing him off course and kicking him of his feet by swinging your leg under him.

Pietro hits the ground with a grunt, all air escaping his lungs involuntarily. Dust flying up around him and into the air as he tries to catch his breath, throwing him into a coughing-fit.

"I win! Again! I thought you were faster than that, speedster," you joke, Pietro's head falling back onto the grey flooring, a silent chuckle running past his separated lips.

Before you can even register that anything happened, he is lying on top of you, arms pinned up by the side of your head to keep you to the ground. Clearly having used his abilities, your voice catches in your throat, "I am, зайка," he breathes against your face, lips almost close enough to graze against your nose, "I win..." he uttered.

"No fair!" you exclaim, trying to pull your wrists from his grip, but succeeding only in his grip tightening. He pulls you up, still holding you close and brushing away a piece of hair that had stuck to your forehead.

"Wanna quit for the day? It seems we've been here for quite a while," he quips, looking over his shoulder and out at the timed lawn-lights that had just turned on outside, signaling that it was dinner soon.

You feel absolutely exhausted, but you wanted to get him back for his little trick first, "Just one more round? I promise to be quick," you wink, knowing that he had to 'prove you wrong' and dispel your confidence in winning against him in such a brief time.

"Sure, мой воин, whatever you'd like," he smiles down at you before taking his stance once again.

You grin, stepping away from him. Admiring him for a second, the way his muscle stretched under his skin and how the blue tank top sat snuggly against his abdomen, before taking up a similar stance.

Your fingers curl towards him as you both stand at the ready, signaling him to approach you. He arches his eyebrow in silent question but moves towards you, fist outstretched, nearly hitting your shoulder.

A shiver runs through your body, feeling as though your skin was split into thousands of small scales that turned inside out, every atom in your body seeming to change direction and position. You were used to the feeling your transformation gave you by now, but it still never failed to give you butterflies.

"Hey! How come it's okay for you to use your powers?" Pietro throws his arms up at his side, rendering himself unprotected, as he spins around in the now seemingly empty room.

A giggle escapes your lips, hand quickly coming to cover your mouth. Pietro turns back towards you, confused over your whereabouts.

You move towards him, being invisible you could now take your time with admiring him without chance of him seeing it. You walk around him in a half circle, leaving him to feel in front of him with his arms,

"You did it first," you purred against his ear, leaning forward with your hands behind your back, a visible shiver coursing down his spine.

Pietro makes haste, now knowing where exactly in the training room you were. He spun and grabbed your waist, kicking your legs out from under you and laying you one the floor carefully. This time only crouching over you instead of laying on top of you, on knee on each side of your hips, and all in the matter of a heartbeat.

Turning visible again, the two of you meet each other's gaze. Before you can protest, or Pietro can tease you further, a slow applaud is heard from the door to the gym.

Pietro pulls back again, and you both sit up on the floor a few feet away from each other, "Wanda!" you exclaim, relieved. Hand falling over your raising heart; not so much from the scare, but from the immense exercise and proximity to the silver-haired speedster.

"Good work, you two," she smiles cheekily, "seems you've been at it for hours!" she motions towards the outside view, now not much more than a sea of blacks with a few sources of light sprawled throughout.

"I just came to say that dinner is in ten, you should get ready," you nod, taking Pietro's hand as he pulls the two of you off the floor, "Ladies," Pietro winks at you, nodding at his sister before speeding towards his room on the other side of the tower.

You walk out into the corridor with Wanda, her hip bumping against yours to get your attention,

"Since when are you two... you know?" she teases, her hand pointing back towards the gym as the two of you keep walking towards your rooms,

"What do you mean?" you arch your eyebrow in confusion, thinking back at what you had done since seeing her at the door,

She frowns at your answer, "Well, my brother and you. All up close and personal- you obviously like each other!"

"What? No! It's not like that," you defend incredulously, your eyes widening at her accusation,

"He called you 'bunny' and 'my warrior', Y/n/n. He likes you." she deadpans, hands snaking onto your shoulders and successfully stopping you in your tracks,

You had known that he called you nicknames, obviously since you heard them most of the time, but you had always thought they were teasing ones. Only allowing yourself to dream of them meaning something like what you called him in your head,

"No. No, Wanda. He just-" you have to take a breath to summon your thoughts in the right order, "He just calls me nicknames, sometimes. He does that with everyone." you shrug, a little hurt by your own words.

"He doesn't, though. And, besides, you don't just call 'a friend' those things. Trust me," she gives you a gentle smile, leading you into your room and sitting on your unmade bed.

"Go take a shower and I'll pick out your outfit," she squeals lighty, not able to hide her excitement at getting to rummage through your closet and dress you.

Not five minutes later, you open your bathroom door in a towel. Walking over to her where she stands analysing the outfit she has laid out for you on the bed, you look down at it and smile, "It looks nice, but you know it's just dinner with the team in the kitchen, right?" she nods, turning to you.

"Oh, you're so pretty!" she gestures to your face where you've just done the bare minimum of makeup to feel more comfortable and let your hair down.

"Put it on, then come to the kitchen," she squeals once again, leaving your room and closing the door behind her.

You huff at the choice of underwear, no, scratch that, lingerie she has laid out for you, a lacy set in your favorite color, but nevertheless putting on the outfit before heading out.

Walking into the kitchen, the loud chatter from the rest of your team seemed to stop immediately as you stepped into their view. Sam and Bucky seemed to both lose their breath as they stared at you, Nat and Wanda smiling like cheshire cats as they looked to you.

"She looks amazing, right, boys?" Nat smiled towards the men on the other side of the table, all nodding incredulously, a deep blush setting on your cheeks as you tried to hide, leaning over Wanda's seat, and hugging her shoulders from behind.

"Don't you think, Pietro?" Wanda inquires, turning towards the man that had been standing behind you in the kitchen. You turn to see him staring at you, plate in hand like he had stopped mid-step when you had walked in.

He nodded carefully, "Yeah, ugh... excuse me for a second?" it came out as more of a question than it was probably supposed to, but Wanda nodded anyway. You frowned as the boy sped out of the kitchen and towards the rest of the tower.

You patted her upper arm quickly, standing straight again, "I'll be right back," you excused, following the man that had just left.

You walked for minutes before finally giving up your search for him, having looked through two whole levels. You walk back, now only having to walk down a single corridor before being back in the loud kitchen.

"Damn you!" a sigh can be heard from one of the doors to your right. It was slightly ajar, but the opening in the doorway facing this way, explaining why you wouldn't have noticed it when you first walked the corridor.

You walk closer to the door, now hearing more clearly, "Why couldn't you have just said something smart? Stupid! And everyone else, just- ugh!" it was clear from the voice that it was the speedster you had been searching for.

You opened the door slightly to pear into the room, seeing Pietro pacing the room with his back to you, hands ripping at his hair. You're about to announce your presence when you feel a familiar feeling coursing through your body. It happened often- your instincts telling you to use your powers, but not like this. It had never happened amongst the team, your family, not unless somebody was yelling, or something scared you.

Following your instincts anyway, you turned invisible for the second time today and creeped into the room. It was obvious that Pietro was irritated over something and beating himself up over it. You took to standing against the wall by his side, close enough to not feel too weird but also not close enough to where he could accidentally touch you.

"Now she'll think you're weird! And after today! Today was good, man! Right?" a frown is edged onto your face, displeasure seeping through your body.

"Why can't you just tell her you love her!" he took a deep breath as yours hitched, he was in love with someone? Someone he had seen today. But he was with me all day?

"Hey, Y/n," your eyes widen, thinking he has somehow seen you, but your worry disappears as he continues, "We need to talk...?" he seems unsure of his own words, "Shit! What are you thinking, Pietro! She'll think something his wrong! Wait, what if this is wrong, what if this feels wrong for her?" his eyes widen in anxiety, but he continues anyway.

"Y/n, hey... ugh.... well, I like you... Like a lot. I'm pretty sure I love you, and like-" a gasp escapes your lips before you can stop it. Pietro freezes in his tracks, turning slowly towards the rest of the room but seeing nothing.

"You- You love m-me?" you breathe out, the tension in the room having gotten so thick that it's slowly choking the two of you.

"Y/n? What- I mean," he looks around the room, eyes landing on you as you turn visible again, "You- you were spying on me?" he asks slowly, not actually hurt over it but anxious over the fact that you had heard him.

"You love me?" you ask again, not answering his question as it seemed stupid and obvious at this point.

He nods tentatively. Taking a step towards you, he fears that you will just turn around and run away from him. Instead, you move quickly towards him, hands snaking around his neck, melting into his warmth as your lips come together in a violent and needy kiss.

After what seems like forever of him holding you tightly against himself, he lets go of your bottom lip. Letting his forehead rest against yours, your noses brushing against each other's from the fact that you don't really want to pull away at all.

"Do you-" Pietro whispered against your lips, you nod as answer, "Please, say it. I want- I need to hear it..." he begs quietly, "I love you, Pie." he smiles at the nickname now, unsure of whether it's because he now knows how much he means to you or because you can't really see the grin that plays on his lips, "I love you too, зайка."

A/N: Omg! I'm so happy this was my first request ever and I loved the idea, I hope it made you happy! Please, if anybody has any requests don't be scared to make them because I absolutely love getting other people's ideas and input.

Want to join my TAGLIST? Follow the link, please!

#pietro maximoff #maximoff #avengers x reader #the avengers #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff x oc #pietro maximoff x y/n #imagine #pietro maximoff imagine #x reader #reader insert #x y/n #x you #fluff #pietro maximoff fluff #age of ultron #avengers reader insert #stark reader

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hrina · 3 years

Text

The Thrill of the Chase, Pt. I

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 3.6k REQUESTED: no

hi! it’s been a while since i’ve posted something on here lol, i wonder if anyone still remembers me 🤕

this is PART 1 of the hunter!AU that i’ve been writing. while the story is a patreon-exclusive, my patrons gave me permission to post the first chapter here on tumblr for anyone who’s curious about the kind of content i offer on patreon.

if you want to read the rest of this series and unlock access to my other exclusive work, you can sign up for my patreon here. and as always, please reblog the fics you like and leave feedback for the authors, because we pour a lot of time and effort into our stories. happy reading 💌

~*~

Harry’s life is simple.

He performs only the essentials—wakes up and eats an apple for breakfast. Drizzles some lemon juice into his flask of water to keep his teeth healthy and clean. Shrugs on a few heavy furs. Lets Magnus outside to keep him from howling and pawing at the door. Sharpens his arrows. Knocks on the threshold of the cabin once for good luck. Goes hunting.

Upon returning, he crouches next to the firepit, laying out his kills and skinning them. He cooks one for himself—something small, like a squirrel, or a rabbit. Others, he saves for the market—fox, deer, coyote, boar. The pelts, tusks, and antlers are extremely sought-after (particularly by nobles), and often earn enough coin to carry him through the rest of the week.

He doesn’t entertain visitors, because who in their right mind would trek up the side of a mountain just to seek out one lonely hunter? Despite that, he’s come to appreciate his solitude. The silence is familiar—comfortable. Besides, Magnus proves both excellent and useful company, if the sheer volume of their kills offers any indication.

A simple life for a simple man.

Harry doesn’t need anyone else.

“Ready to go, mutt?”

He scratches behind Magnus’ droopy ears. One of the hound’s hindlegs thumps frantically in response. Harry chuckles, slinging his bow over his right shoulder and pulling open the cabin door.

“Come on, then.”

The sky is a dark, cloudy grey, and the smell of oncoming rain is unmistakable. Still, the two of them persevere, ducking past the trees at the edge of the clearing.

It’s a bad day to hunt.

With the threat of a storm looming just above the canopy, the animals have forgone their typical foraging patterns in favour of taking shelter. Harry only manages to kill a rabbit, and even then, it’s a messy shot. He usually gets them right through the eye—a quick, neat splice that results in minimal suffering. This time, however, his foot slips on a damp stone; he fumbles, and the arrow buries itself into the creature’s stomach.

“Fuck.”

The rabbit is still alive when he reaches it, its furry body heaving with shaky, uneven breaths. Harry kneels down, apologising quietly. His hand finds the scabbard strapped to his waist, and he draws a silver dagger from its depths.

He slits the poor hare’s throat just as rain begins to fall.

It’s easy work, after that. He pins the animal’s fluffy forelimbs together, tying them in place with thick, coarse rope. Magnus whimpers as Harry slides the creature’s limp body over his shoulder. He shoots the hound a tired look and shakes his head. Damp brown curls stick to his temples.

“Think that’s enough for today.”

The two of them have nearly made it back home—Harry’s boots squelch as he jumps over the small creek that flows close to the clearing—when Magnus perks up, lifting his snout and sniffing the air.

“What is it, mutt?” Harry asks.

Magnus releases a loud bark and takes off in the direction of the cabin. Harry sprints after him, one hand clutching his game while the other wraps around the leather grip of his bow.

“Magnus!” he yells.

The dog skids to a stop next to the wide trunk of a tree. He barks again and wags his tail feverishly.

Harry releases his bow, approaching with slow, cautious steps.

“What’s got you so—shit.”

You’re slumped in the mud, unconscious. Harry’s gaze rakes over your form, from your tattered blue gown to the leaves and twigs tangled in your hair. There are a few cuts littered across your face, arms, and chest. Rivulets of blood trickle down your wrist, spiderwebbing across your skin.

Magnus sticks his tongue out and pants.

“Good boy,” Harry mutters, bestowing a rugged caress atop the hound’s head.

He gathers you into his arms, paying no mind to the extra weight of your sodden dress. Your neck lolls over his bicep, sternum rising and falling with shallow, barely-there breaths. Harry carries you out of the forest and into the clearing. When he kicks open the cabin door, your eyelids flutter.

“Bear?” you mumble, lifting your head slightly. Your voice is grating, hoarse.

He looks at you. Your face contorts for only a moment before you slouch back into oblivion.

He sets you down onto the thick, woven rug splayed out in front of the hearth. He works quickly, shrugging off his furs and his game and discarding all of it without a second thought. Rain thrums against the roof, but the sound is lost amidst his heavy footsteps.

He hurries into his bedroom and pulls open the top drawer of his wooden dresser, fumbling for a glass jar and a spool of bandages. When his fingers finally make contact with the desired supplies, he darts back into the other room and kneels beside your motionless body.

He draws his dagger again, gripping the intricate material of your gown and slicing through it. Your corset proves far more challenging, practically embedded into your skin. He sets his knife aside, not willing to risk it. Instead, he hooks his fingers beneath the top of the girdle, rough knuckles brushing against your soft bosom. With a mighty tug, the structured fabric splits under his palms.

He screws open the lid on the jar and dips his thumb inside. The salve is sticky, viscous, and smells faintly of lavender. He smears it across your scrapes before inspecting your wrist.

The flesh is slashed and bloodied—how did you acquire such an injury? Canines? Claws? Harry uses the frayed edges of your dress to clean the mess. He then unwinds a few bindings from their roll, expertly bandaging your wound.

Once he’s finished, he sits back on his haunches, expelling a stale breath. His work is far from over—he needs to wash you, to scrub off all the dirt and grime staining your skin. He’ll go down to the creek with a cloth, he thinks, and saturate it with cool water. He’ll pick the leaves and branches out of your hair, and cover you in spare furs to keep you warm. He’ll prepare a hot meal so that you may eat when you wake. You’ll be ravenous, certainly.

These thoughts whirl around in his head, along with the realisation that you might expire here, lying on an old rug in the middle of a stranger’s secluded home. Still, he watches your chest rise, swelling with proof of your vitality. The sight puts him at ease.

Harry aims a cursory glance over his shoulder. Magnus is stationed at the door, wet snout resting on the ground. The dog gazes at your limp body with big, solemn eyes, as though he somehow understands the severity of the situation.

“Don’t worry, mutt,” Harry tells him, knees shuffling against the floor. “I won’t let her die.”

~*~

Three days pass.

Harry curtails the duration of his hunts. He kills only the essentials: a hare or a squirrel, something small enough to cook over the fire. He has enough coin saved up from his previous trades to last him another few trips to the market.

Every morning, he prepares a simple, homely meal for you should you wake. When you do not, he eats the food in your place—he’ll be damned if it goes to waste.

On the fourth day, he carries a bowl of soup into his room. He’s expecting to see you tucked into his bed, still unconscious. Instead, you’re alert, sitting upright and studying your surroundings. The furs that previously covered your body now pool around your waist, exposing your naked chest. When you catch sight of Harry lingering in the doorway, you gasp, fumbling for the pelts and clutching them to your sternum.

“You’re up,” he says gruffly, stepping through the threshold.

You scramble back, eyes widening in fear. He pauses.

You’re afraid, he realises, tilting his head to the side. This may be more difficult than he initially thought.

“Soup,” he says slowly, holding out the small clay bowl in his hands. “You need to eat.”

“Who are you?” you ask. Your voice is patchy and frail. “Where am I?”

He sets the dish down onto his dresser before shooting you a stern, expectant look.

“Eat.”

Upon exiting the room, he strains his ears and listens carefully. The creak of a loose floorboard—you’ve climbed out of bed. The sound of nimble footsteps pattering across the ground—you’re moving toward the door. And finally, the quiet scrape of clay against wood, indicating that your hunger has prevailed.

He nods to himself.

You’re not dead. That’s a start.

~*~

That evening, Harry is perched next to the firepit outside the cabin. The orange sun crawls down the horizon, kissing the tops of the trees. He basks in the warmth, knowing that it will soon be eradicated by the cool chill of nightfall.

He fiddles with the spit poised above the flames. He caught another rabbit, today. The creature’s fur is laid out across the grass, scrubbed clean of blood. The rest of it cooks over the fire, darkening with each passing minute.

A faint creak reaches Harry’s ears. He perks up, glancing at the door.

You hover just beyond the threshold, leaning nervously against the strong wooden beams. Harry relaxes and turns back around. He uses a long stick to poke at the charred logs; the kindling pops, and a few embers float into the air.

“What are you doing?” Your inquiry is soft, shaky.

His reply is curt: “Dinner.”

You approach warily, bare feet treading through the grass. When you spot the hunk of meat roasting over the flames, a feeble gasp tumbles from your lips.

“That’s barbaric.”

Harry rubs his palms against his thighs. “That’s sustenance.”

He stands, and you retreat. His attention then falls to your torso. You’ve covered yourself with the furs from his room; they hang just past the swell of your bottom, rendering you exceptionally vulnerable. Goosebumps crop up on your bare thighs, visible in the golden light of the sunset.

He hums. “You need clothes.”

You look down at the ground.

“That would be nice,” you whisper at last.

He merely grunts in response.

You follow him back inside, albeit from a distance. He strolls into his bedroom, pausing in front of a large trunk shoved against the far wall. Twin latches click open, and he begins rifling through its contents. After a few moments of silence, he produces a pale linen shirt and a pair of dark leather trousers.

“Here,” he says.

He dumps the fabric into your arms. You huff in surprise, instinctively relinquishing your hold on the pelts covering your body. They fall to the floor in a heap, exposing every inch of your skin.

An embarrassed squeak echoes in the back of your throat. Harry averts his eyes, staring pointedly up at the ceiling.

“Put those on,” he murmurs.

You nod quickly, sidestepping his broad frame. Now that you’re no longer in his line of sight, he lowers his gaze. Part of him wonders if he should say something else, but he decides against it. His legs carry him forward, and he disappears through the door.

~*~

You emerge from the bedroom a short while later, smoothing your hands over your hair in an attempt to look a bit more presentable. Harry resists the urge to tell you that here, in the mountains, appearances are hardly significant. He doesn’t own a mirror—such luxuries can only be afforded by the rich.

His clothes are too big on you, but that was to be expected. You’ve rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt and cuffed the brown leather trousers so that they cinch at your ankles. You’re anxious, incisors gnawing on your bottom lip and eyes darting around the clearing, like you’re waiting for a monster to burst forth from the bushes.

“Here.”

Harry cuts a sliver of meat from the cooked rabbit carcass resting on the spit. You sit down on a wide, round tree stump as he holds the food out in your direction.

At first, he thinks that you may vomit. Fortunately, though, he finds himself mistaken. After a long moment of deliberation, you accept the protein, bringing it up to your nose and sniffing it warily.

“It’s good,” he rasps, slicing off another strip for himself. “Rabbit—all white meat.”

He pops the piece into his mouth and chews. Slowly, you copy him, sighing happily as newfound flavour erupts over your tongue. You waste no time, then, impatiently shoving the rest of the meat into your mouth.

Harry’s lips twitch.

“Thank you,” you say after swallowing.

He simply nods. The two of you continue to eat in silence, grinding the remnants of supper between your teeth.

Eventually, your curiosity overwhelms you.

“What’s you name?” you ask, timid.

Harry sits back, wiping his dagger with the hem of his cotton shirt.

“Harry.”

“And how did you find me, Harry?”

A low chuckle resonates in the back of his throat.

“Wasn’t exactly hard. You were lying in a puddle of mud not far from here.”

Your lips part. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days.”

“Three days?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember any of it,” you say softly, playing with your fingers. You hesitate before elaborating: “But I—I remember seeing your face. I thought you were a bear.”

He recalls that day, how you lifted your head weakly and uttered the word before sinking back into unconsciousness. It led him to believe that you’d been attacked. Your side of the story, however, proves much more entertaining.

“Well,” he says, exhaling brusquely, “I’m not.”

You examine him with big, tender eyes. He shifts awkwardly under the intensity of your gaze.

“No,” you finally agree. “You’re not.”

He swallows and flips the conversation around.

“Who are you?”

You stiffen, caught off-guard.

“That is…hardly relevant.”

“Perhaps,” Harry says. “But it is fair.”

When you don’t reply, he continues.

“You’re a lady, aren’t you?” he guesses. “A duchess. Your gown was too pretty to have belonged to a commoner.”

“My gown?” You perk up at the mention of the dress. “Where is it?”

“Gone. I tore through it.”

You gasp. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“It was the only way to keep you alive,” he says simply. “Your corset was impeding your ability to breathe.”

“My corset…” you mutter, mostly to yourself. You grimace after registering the implications of his words, thoroughly scandalized. “So, you—you—?”

“Yes. I had to.”

“God,” you choke out, covering your mouth. “How dare you? You should have just—!”

“Let you die?”

His query successfully squashes your disapproval; your lips flatten into a thin line, and you say nothing else. Harry watches the creases in your forehead dwindle as you realise that he’s right. You fiddle with the collar of your shirt, turning to the side and regaining your composure.

“Thank you,” you finally murmur, trying to hide your face from his piercing stare, “for not letting me die.”

He grunts. “You’re welcome.”

Brief silence ensues. A light breeze blows through the clearing, tousling the curls atop Harry’s head. The gust is enough to extinguish the last few flames frolicking over the kindle, until glowing embers are all that remain.

“I am a lady,” you suddenly add, though you refuse to meet his eyes. “But not a duchess.”

Harry leans forward, prodding at the residual ash in the firepit.

“What were you doing in the woods?”

You tinker with the bandages wrapped around your injured wrist.

“I was to be wed,” you confess, peeking up at him. “But I—I could not bear to go through with it. One should not marry for duty, but rather—”

“For love?”

You pause at his intrusion, lips parted in surprise.

“Yes,” you breathe. “For love.”

Your gazes lock. He clears his throat, breaking the contact quickly.

“You ran away, then.”

It’s not a question. You nod, and he hums.

“What is it?” you ask, brows knitting together.

“Nothing. It’s just…I may find good fortune in this situation.”

“How so?”

He shrugs. “Any man with sense would carry you down this peak, deliver you back to your family, and collect a hefty reward.”

Though he’s not looking at you, he can tell that you’ve recoiled.

“Please don’t,” you whisper.

He examines your face in the periphery of his vision. Your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

Just then, Magnus races out of the cabin, his tail wagging eagerly behind him. He trots over to you, sniffing your shoulder and releasing a high-pitched whine. You use one hand to swipe hastily at your cheeks; the other migrates to his head, tickling his floppy ears.

Harry watches the interaction unfold, completely stunned.

“He—he likes you.”

You glance over at him, still wary of his previous threat.

“I suppose he does,” you say quietly.

Magnus paws at your thighs. You direct your attention back to the keen bloodhound, pressing a feathery kiss to the tip of his wet nose.

Harry blinks a few times, trying to pinpoint the reason for his mutt’s newfound behaviour. At first, he wonders if his eyes are simply playing tricks on his brain. Yet with each flutter of his lids, the sight before him only seems to solidify.

“He doesn’t usually take well to strangers,” he mumbles.

When you don’t respond, he clenches his jaw tightly. Countless thoughts zoom through his head, spinning like wheels, tangling like thread.

Any man with sense would carry you down this peak, deliver you back to your family, and collect a hefty reward.

Harry is not a sensible man.

~*~

The three of you retreat indoors when the last shards of sunlight fade from the sky. Magnus circles the large woven rug poised in front of the hearth. Eventually, he collapses onto the mat, his snout drooping over his front paws. You stretch your arms into the air and yawn gently.

Harry is the last one to enter the cabin; he shuts the door behind him.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you say lightly.

You spin around and nearly crash into the hard barrier of his chest. Reflexively, his hands fly up to grasp your biceps, steadying you. He peers down at your face in the darkness, his thoughtful gaze tracing the contours of your cheeks. Your eyes are wide, lips split apart as you suck in air.

“Sorry,” you say, frozen in place.

He only grunts, releasing your arms and stepping away.

Your attention lingers on him as he approaches a wide pile of furs stacked into the corner of the room. He’s been sleeping on the makeshift cot for the past three nights, and though his back is always sore the next morning, he has yet to find a better alternative.

“What are you…?” You hesitate, rethinking your question. “What is that?”

“My bed.”

“Do you…always sleep there?”

“No,” he rasps, lowering himself onto the thick pelts. “I prefer to sleep in my room.”

He shoots you a pointed look, and you frown when the realisation sinks in.

“We—we can switch,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to impose.”

“No.”

“I insist.” You try again.

“As do I.”

You clamp your mouth shut, unsure of how to respond. Magnus has already dozed off—his soft snores filter through the heavy silence hanging over your heads.

“He’s lovely,” you suddenly say, referring to the quiescent hound. “Well-trained, too.”

“I won’t take credit for that,” Harry grumbles, rubbing his palms against his thighs. “He was a palace dog.”

You blink. “W-what?”

“A palace dog,” he repeats. “I found him alone in the woods after a hunt. His leg was broken—the guards left him there to die.”

“That’s awful.”

He hums in agreement.

“You took him in, then,” you say. When he nods, you add, “It seems that you have a knack for nursing others back to health.”

He doesn’t reply.

“The hunts—” you start, chewing nervously on your bottom lip. “Do they…occur frequently?”

“Why do you ask?” Harry says. His shoulders wobble with a hollow chuckle. “Are you afraid of being caught?”

You inhale sharply, and he realises that yes, you are.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. Subconsciously, his voice drops an octave, taking on a soothing quality. “They don’t come around often. And even if they did, I doubt that a single runaway lady would be of much concern.”

You blow out a relieved sigh, though the uneasy expression on your face never wanes.

“You’re probably right.”

A few hushed seconds draw out, during which neither of you speak. Your bare feet shuffle clumsily against the cold floor. You appear to be waiting for some sort of cue—a sound, a gesture, anything.

“Er—” Harry breaks the peace, cocking one eyebrow. “I sleep naked.”

“Oh.”

The exclamation is unbelievably breathless. Your throat bobs amidst a difficult swallow, and you totter back.

“Of course,” you stammer. “I’ll just—”

With a trembling hand, you motion toward the entrance of his bedroom.

He nods wordlessly.

“Right,” you mumble, retreating. “Goodnight, then…Bear.”

At that, he pauses. Your cheeks twitch with a feeble smile, but you don’t comment on the sweetness of the simple endearment.

Harry remains completely still as you scurry into his room. He sits there for a prolonged moment after the door shuts, trying to make sense of his thoughts. Your features have been stamped onto the backs of his eyelids, practically seared into the skin.

At last, warm air spills past his lips, and he allows himself to utter the low, relentless reply pulling at his tongue.

“Goodnight.”

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #uhhhh yeah so here u go. if this flops it never happened i guess #hunterry #harry writing

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sunfleurry · 3 years

Text

I. 360˚

Hi there! I am reuploading this fic and this time I want to actually try because tbh I didn’t give af about pacing, editing, etc. as harrymoncheri

I’ve decided to scrap the original plot and make this a prompt-based project!

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy part 1 (the intro) of personal trainer!harry

Disclaimer: I write stories and use Harry Styles as a face claim. In no way shape or form does my writing reflect how I perceive the actual Harry to be. These are my characters, the face is just a bonus!

Warnings: This story will contain mature themes.

The parking lot itself was intimidating. Eden’s eyes remained wide in wonder as she took in the cars that couldn’t have been less than a couple hundred thousand dollars. When she won the year-long membership for a five-star gym through a raffle at her uni, she hadn’t thought about what to expect. From the outside, the gym looked quite small but as she walked in, the first thing that welcomed her was a set of gleaming black stairs leading to an underground facility.

Her shoes squeaked on each step down. She kept her gaze low to avoid tripping and embarrassing herself in front of the tycoons in gym gear and teenagers working out in custom name brand sneakers.

The receptionist smiled upon seeing her, his veneers a stark contrast against his brown skin. “You’re the one I just spoke with on the phone, right? Eden?”

She smiled and shook his hand. “That’s me.”

After having her sign a few papers, he led her to an office–a small room surrounded by glass walls with a view of the elevators. She soon learned that they led to lower levels housing the spa, pool and basketball courts.

While waiting for the manager to start the consultation, they sat and talked for a few minutes. Eden learned a lot about the receptionist. His name was Luca and his father owned the gym. He was a couple years older than her and studied at the same university. She was positive she’d never seen him; she would have remembered a man as beautiful as him.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Luca said while checking the minimalist clock hung on the only wall not made of glass. “I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

She waved a hand as if brushing him off. “Don’t apologize. I’m sure he’s somewhere around here doing what managers do best.”

“My manager isn’t in, actually. You’ll be speaking to one of our personal trainers today.”

She furrowed her eyebrows but nodded all the same. “Oh, okay.”

Luca’s face brightened as something caught his eye over Eden’s shoulder and he stood up. “Speak of the devil.”

Eden turned in her seat and her breath hitched as her eyes landed on a man whose looks, she imagined, would take over her dreams at night from that day forward. He was dangerously handsome in the simplest clothing– grey cotton joggers and a black t-shirt she noticed every personal trainer was wearing.

Her gaze trailed to his strong jaw, then up to where his chestnut hair curled around his ears in the most endearing way. When her eyes met his striking green ones, she felt heat creep up her neck at being caught blatantly ogling him.

“Eden? Did you hear what I said?”

She didn’t miss the smirk on the personal trainer’s lips as her head whipped towards Luca. “Sorry, what did you say?”

He gave her a knowing look. “I said I’m going to go back to the front. Did you need anything else?”

“Oh, um, no. Thank you for everything,” she bit her lip, fully aware of the trainer’s heavy gaze on her. It was hard concentrating on watching Luca exit the office only to pretend like the suffocating presence of the walking wet dream was fictitious.

The door closed on its own with a click that echoed in Eden’s head. The realization that she was in a closed room with the attractive man dawned on her.

“Nice to meet you, Eden. I’m Harry.” His voice was raspy and deep, the cells of her body vibrating to each syllable he uttered.

“Nice– “she cleared her throat as the word caught in her mouth. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Eden sat in front of the desk. The sky-blue cushion on the seat at first glance appeared uncomfortable, but as soon as her bum touched the fabric, she decided it was the most comfortable chair she’d ever had the pleasure of sitting on.

She started to get nervous when Harry did not say anything, only studied her face for a moment, before nodding to himself and opening one of the desk drawers to pull out a notepad and a Montblanc pen.

“First thing I’m going to ask you is: What are your fitness goals?”

Eden opened her mouth then closed it. “Umm. I guess to just get fit,” she said stupidly.

But he only nodded in encouragement. “Can you think of anything specific?”

“Build strength,” she leaned forward. “Endurance.”

He smiled, and she wanted to swoon at the dimple that appeared on his cheek. “Do you have a history with sports or fitness?”

“I used to dance,” she perked up. “Ballet.”

His face gave away that he was impressed, and she wanted to pat herself on the back. “You must be really flexible.”

She flushed. “Well, it’s been a while. I doubt it.”

“I guess we’ll have to work on your flexibility too, then.”

Her head snapped up, eyes locking with his. It was a fairly innocent statement and within context. But it was the tone he used. Subtle, but she didn’t miss it nor the mischievous glint in his eye. She gulped soundlessly and looked down at her leggings, pretending to pick at a loose thread.

He broke the silence. “Before I ask any more questions, are you okay with me training you? Or would you prefer a female?”

Eden’s lips rolled inward as she pondered his question. A part of her was dumbfounded at the fact that she even had to think about it. Of course she wanted to choose him. However, she promised herself no more distractions. She was there to get fit and take advantage of this free opportunity, not put herself out there for the second time only for it to crash and burn again.

“Female,” she said.

If she wasn’t watching him carefully, she would have missed the hint of disappointment on his face before it disappeared and was replaced by a look of understanding.

The rest of the consultation went by with Harry asking her a few more questions. She was getting much more comfortable and they both seemed to relax into conversation the more time went by. Harry finished off the meeting by taking her body measurements, BMI and fat percentage.

Eden later met Yaz, her personal trainer. She was a kind woman with long black hair just like hers, but it was straightened to perfection and didn’t seem to have a single split end. Harry had given his fellow trainer all the information he’d collected from Eden, and she did not waste time.

Eden was guided to an artificial turf where horizontal bars hung over their heads with different TRX ropes suspended from them. Yaz had her do basic exercises to assess what they needed to work on, but Eden could barely focus. While Yaz kept her eyes on Eden’s movements, Eden kept hers on the mirror reflection of the man who was walking around the weight area, greeting everyone. He seemed well-loved in this facility. The men greeted him like he was a future business partner, and the women tried maintaining his attention with flirty smiles.

Yet, his attention was elsewhere. All he could think about was Eden’s thick waves and big brown eyes that gave away everything she was feeling. He wasn’t sure if she was aware of how easy it was to read her. The minute he walked into that office and laid eyes on her, he knew he was done for. Her red leggings and black sports bra left little to the imagination and he wasn’t complaining. He wanted to touch her, just to know what striking gold felt like.

Now, stopping in his tracks to watch her speak to Yaz, he caught her eye through the mirror and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. His grin only widened when she offered a shy smile back before giving Yaz her full attention, cheeks blooming red.

He knew then that he was fucked.

***

Part 2

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles drabble #harry styles prompt #harry styles story #one direction imagine

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kyberphilosopher · 3 years

Text

Rᴀɴᴄᴏʀ

While the Titans make their way through the district of Trost, a wounded soldier makes an unexpected discovery. Word Count: 4098 Requested: yes! Warnings: violence.

“The word rancor is best when you're not just talking about anger, you're talking about a deep, twisted bitter type of anger in your heart. The open rancor in political discussion prevents cooperation between political parties.

The most helpful way to remember rancor with all its dark, miserable bitterness is to think of how rancor rhymes with canker, as in canker sore, the horrible painful burning on your lip. Or, you might want to remind yourself that rancor has its roots in the word rancid meaning "rotten." Rancor refers particularly to the sort of ill-will associated with resentment, envy, slow-brewing anger, and a very personal sort of hatred.”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Fuck. It hurts.

You collapse into a kneel. Your left knee scuffs against the damp, cold ground, dirtying the leg of your pants and the top of your boot. As your right hand prods the side of your torso, hot, burning pain courses through your veins with a spark. It feels almost as if the entire area is on fire, which you’re able to identify from the time your friend Jean accidentally caused you to burn your elbow over a candle at dinner.

Still, this is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. This pain... your ribs must be broken. Fuck.

“Shit,” you hiss to yourself through tight teeth. The hand on your abdomen strengthens its grip against the skin as your head rears back to look up to the sky. It’s cloudy grey, with absolutely no light from the sun peeking through. At first glance, the clouds appear to you as a muddy shade of blue. However, the longer you stare at them, the more you think they might be a cool purple-gray. It’s going to rain, soon.

It’s too dangerous, being on the ground like this. The tall buildings surrounding you, added to the isolation of the entire premises, makes you feel like you’re at the bottom of a valley. If only you’d been able to catch your balance on the roof.

Squad 29. Part of the vanguard, although the six of you had only been cadets. None of you were within the top ten. In fact, you’d chalked up your assigned position to just being extra bodies used to buy extra time. Completely expendable.

Although you’d managed to graduate 15th in your division, the other members of the squad hadn’t heeded your advice. They were a rather close knit group of friends, excluding you and one of the other boys. But those four had been committed to barreling head first into the titan’s mouths, regardless of what better plans there could’ve been to come up with. One of them died immediately.

You, the most physically adept of the group, killed two titans on your own, and aided in one assist. Then, you and Finn were attempting on taking down a thirteen meter, when an abnormal swatted the both of you like mere flies. You cleared the air, smacking into a distant tiled roof before you could fire an anchor to steady yourself. Even though you attempted to physically compose your legs, you rolled over the side and onto an abandoned market stall. When it broke under you, you dragged yourself to the middle of the street- where you are now.

But you can’t move. Every intake of air is a piercing stab to your lungs, a thorn in your side, literally. Beads of sweat are beginning to break across your temples, intensified with the concentration of your knitted brows.

If your ODM gear isn’t broken on some miracle, then how will you survive? You received basic medical lessons, but you’re no healer. If you ran into a healer, would they even help you? Compared to Hanna and Franz, or those friends you’d been assigned with, your life wasn’t worth much. You weren’t associated closely with anyone in the 104th, and you’d neither written, nor received letters from your family in well over three years. The irony is that you’d always thought being a lone wolf had more pros than cons. And now, you may pay the price for it.

Pop. A single drop of rain erupts in the center of your eyebrows. The first promise of an oncoming storm.

Your eyes flutter to a close briefly, before reopening. The smell of petrichor floods your senses, invigorating you with memories of spring and dirt. It’s enough to make you want to stand up and finally anchor your way to the high ground, but the slightest movement inflames your ribs all over again. And so no matter how much you wish you weren’t, you clutch the left side of your stomach in the middle of a lonely stone street, crippled in on yourself as you tremble in silent pain.

Sheets of rain begin to fall, reminding you that natural forces are never far behind. However, it’s not colorful like spring, or pleasant to associate with, like dirt. It’s icy and stark, drenching your hair and clothes in a matter of seconds.

Get up, you order yourself, but your body does not obey. Get. Up.

You’ve got more problems than just your ribs. The stiller you are, the more body parts you begin to realize are worse for the wear. Your left wrist feels stiff, like a wheel that can’t rotate full circle. Your right ankle feels limp, like a glass structure on the verge of shattering. But the main problem is in your lungs, because of the damage to your bones. It’s possible that you stabbed your own innards, and now you’re slowly dying. You need that medical attention.

A particularly sharp inhale turns to a wheeze. “Fuck,” you mutter hoarsely, digging the soles of your boots into the ground beneath you to solidify yourself.

Little pebbles between the cracks of the hard surface begin to bounce softly, like little tremors. A steady pace of booms fill the air, and the stench of death walks around the corner.

Lifting your head slightly and craning your neck to the right, you see the shadow of a large, ten meter titan lumbering towards you. With matted, dusty blond hair to its shoulders, you can make out the stain of thick redness running down its potbelly stomach, slowly washing away in the rain.

“No,” you struggle, now clambering to force yourself off the ground. “Come on- fuck.”

You’re going to die. You’re going to die- you’re going to die. You’re going to die, and they won’t even find your body. You’ll be labeled missing in action, and nobody will know what really happened to you. Not unless you get up.

A shooting cry for help springs to your veins. Every breath is agony. Your heart lurches, your ribs shaking and burning without any pressure anymore. Your left hand reaches to the ground to hold yourself up, unable to keep yourself balanced on your own.

No, this is it. You’re done for.

“Fuck,” you sigh out finally, the acceptance of defeat freeing you.

The titan’s coming closer. Your head falls back again, and you look up into the pouring precipitation. Quickly, your eyelids blink at a rapid place from the micro knives of wetness piercing into them. The sweat you previously worked up has run away, turning your skin cold.

You wait for your final thought to turn into ‘it was a good life’. But it doesn’t come. In fact, no thought comes to you at all. Your mind is blank, even when you turn to stare in the face of death, whose enormous hand is reaching out to you.

No thoughts. Just... fuck.

A fist erupts through the maw of the ten meter. With an explosive pop, something thick showers over you, glooping in your hair and dripping down your nose and into your mouth. Something in your ears click as a hollow, electric roar amplifies itself into the air. As you open your sticky, goo ridden eyelids to look at your grim reaper, you find the beast lifted off the ground by an incredible force.

Another titan- a muscular one about fifteen meters, with his hand straight through the smaller ones mouth. With long, dark brown hair whipping harshly in the wind and rain, emerald eyes glow like a flame of grass. He is... vicious, and what splattered on you was blood, and it’s burning but you’re too shocked by the sight ahead of you to care.

The fifteen meter pushes the ten meter off of his wrist with his other hand, before gripping him by the nape and throwing him through the air like nothing more than a ball.

Your free arm covers your head with fear as you flinch. For a split second, you are shielded from the rain, and can hear the whistling sound of something flying at a quick speed. Even with shut eyes, your vision darkness with the shadow of a large body. And then the ground shakes as the monster collapses with a boom.

What the hell?

Out of breath, you widen your eyes as you stare at the steaming hulk of flesh. Salty water slips in drops off of strands of your hair. The titan blood covering you begins to evaporate just as you turn to the other titan, breathing through your mouth despite the oncoming pain.

What the hell?

The fifteen meter leans back on his heels to observe his work of the other titan. His toned, muscular form shines in the glint of the wet rain. His dark hair clings to his neck tightly. When his two rows of teeth open, warm puffs of steam hiss out in a flurry as easily as air.

Abnormal. He’s gotta be... an... abnormal...

And then he meets your eyes, and it’s all over.

You watch a large, muscled hand reach out to you. There’s too much pain to move, or panic, or even think. Your life isn’t flashing before your eyes. You’re not thinking of home, family, anything like that. You’re thinking about how the icy rain has stopped falling against you for a brief moment, stopped by the skin of your killer.

Eyes shut tight as you keep applying pressure on your ribcage. The hood of your sweatshirt lifts up, choking you as your body follows limply. There’s only a few seconds before you can’t feel the rough ground anymore, and you know you’re up in the air. The rain sparks against your skin again, adding to the weight that’s gone straight to your throat and ankles.

And then...

Your feet touch against a solid again. The hood falls back against your shoulders. Your weight returns to your entire body. That’s a sharp stab against your ribs that makes you grit your teeth and pop your eyes open, but you find that there’s no gaping mouth in front of you. There is no, absolutely no chance, threat of death.

You’re... on a roof. The Abnormal is drawing his palm away from you, looking down through his dark hair that’s soaked in the salty water from above. His eyes are piercing and intelligent, but they’re not angry. He’s not going to kill you. He’s not going to hurt you.

As your eyes continuously widen, the Abnormal finally turns away from you. Great booms ring out into the air, the flats of his feet crush the ground beneath him with no effort at all. All the muscles in his back are tensing and shifting, drawing further and further away from you.

He didn’t kill you. The biggest, strongest titan you’ve ever seen didn’t kill you. Even when it had you between its fingers. And the way he looked at you... it was showing something more than other titans. It was showing intelligence, awareness. If something of this caliber has a bone to pick with its fellow titans, are you really going to slip away this easily?

If you could possibly steer the thing to find your way back to your squad, you could use it to your advantage in the battle. How many humans could you save with this? Could this be enough to take out the Colossal? Or the Armored, even? There’s only one way to find out.

You’ve made a discovery. This realization alone gives you the motivation you need to push yourself to your feet with a whimper. It’s time to catch up to that thing.

Limping as you pick up your pacing, trying your best to work up an acceleration before firing the anchors of your ODM gear. One hand still held tightly against your side, your fingers squeeze the triggers of your gear. The anchor latches into the skin of Abnormal with a click, albeit just barely, and you fly towards him with as much care as you can.

You clamber to the top of the muscle, trying to find your footing while still holding your abdomen. One of your hands reaches out to grip onto a lock of brunette hair on the beast like a kind of rope, hoping to steady yourself. Luckily, your ride comes to a stop, shifting its head to acknowledge you. Once more, you hold eye contact, but this time you’re quick to overcome your disbelief.

Could it understand communication?

You go to say something, but the pressure on your lungs makes you wince and hiss instead. A gasp falls from the back of your throat- a strangled cry that confirms how serious this injury really is. Something is broken, something is wrong, and you pull on the titans hair as you try to keep yourself steady from falling off and injuring yourself further, and for a split second you think you’ll hurt it.

“Fuck,” you wheeze out with shut eyes.

Beside you, you feel the rumbling of a growling breath. The shoulder you stand on shifts, reminding you that your ankle is also pained. When your eyes open again, there’s a hand beside you, reaching out once more.

You scoot away from it best you can, tugging on the things hair for leverage. It’s grimy, and dirty, but long and soft and slick at the same time. Weirdly enough, it’s better than most of your fellow soldiers hair.

The Abnormals fingers come into range, and with as much might as you can muster, you slap it away. It barely moves, of course. There’s another growl. The fingers extend again. Another push to shove it away.

“No,” you strangle out weakly. “Stop it.”

And then he does stop. You twist your head around to meet his eyes once more, but they’re right where you left them- on you.

“I can stay,” you say hoarsely as your ribs crack uncomfortably. “I can stay.”

The drum of the rain fades into silence. There is only you, and whatever he is, staring at each other with desperation and analyzation. Nothing else exists. Not the battle around you, nor the lives being lost at this very moment. It’s just the promise of life that pushes you to keep going. It’s the new chance of hope that you’ve been given, purely by chance.

The rain around you comes back to life. It shudders with the wind, loud and clear and explosive. It seems to be on the verge of turning to hail, popping and pricking against rooftops a million times over. It’s making the air colder, more violent. But it’s nothing compared to the way the Abnormal bows its head shortly. It’s nothing compared to the way the Abnormal nods at you.

“Okay,” you breathe out with disbelief. “Okay.”

A loud, shrieking roar pulls the both of you from your gaze. At the end of the road is a nine meter, with messy short hair and a wide mouth splattered with blood. Beside it is a smaller titan, maybe four meters, on its hands and knees like it’s about to pounce. With those stupid, hated expressions, you can see where your new partner got the strength to rip off a head.

You pull on the Abnormals hair in preparation. He rears his head back, breathing out steam to the sky. Beneath the soles of your shoes, you can feel its strange skin heating up like a fresh fire.

At once, your fingers squeeze the triggers of your ODM. It anchors into the wall of a building to the left of the smaller titan. At the same time, your Abnormal companion steps forward, cocking his fist back.

It takes a lot of strength and teeth gritting to pull both of your blades out. The hand leaving your side makes you feel the inside of your ribs pop. But you hold them behind you, twisting as you turn and make quick work of slicing the nape of the four meter before it can make any moves. It’s still, and then it collapses, smoking.

Your partner shoves the nine meter into a building. Both his hands pull back into fists, pommeling the thing repeatedly. You click the trigger again, jumping up into the air far above the rooftops all around you. You’re soaring, and coming closer and closer to the titan until you swing out with a whisper. Its head falls back, while your Abnormal lifts his leg to knee it in the chest.

The Abnormal shows emotions. It shows anger- even after he sees that his foe has been finished off. Prompting you, as you twist to aim your ODM gear again, to wonder if he is even an Abnormal. For all you know, he could be something completely different entirely. But then what is it? What have you discovered here?

You fall back to the shoulder of your partner gracefully. You sheathe both swords, grip onto his hair with one hand, and onto your side with the other. He stops his movements, still breathing out like a rancor human would.

You learn quickly that it’s better if you don’t try to control him. He’s more efficient when you treat him like a partner, and split up to clear a path for him. So you do. You spring from his shoulder to take out whatever slow, stupid creature crosses your path, though occasionally he moves before you can do so as if he’d rather do it himself. It’s not easy at all with your ribs in the condition that they are, and every movement makes your ankle and wrist click like they’re on the verge of snapping away. They probably are. Breathing, again with your rib problem, is becoming increasingly difficult, and there’s no sign of your squad in sight.

There’s no soldiers to be seen at all, actually- not even using ODM gear above you. It’s almost like the entire battle has just ended. Maybe everyone died. Everyone, except you, who did not even make the top ten and should be dead anyway.

You clutch your stomach as you think about this. The great being you’ve come to rely on in the past few minutes cranes his neck to look at you.

Your eyes close as you breathe as steadily as you can. The stabbing, electrical, unimaginable pain is becoming more and more unbearable by the second. You could’ve pierced a lung, and now you’re slowly dying, with only a foe who’s not even a foe to comfort you. At least you’ve started to like the strange rows of teeth he possesses. Looking at that as you die might make you feel better.

In one motion, the shadow of a hand covers you. The little pricks of rain have ceased once again, so you open your eyes to look up. Sure enough, a behemoth of a hand shields you like an umbrella, keeping you from soaking any further.

You look to meet his eyes. Before, they were all emerald green. But now, you can see flecks of teal in them. They’re strangely beautiful, almost otherworldly. And they remind you of something you can neither define nor place. Something you’ve never seen before. Cool toned, but also... warm.

“What the hell are you?” you whisper out, half to yourself.

Large fingers brush against your hood softly. It’s tugged up and placed over your head as gently as the giant can muster, the raindrops stuck to the cloth falling into your eyes. Maybe you won’t die. Maybe you really, really won’t.

The Abnormal growls again, though it’s still distant and none threatening. It’s more like a vibration, really. This thing is the embodiment of anger and vengeance, and yet its saved your life multiple times. You should be... you should be dead. How many times have you thought that today?

Your ribs bring you back to reality. Breathing a little too inwardly proves to be your undoing, nearly collapsing over as you grab at the area. It stings, it stabs, and you choke on your own throat with tightly shut eyes.

Yes, I should be dead. The proof is right here.

There’s one movement. It’s slow and fluid, as if something gentle was about to happen. But that, like all other gentle things, dies fast. Because there’s a second motion, a quicker one and a more abrupt one. And then there’s something slamming into you, your head going hot, the wind in your ears, and finally your back bursting open on something rough.

You can’t think. You can’t move. But only one thing comes to mind: The Titan.

“Y/N?!”

You groan in response, eyes closed as pain tingles up from your toes slowly.

“Where did you come from?! Y/N?!”

...

You’ve never liked waking up. You might’ve tolerated it in your youth, before the titans came, but since you’d enlisted, it was hard to be an early bird. It made you grumpy. Luckily, you weren’t social enough to have people around you to witness you doing so. Except for now, and the man in front of you with intense eyes and a long face.

On his jacket is the sigil of the military police- a green unicorn shining like bravery. His lips are slightly snarled, despite the charismatic voice that you barely bother listening to.

He tells you his name- Nile- and asks yours. You don’t answer. He has to get the report from the nurse, who only has your first name listed because nobody else in the corps knows your last. He keeps overusing it in some strange attempt to make you feel at ease, unaware that your intelligence has a built in bullshit detector.

What an idiot, you think behind your bandaged head.

Nile asks you if you can tell him what happened to you, but you can tell he doesn’t care. You keep it short and anonymous. (“I was assigned to the vanguard. I already know my squad is dead.”)

He asks if you know someone with the last name Jaeger. You do. But it feels wrong to say so. (“Probably.”)

By the end of it, Nile’s stupid looking eye is practically twitching. He asks about your injuries, which you learn more about. your ribs were broken, as you’d expected. There was internal bleeding, your appendix had been removed, a few broken fingers on your right hand. Twisted ankle, broken wrist. Then Nile asks how you got them.

(“I fell.”)

And he asks how you fell, like he’s looking for a specific answer.

(“I landed on a roof and lost my feet.”)

He also questions if you ran into any Abnormals. If maybe they were responsible for your injuries.

You narrow your eyes.

(“I only ran into one.”)

And finally, if that one hurt you.

(“No.”)

You know that he knows. But it doesn’t matter. Something inside of you tells you that you can’t tattle on your Abnormal discovery. If he was responsible for knocking you off his shoulder, which he probably was, you still weren’t going to say a word. He saved your life. Considering he’s alive and well, maybe even captured, it’s only fitting you save him in return.

Nile leaves at least, foaming at the mouth in frustration, masked only in a thin layer of politeness. Rain drops hit the window behind you. You crane your head around to watch them, the thunder booming lowly. Last time you were in this weather, that great beast had shielded you from it. Once with his hand, another with your own hood. And if you squint hard enough through the pain, you can just make out the silhouette of a rancor titan, and the tiny human on its shoulder, eager to return the favor.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Did I reread this? I skimmed it. Why? Because this took over a week or 2 to get out and I have to start finishing requests before i lose my mind with all these drafts oh god. i always so i’ll go back and edit but i never do lmao. my bad.

Fun fact! the original draft showcased the reader being separated from eren, and losing all gas. surrounded by titans, they yell at the titan for help, but he is distracted by a titan nearby after leading him to Mikasa. While the reader finally dies, eren sees them from over the buildings and roars, begins to stomp on the nape of the titan, and is infused with a new rage. The reader is listed missing in action, and Eren can’t remember what happened to them, but remembers seeing them. Another happy ending!

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sentinelpri · 3 years

Text

Dreaming Of You

Rough, grey lips on his, large servos resting on his hips, and ruby red optics trained on his sky blue ones seemed to haunt Optimus’s dreams more and more.

Maybe it was some weird manifestation of the new stress that had come to his life since Megatron had been rebuilt, or maybe it was just the deep, dark desires he had for the affection he’d been craving for so many light years finally taking over his processor and giving themselves away to him in the form of Megatron of all mechs.

Either way, he hated it; the dreams. They were too risque and too much about a Decepticon he should’ve absolutely despised for him to confide in any of his teammates about it, but they were too incessant to get rid of, so he was simply... Stuck.

Optimus was sure that he was dying inside when he jolted awake on the living room couch, sitting straight up as his optics shot open. This dream had been particularly bad; something blurry about him and Megatron sharing a berth, him tangled up in the warlord’s arms and falling asleep against his chest.

Weirdly enough, he found himself craving that.

Due to the sheer everything happening on planet earth, he had been so stressed that he hadn’t been able to recharge properly, and all he wanted was another bot to lull him to sleep, maybe cuddle with him a bit and sing to him or tell him a story, but he didn’t have anyone like that, humans were too small and hard to socialize with, and his team was off limits since they were technically subordinates.

He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep on the couch until he woke up there, clearly panicked until his optics landed on Bumblebee, who was staring at him with a concerned look etched into his face plates.

Optimus knew that, considering the dream he just had, he probably looked like he’d seen a ghost- though that probably would’ve been better than what actually happened. Falling asleep on the couch had most definitely been a result of his exhaustion, because all he remembered was that one second, he was sitting on the couch to calm down, and the next, he was asleep.

”Optimus? Bossbot? Prime? You good?” Bumblebee asked, getting up and in Optimus’s face. The red and blue bot could only stand up and shake his head.

”Uh... Yeah. Definitely... Just don’t think I’ll be recharging for a while-” After realizing what he said, he quickly cut himself off with a sharp sigh before continuing again. “Never mind. I’m going on a walk.”

With that, Optimus left, ignoring any of the stares he got from his teammates as he walked outside the base, and walked, and walked. He didn’t even think about where he was going, simply listening to his instincts and allowing them to guide him.

The walk had been intended to clear his head, but as he reached a weirdly familiar looking forest, he realized that his thoughts were only growing more and more convoluted, spark pounding against his chest plates.

Oh, shit. He was right by the Decepticon base.

Why would his processor- no, his spark, he could feel it- lead him here of all places? What the hell was wrong with him? He was almost certain that his exhaustion was making him go crazy.

Right when he thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, he heard a deep, smooth, baritone voice in his audials that made them twitch.

“Autobot... How did you find me?” When Optimus turned around, Megatron was just... There. Sitting on the grass, back against a tree, arms crossed over his chest and one leg crossed over the other in front of him. “Why are you not fighting me?”

That was a good question. Megatron was just staring at him, too, clearly waiting, ruby burning into sky blue, almost as if the Decepticon was challenging him with his optics, a smirk on his kissable lips. Optimus knew he should’ve either ran or tried to apprehend Megatron right there, but he found that he couldn’t even move.

Their relationship was weird. Even though they were sworn enemies, all Optimus could do during battle was stare at him, and Megatron did the same in return- it was almost as if there was some sort of draw that they had to each other, but as hard as he tried to resist it, it wouldn’t go away, and he was sick of resisting it.

“Megatron.”

“I feel as if I should be concerned,” Megatron mumbled, sitting up again and quirking an optical ridge. “You aren’t fighting me, but I also don’t feel inclined to attack you, and you seem exhausted... Do you need to recharge? I’ll be surprised if you don’t drop to the ground any nanoklik now.”

“Mhm,” Was all Optimus could give in response, able to feel himself grow increasingly drowsy with each second that passed. Megatron’s voice only made it worse, and before he even realized what he was doing, Optimus found himself laying on the ground next to Megatron and laying his head over the warlord’s warm thighs, optics fluttering shut.

It was wrong, and he was sure it would come to bite him in the ass, but it was also exactly what he needed.

“What the hell... Alright. This is fine, I suppose, we can do this and then pretend it never happened... Just for a little while,” Megatron sighed and rested a servo on Optimus’s helm, gently petting one of the Autobot’s audials, and though it was a touch far more intimate than it should’ve been, he couldn’t help how his engines purred at the affection he’d been craving from another since he arrived on earth. “I could even tell you a story. Once upon a time, on a planet far away, there was a strong, powerful warlord with a cold spark, but that all changes when...”

And, as Optimus fell into recharge, he found that the last thing he heard was Megatron’s voice in his audials, lulling him to sleep- just like he needed.

When Optimus Prime woke up, he was no longer laying on the ground of the forest with his head rested across the expanse of Megatron’s thick thighs, but on the berth in Ratchet’s med bay, the team medic hovering around him, optics raking up and down his chassis.

All he could remember was sleeping on Megatron, but if he was in the med bay-

Optics wide, the Prime looked at himself up and down. No bandages, no wounds, no pain anywhere... Actually, he felt perfectly fine minus the lingering sleepiness, so why was he here?

“Prime, what happened?” Ratchet demanded, sitting down at the stool next to the med berth and scrutinizing Optimus carefully.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“You stormed off base and everyone was concerned when you didn’t come back after a few hours, so we split into teams and came looking for you. I found you in that forest near the Decepticon base a day later, sleeping on Megatron of all mechs,” A day. He’d slept for an entire day, and his teammates had caught him... He could only hope and pray that they didn’t realize exactly what was going on with him. “So what happened? Did he incapacitate you or did you do it... Willingly? You were out for a while.”

“I uh... I don’t know how to describe it,” Optimus murmured, not wanting to admit that it was fully optional and that he’d given in to his newfound desire to have Megatron, if only for a little bit. “I was just so tired when I left. I don’t know... Don’t remember anything too clearly, I probably stayed in recharge for so long because I was exhausted. Actually, I still feel pretty tired, but is everyone okay? Did anything else happen?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. Megatron left as soon as he saw us, the cowardly dolt... It was weird though, that he didn’t kidnap you or try to attack any of us- you were asleep, and it was just me and Sari, so he could’ve overpowered us if he played his cards right. Maybe he was in a rush to get somewhere else.”

“Makes sense.”

And no, it didn’t make sense- nothing Megatron had done during the course of that made sense; not him being so kind to Optimus, letting him sleep on his lap, telling him a berthtime story, and sparing his teammates- all of it was weird and fucked up, and he found that he almost missed when things were simpler, when Megatron was nothing but a blown up body and a half-working helm in Isaac Sumdac’s basement-lab.

“I doubt that it’s anything serious, but I have a couple questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” Optimus tried to act calm, but his face plates were burning red and his vents were producing nervous crackles that were loud enough for both he and Ratchet to hear.

“Have you had any odd dreams recently during your recharges? Since Megatron got his body rebuilt, I mean.”

“Uh... Yeah,” The blue and red bot trailed off, gulping.

How did Ratchet know? Was he that obvious?

“Tell me about them.”

“I’d rather not-”

“Trust me, it’s important that I know these things. Medic’s honor, I won’t disclose what you’re about to tell me to anyone.”

“I have a lot of dreams about Megatron,” Optimus confessed with a sigh. Surprisingly, Ratchet looked like he was almost expecting that answer, nodding. “Mostly just meeting him in that forest or a berth, sleeping... Sometimes we talk and do other more unmentionable things.”

“I wonder...” The medic paused with a hum and tapped his digits against the med berth.

“Just what are you thinking, Ratchet?”

“It’s incredibly rare, but occasionally, when two Cybertronians who have a lot of chemistry encounter each other, they develop what’s known as a spark pull. It’s nothing like a spark bond- not even close, but it just means that the two are uniquely bound to each other in a way until they either bond or have a falling out that kills their chemistry. It’s like the soulmate concept that Sari and some of the other humans talk about in their romantic stories.”

“So... What does that mean? Am I going to be okay? Is there anything I can do to get rid of it?” Optimus asked, tilting his head. He was a bit panicked, as this was a whole new thing that he didn’t know how to handle, but at least there was a somewhat scientific explanation for his feelings instead of them just existing.

“There’s no need to worry about it, Prime, you’re perfectly healthy minus the lack of rest you get- which you need to work on, by the way- but you’ll be fine. Unless you bond with Megatron- you better not- there’s no getting rid of it, considering that the two of you should already hate each other.”

“I, um... Symptoms? Are there any aside from what I already know?”

“There hasn’t been a lot of research done on it since bonding is generally looked down upon in Autobot City where all of our medical studies get funded on Cybertron, but from what I’ve seen and heard... You’ll intuitively be able to ‘feel’ where Megatron is when he’s in close proximity, have a desire to go near and look at him whenever possible, have dreams about him like you’ve already been experiencing, and going through a sort of physical and mental ‘weakness’ when he’s around- from what you’ve described, your weakness is just allowing yourself to be vulnerable and relaxed around him, which is actually quite common... Shame you can’t allow yourself to do that with who he is, but it is what it is.”

It was a lot to take in all at once, but Optimus found that he handled it surprisingly well as he stood up from the med berth and stretched his joints.

“Anything else I should know?”

There was something new lighting his spark; a pounding, circuit-wrenching want that began to consume him. Now that he knew where his feelings were stemming from, he couldn’t help but want to interact with Megatron again, just to see if the older mech was feeling what he was feeling, and to see if he knew what was going on between the two of them as well.

His instinct was telling him to go back to the forest.

“No, that about covers it, so you’re free to go whenever... But Prime?”

“Yeah?” The blue and red bot looked at Ratchet, who was staring right into his spark, it seemed.

“Don’t go after him when you leave. I know you want to.”

“...Okay.”

Only, that’s exactly what Optimus did. The second he was out of the med bay, he was sneaking out through one of the hallway windows and running as if his life depended on it, passing through the busy city scenery of Detroit until he reached the more rural area that the forest was located in. He was staring at the ground as he ran so fast that his engines were revving with the force it took to keep him going, but he got so consumed in where his spark was telling him to go that he bumped into someone-

“Be more careful, you insolent f-...” Megatron’s voice flooded his audials the second that the older mech’s arms were wrapped around his small body to catch him, pulling him against a hard, broad chest. Optimus looked up at the warlord, optics going wide and face burning bright red. Oh, it’s just you, little Autobot... How did you find me again?”

Megatron’s question was filled with confusion, those ruby red optics slightly squinted and full of uncertainty.

“I, uh... Do you know what spark pulls are?” Optimus stammered and earned a groan from the Decepticon in return.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were, but no one else is here and that nap last time was the best recharge I’ve had in lightyears. Do you mind?”

“...I suppose not,” Megatron sighed and let go of Optimus, then moved to lay down on the grass and stare up at the clouds. Optimus, albeit a bit awkwardly, laid down next to the mech, resting his helm on his chest- right over the purple, glaring Decepticon symbol that he should’ve detested, but instead found himself cuddling into.

“Why don’t you finish that story you started the other day?”

“A-Alright, but only because I’m feeling quite generous today. As I’d been saying last time, once upon a time, on a planet far away, there was a strong, powerful warlord with a cold spark, but that all changes when he meets a kind, passionate warrior from an opposing faction. At first, the two are against each other, but the warlord quickly realizes that something about the warrior has caught his interest, and before he knows it, he’s falling in love...”

Before Optimus could pipe up and ask any questions, he was falling into a peaceful recharge yet again, dreams of Megatron already plaguing his processor.

#tfa #transformers #transformers animated #megatron #tfa megatron #optimus prime #tfa optimus prime #megaop #tfa megaop #ask #asks #my asks #request #requests #anon request #fanfiction

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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

Text

Shameless: A Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: You encounter death, acquire a new skill, and for a moment, lose the man you adore.

words: 2,867

tw: violence, drug use, drinking (no smut this go around)

Your suffering is almost over.

At least, that’s what you assume while you’re being beaten into nothingness by a special grade curse.

Crack!

Your right leg suddenly loses feeling, but you’ve gotten past the screaming part of the fight. You’re now in submission, laying on the ground with nothing left but a stream of tears cleansing your bloody cheeks. The sorcerer who you traveled with lies helplessly on the pavement in front of you, half-dead already from attempting to shield you from an attack. It didn’t work, obviously; the hole blown through his body is evidence of that. Before becoming a sorcerer, you wanted to die peacefully, tranquilly. Lying in bed surrounded by family and friends seemed like the way to go. But now, that option was not yours to take.

You would die by violence because you lived by violence.

Thoughts of Suguru wouldn’t come to you. Every time you tried to focus on his smile, focus on his laugh, focus on his hair - anything that would distract you from the pain - the vision escaped on the heels of another blow to your body. Gathering cursed energy to launch any attack felt futile. No one could save you now, not even yourself.

The curse chitters above your body with delight, then rests a clawed hand on your head, turning it to the side so you can see it fully. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the curse was a woman with pale blue eyes and purple skin, as close to a human as a curse could get. But you knew this curse wasn’t even delivering its worst attacks. It was just toying around with you before it killed you.

“You poor child,” It coos, spitting blood onto your face with every word. “I haven’t even gotten to the best part and yet… you’re dying…” The voice from the curse was gravely and disappointed, but you didn’t really care. You just wanted it to be over. “No cursed energy left, I fear.” The confirmation is enough to make you close your eyes, and the curse laughs at your sign of defeat before grabbing your neck and lifting you up into the air.

The problem with struggling was that you needed the energy to do so. So you hung there in the air limply, which earned a pout from the curse that held you captive. “Not even a squirm?” You offer it nothing, and the hand on your neck tightens, cutting off your air flow slowly. The sun shines in your eyes, and you consider the pain from the light more annoying than the pain from your crushed leg while the edges of your vision fade into black.

Thoughts of your past three months flood your mind without warning, everything playing out in front of your eyes like a movie. The night at the symphony, the training, the absolute terror of being alone with Suguru, then the excitement. The nervousness, the inner turmoil, the smell of his hair, his body, the feel of his tongue against your fingers, the grunting sound he made when he twitched in his sleep, the soft way he’d tap your lips when you talked too much, and the harsh way he’d manhandle you when you both needed release… All of those sensations build up to a crest, like an orgasm made of memories. The explosion from the memory dump forces your hands to your neck in one last ditch effort, one last attempt at freedom. They clasp onto the curse’s hand there, but promptly slip before you lace them together in prayer.

The tearing sensation lasts for what seemed to be ages. You were splitting in two, shifting energy around, reducing to a few little bursts of hot, white light before they converge again into your being and loosed the curse’s grip from your neck. But you don’t drop like you expect to. No, something rests comfortably under your bottom like a chair or a seat, taking the pressure off of your useless leg. As you and the curse look around, it’s clear you’re not entirely concealed by the new landscape of air and cloud, but that the sky has come down to you somehow. Confusion marks both of your faces, but the curse comes to some realization before you do, it’s eyes widening immeasurably.

“No.”

Within seconds, it attempts to run off, stumbling over cloud after cloud. The time for questioning quickly draws to a close when you realize that your nose is bleeding, but you wipe the blood away with your sleeve and look to the curse, whose figure is nowhere near retreating. The faster it runs, the closer it gets to you, until you’re facing the back of it’s head. One last surge of cursed energy courses through you as your hands touch the sides of the curse’s head. It was as if the curse never existed. The thin layer of cloud-steam dissipates and you watch it fade into the wind, carried off on a soft gust into oblivion.

Then it all disappears, like a dream, and you drop to the ground in a heap of broken bones and blood, hacking violently onto the dirty pavement with your last breaths. Your body jerks once, twice, three times, then the world fades out with ease.

Finally, you think. This is what death feels like… this is much easier than I thought.

Except that’s not how death really feels. You know you’re not dead when you hear voices that sound like those of the living trickle into your ears, and they’re talking too fucking loud. They’re angry. Very angry. “Explanations must be given to the higher ups.” You don’t know that voice, not at all. It sounds old and… bored, almost. “You know they won’t understand--” “Fuck explaining to them,” But you do know that voice. It’s Satoru. Why is he so upset? “I’m pretty sure I can tell you exactly what happened, and you can go tell them once I’m done.” “You can’t explain this because you weren’t there.” The unknown voice chides. “Satoru, you need to reign in--” “I think you two should take this outside. It’s giving me a damn headache.” Shoko. You can’t see her - your eyes won’t open - but you hear the exhaustion in her voice. “I’m leaving. I don’t have time for this.” The retreating footsteps belong to Satoru, and you listen for another voice. A softer voice. The voice of the man you-- “We lost a very promising student out there,” The unknown voice sighs. “I think I should go get Suguru. ” “Please, don’t.” Shoko whispers. “Please, do!” You want to yell, but you can’t. Nothing feels right; the only thing you can do is hear. Your mouth feels like it’s packed with cotton, and your eyes are glued shut. “He needs to be alone right now.” The thought of Suguru sitting alone in his room made you feel a deep ache in your stomach. What was he doing by himself? You could only imagine the thoughts spinning in his mind, the plans he would be weaving together to get revenge on whoever lied and said the curse was a virtually harmless one. “Geto won’t sleep, and he won’t eat, but I’d rather him think the worst than see y/n in this state. I don’t think he would be able to handle it. I have to heal her first.” The voices fade back out, growing softer and less defined before you lose your hearing once more.

Fire. That’s what the sensation is; it’s your body burning. You’re on fire. With a long, pained moan, you open your eyes and look at the white ceiling and fluorescent lighting. The fire is licking at your feet, at your fingers, at your sides… Except, when you angle your head down, there’s nothing there besides white bedsheets and your unpolished toes poking out of them. Your mouth opens in a scream, and you can hear yourself yelling, but as if you were miles away and not in your own body. The door to the room opens with a thud, but you can barely register anyone over your own screams. “Why am I burning?” Tears run down your face before you grab the nearest person to you, their white coat crumpling under your grasp. Thick fingers attempt to pry your hands off of the person’s coat, but as you scream, your grip tightens immeasurably. When you look into the man’s eyes, you see the fear and pain dancing behind their grey depths. But you’re in pain, too. He knew why - he just didn’t want to tell you why your pain had to come so soon after your death. “Where the fuck am I?” Strength courses through your veins and you haul your legs off the bed clumsily, letting go of the person as you drop to the floor in a mess of hospital clothes, tears, and snot. Despite the dull ache, you drag yourself up until you’re standing, bare feet slapping against the tile floor as you advance on the man who had answered your screams with his presence. “Stop, y/n!” You freeze at Satoru’s command, turning toward the door with calculated slowness. “You’re in a lot of pain right now. You shouldn’t be out of bed.” The reminder of the fiery feeling on your skin makes you choke out a sob, and in an instant, Gojo has you sitting on the bed. After he helps up the man you accosted, he turns back to you, fixing his sapphire eyes on your fragile frame. The white-haired sorcerer takes one look at your face and sighs, rubbing his fingers on his eyebrows. “I want to see Suguru.” You mutter through your pain. “He’s not here right now.” Satoru answers, stuffing a hand in his uniform pocket. “Suguru is in Kyoto. He should be back tonight.” “Who sent him to Kyoto?” You whisper, trying not to scrunch your face up for fear of causing more pain. “He asked to go.” Satoru shrugs as if this news isn’t unexpected, turning away from you and scuffing his shoe on the floor. “They wouldn’t let him see you. After a few days, it was apparent they wouldn’t relent. So, he asked to be sent off for a little while.” “Why…?” “I don’t have the answers for everything, y/n. I just know that right now, he’s blowing off a lot of steam.” Satoru comes over to the bed and sits on it unceremoniously, frowning at the minimal comfort it offered. “Perhaps… you can tell me what happened that day.” “I almost died. I should have died.” You murmur, looking down at your clean hands. “But…” “But…?” You look up at Satoru and see the question in his eyes. “But I didn’t. Somehow, I destroyed the curse on my own.” “Explain how you did it.” “I really don’t know. The curse was choking me… then, I was dying and the sun was in my eyes… but I felt this tearing sensation, like I was being torn into multiple pieces and then put back together… and there were clouds. Lots of them.” The clouds… you felt the soft support of a cloud underneath you… and then you-- You place shaking fingers up to your lips as you remember the effortlessness of the kill, the easy elimination of the curse. It had felt like a dream, except -- “Could the curse run away?”

“No, the faster it ran, the closer it got.” Satoru’s lips quirk a little, and you see a shadow of realization pass over his face.

“I’m going to have to ask you to tell this to the Principal.” Gojo mutters, standing up.

“Am I in trouble?” The words tremble as they come out, but Satoru stretches and laughs heartily before winking at you with a wide smile.

“Not at all; though I’m sure it will give the Principal a little scare, which is just what he needs right now.”

An eternity passed as you lay looking up at the rotating ceiling fan. You had been let go from the infirmary and sent back to your rooms without any fuss, and now you were resting in peace. Sort of.

The sound of a door opening made you sit up to look at your own, but it wasn’t open and no one was there. Your head falls back on the pillow and you sigh, hoping that Suguru would arrive before you passed out and not after. It wasn’t yet midnight, but you feel as if a thousand midnights have come and gone over and over again.

Your eyelids flutter, sleep tapping you on the shoulder as you wonder about the kinds of curses Suguru encountered while in Kyoto. Would you even discuss that when he arrived? Or would you prefer to sink into his arms and allow yourself to feel his heartbeat against your earlobe and his breath on your forehead?

A tap at your door knocks the infinite possibilities out of your mind. With trepidation, you slide out of bed, your feet hitting the cold wooden floor. Before you open the door, you already know who is on the other side.

“Shoko,” you murmur, blinking in the brightness of the hallway. “What’s up?” “I grabbed your phone; they left it in the infirmary.” You take the cellphone, sliding the thin glass and plastic device between your fingers. It doesn’t come to life, but that’s okay. “I should have charged it, but--”

“No, no. Thank you, Sho. I appreciate it.” She pauses in the doorway, a statement lurking in her mind. “Just say it.”

“Geto is liable to be a little tense when he gets back. Just… be careful about the details you share.”

“Noted.” You answer as you nod. She leaves, and with an urgency, you plug your phone into the charger next to your bed. The low-battery sign flickers on your screen for a moment, before the logo blazes to life. Every second felt like years as you waited; what messages had Suguru sent while you were incapacitated? When the cell phone finally goes to the lock screen, it takes a second before the messages flood in.

1 message from Satoru Gojo: Yo, y/n, where are you? Call me when you get this

1 message from Shoko Ieiri: We’re on the way; don’t do anything stupid

16 messages from Su Geto. Click notification for more. You hesitate for a second, but it doesn’t take long for you to hit the notification. A flood of text messages take over the screen, and you look through them; each one appearing to be more panicked than the last. It’s the final one, though, that makes your heart ache.

The higher-ups said I can’t come to see you. I’ll be waiting for you when you return.

You want to answer; you want to ask why he didn't wait just a little longer. As you’re tapping back a response, slow, methodical footsteps echo in the hallway, and you pause to listen. It’s just Satoru, you think, returning back to your phone. But when your door opens, you see Suguru stumble inside, painted a ghostly white by the moonlight spilling through your window.

“Suguru!” You leap to your feet and embrace the sorcerer, who reeks of booze and weed.

“Y/n…” He slurs, and you feel his arms wrap around you tenderly. He tucks his face into your hair, inhaling your scent deeply before exhaling loudly. Then his shoulders started shaking.

It took a moment for you to register the fact that he was crying, the sudden damp patch on your shoulder shocking you into stillness. You didn’t think that strength equated to tears, but here Suguru was, crying on your shoulder. You bring a hand up to stroke his silken hair - which is in disarray - whispering “I’m here; I’m okay” into his chest repeatedly while you let tears slide from your eyes.

You stay there wrapped up in each other for a moment, until you realize that he’s stopped crying. You drag Suguru to the bed and sit him down, removing his shoes and tossing them aside as he drunkenly stumbles over his recounting of the events.

“They… found you on… the ground and Sho...ko? Shoko told me… you were pretty banged up…” He hiccups and rubs his face, leaning back. “Who sent…”

“I don’t know,” You lie, adjusting Suguru on the bed so he’s lying on his side while he mumbles incoherently. You smooth a gentle palm over his forehead - he’s cool to the touch - and tug a blanket around his shoulders. The mumbling has almost stopped entirely, his speech slurring into syllables and then into heavy breathing. Watching Suguru fall asleep was rare, mostly because he’s a night owl, and that makes you appreciate the moment even more.

When you climb in beside him, he’s conscious enough to drag you into a tight embrace, placing his lips on the back of your neck as he drifts even deeper into the dream realm.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight ever again.” Your heart doesn’t skip a beat because of his words. Your heart stutters because he said it without any slurring.

His voice had been as clear as day.

#geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #getou x reader #shoko ieiri #gojo satoru #jjk geto

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lesetoilesfous · 3 years

Note

For DADWC: from the Florence + The Machine Prompt List list > "And the heart is hard to translate, it speaks a language of its own". You're my favorite fenders writer 💙, so fenders fic, pretty please!

Aaaaaaaah so I got this twice and I love it SO much so thank you both! @contreparry - I really hope you enjoy it!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders

Tags: canon-typical graphic depictions of violence, Anders was right, anti-chantry, fluff

Rating: Mature

“And the heart is hard to translate It has a language of it's own It talks in tongues and quiet sighs And prayers and proclamations in the grand days Of great men and the smallest of gestures In short shallow gasps”

- All This and Heaven Too, Florence + The Machine

It started on a beach in 9:30 Dragon. It was raining, and Fenris, Hawke and the rest of their companions were hot and sticky with blood when the clouds had burst. They’d left a litter of broken slaver bodies in the sand dunes behind them, stumbling down to the grey waves of the Waking Sea beneath a cloudy sky.

And then it had begun to rain, and the mage: a foolish, willful man utterly ignorant of his own privilege, had yelped and begun to take his clothes off. Fenris can still remember the way the sand had felt between his toes, and hear the buzz of insects in his ears as he’d stared at the tall, blonde man, and the sand between them had grown dark with water.

Anders had stripped down to his smalls, blood streaked up his forearms in long vivid slashes, and dropped his staff carelessly into the long, stiff silver reeds. Admittedly, it was a cheap thing: clearly scavenged or stolen, and nothing that any self-respecting magister would have been seen dead with. Still. Fenris had never seen a mage just drop their staff like that before. Just to the right of Anders’ chest, half hidden by thick red-blonde hair, was a deep and jagged scar directly above his heart. His belly was almost concave, hip bones jutting in a way that could only be unhealthy. There were more scars, but Fenris barely had a chance to see them before Anders was running at the freezing sea.

From behind, Fenris saw that his long back was latticed with more scars than he had previously imagined. The mage yelped as he got into the waves, feet hopping as if the water were burning hot, not freezing cold. And then he got past the shallows, and dove in beneath the cresting waves. Behind him, somewhere between the beach and the horizon, seabirds leapt squawking into the grey sky. Anders had burst up out of the blue water, laughing, tossing his hair back from his face in a whip of antique gold, tipping his long, crooked nose back and shutting his eyes as he raised his face to the watery grey sunlight.

And then Isabela and Hawke, laughing, had pulled each other’s clothes off and followed him, and Fenris had been left standing uncertainly on the beach, watching them, unable to decipher the ache in his chest as he waited for them to rejoin him on the shore.

It started in the Alienage in 9:30 on Wintersend. Anders had just delivered triplets, which was a labour that was exactly as harrowing and arduous as he had worried it would be. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and for weeks after he’d ascribed the events of that night to a waking dream. The elvhen women whose children he’d delivered had attempted to press what silver they had into his hands, and Anders had pressed it back into the mother’s wife’s hands, dizzy with the expenditure of his magic and the sheer weight of fatigue. Then he’d taken his staff, more as a cane than anything, and slowly left the narrow confines of their home.

His knee had been blistering with pain: and he’d known before the first kiss of snow that the weather had changed. His worst scars always warned him before the sky broke. Still, the coat he’d armoured over the years with reinforced leather and what other supplies he could scavenge provided little warmth against the night, so Anders was shivering as his breath fell in white clouds into the dark. Around the Vhenadahl, candles flickered against the wind in a way that only magical fire could, and Anders sent a silent half-hearted prayer to the Maker that the templars would stay inside their barracks tonight, and not make any midnight excursions into Lowtown.

The last person he had expected to see leaving Merrill’s home was Fenris, and he certainly hadn’t expected to see the elf wrapped in a mossy green, knitted woolen scarf. For a second the pair of them stared at each other, caught like apprentices out of bed past curfew. Then Fenris had flushed, ruddy against his dark skin, and marched past him. Anders had expected it to end there, but when Fenris got to the foot of the steps to the alienage he stopped, greatsword strapped like steel lightning to his back.

He turned on the steps, and frowned at Anders. “Are you coming?”

Anders had followed. Fenris said nothing for the whole journey, but he walked Anders to the door of his clinic, and when Anders swayed as he tried to heave open the heavy doors, Fenris had caught his elbow. Anders had stared at him, more startled by the unexpected gesture than he would have been by the Darktown floor, and Fenris jerked his hand back like he’d been burned. In one of the undercity taverns, a chorus of festival goers were singing. Fenris gave him a short, sharp nod. “Good night, mage.”

Anders nodded back, speechless. Through the broken walls of Darktown, snow drifted in silent clouds and disappeared into the blue ink of the Waking Sea. Anders was convinced for years that he imagined it when Fenris stopped again, on the staircase outside the clinic, and spoke in a murmur. “Happy Wintersend.”

It started on Sundermount in 9:33 Dragon. Fenris had fallen, feet slipping in the mud, right calf failing him thanks to a slice to his leg that felt like it had split a ligament. His leg was a screaming burn and the rest of him was little better. The fog on the mountain was thick and white as dragon’s breath, and much colder, seeping through his armour and into his skin, and making the lyrium sewn into his flesh numb the veins around it in a bruising ache. Fenris couldn’t see Hawke, or Isabela, and he did not trust the mage to be anywhere than at Hawke’s side, for all that she had clearly long since promised her heart to Isabela. It was with a grim certainty that Fenris had looked up into the bloody, snarling face of his would-be killer, even as his mind ran through every formal strategy and dirty tricky he could think of. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt for mud to throw into his eyes, but his fingers were weak and stiff with the cold. The slaver’s sword fell.

Which was when six feet two of mage tackled him. Fenris stared as Anders charged at the slaver who would have killed him, throwing him down into the dirt. The mage’s staff was nowhere to be seen, and his hair was almost brown with the rain. His pale face was streaked with blood, and his coat and shirt were torn and scorched in places, exposing his bare, newly healed skin. Fenris stared as Anders tackled the slaver down into the mud and then reared back and punched him, hard, breaking his nose before punching him again, and again, and then taking a dagger from his belt and slitting his throat with brutal efficiency.

When the act was done, Anders dropped the knife into the dirt and scrambled to his feet, long legs skidding in the wet mud like a newborn colt. Fenris almost laughed, but in the absence of mortal peril his injuries were attempting to set his nerve endings on fire. His efforts to sit ended in him collapsing back onto the hill and praying to a Maker he struggled to believe in that Hawke and Isabela had dealt with the rest. And then Anders was there, face covered in blood and mud, hair clinging like kelp to his newly freckled and faintly sunburned cheeks. “Oh no you don’t.”

Magic fell over Fenris’ ruined leg like holy fire, and Fenris’ pain evaporated, washing away from one heartbeat to the next until it was merely a distant, terrible memory. Slowly, stiffly, Fenris managed to sit up, and for the first time in three years, Anders gave him a warm, honest smile. “There you are.”

Then he’d stood, and Fenris had been dizzily reminded exactly how tall he was. And then there was a long, calloused hand, red with blood, fingers crooked with breaking, thrust into the foggy air between them. Despite himself, Fenris took it.

It started on the Wounded Coast in 9:33 Dragon. Aveline was attempting to woo her soon to be husband, Donnic, and Anders was struggling to understand exactly why that required Hawke and her friends to put their lives on the line. But the summer was late and hot, and the days were long, and Marian’s eyes were very blue. So he’d found himself in the shifting, midge-ridden dunes of the Coast, killing slavers and Tal-Vashoth, and only occasionally cringing with second hand embarrassment at Aveline’s attempts at flirtation.

They’d dispatched most the ne’er-do-wells stupid enough to show their faces between the sand dunes, and were waiting for Aveline and Donnic to catch up in an appropriately concealed spot beneath the hissing reeds. Soon enough, their voices came down the path, not quite smothered by the close crash of the ocean and the whistle of the wind.

“So I think it’s always best to start with a quick downward slash, and then follow up with a parry. It’s predictable, sure, but I think it’s good to get recruits started on what’s tried and trusted.”

Fenris had laughed, and for a second Anders thought the wind dropped. The elf’s voice was rough and low, and his laugh was too. He’d curled his lyrium-twined fingers at Isabela, and Isabela had rolled her eyes and presses a silver into his waiting palm. Fenris had pocketed it. Then he’d caught Anders staring, and cleared his throat, colour rising to his high cheekbones. Isabela had leaned across him, and Fenris’ flush had risen up the back of his neck and into the tips of his ears. Anders had tried very hard not to stare at it.

“Do you want in? Fenris thinks it won’t be until the third path.”

Anders had spoken, as he so often did, without stopping to think. “I wouldn’t have figured you for the romantic type.”

Fenris had met his eyes, then, and the elf’s were deep and green and beautiful. “There is a great deal that you do not know about me, mage.”

Anders had not been able to think of anything else for the rest of the night.

It started in 9:37 Dragon. They were in The Hanged Man, and Fenris was staring at the monster that wore the face of his nightmares. Corff was nowhere to be seen, nor were Maraas or any of the tavern’s other regulars. Fenris was trying to beat back the tide of cynicism in his mind telling him that he should have known they would betray him, all of them. That he should never have trusted anyone but himself.

His sister stepped back, and his blood roared so loudly in his ears that he barely heard what Hawke said. But he heard his domi - Danarius - talking about his affection and his skills. It took everything Fenris had not to vomit on the tavern floor, and his mind revolted in a dizzy kind of horror as the impulse conflicted with memories of merrier disasters on these same stained floorboards. Then there were demons, and his mouth was thick with sulphur, and Fenris was fighting for his life.

It was like being back in the Provings again. Danarius had found his way onto the wooden staircase of The Hanged Man: the staircase that led up to Varric’s rooms, the staircase on which Fenris had once kissed Isabela and been pleasantly surprised by her response, the staircase where he’d found her kissing Hawke and told them it didn’t matter. Danarius had desecrated this place that despite the best efforts of Fenris’ anxieties had become like a home to him. Danarius had stood there, and watched, and Fenris had heard his friends’ screams as his master’s demons had ripped into their flesh.

Fenris had lost track of time, arms burning with the searing remnants of dismembered spirits, hands slippery with sweat and blood. But at some point the familiar relief of healing had disappeared, and he had belatedly looked up through sweat-stinging eyes to see Anders’ body arched in a translucent prison of blue light. Danarius had been watching the mage with an expression of terrible curiosity that Fenris knew well and feared more. His expression had been almost impassive as the mage shuddered and spasmed, blood oozing from his ears and flowing from his nose and down over his chin.

Isabela was clutching a gash in her side that was turning her white canvas tunic cherry red, and Hawke was dragging a mangled leg through the broken furniture as she made her way towards her. Fenris stood frozen in the smouldering wreckage, trapped like the butterflies his master liked to collect on pinned boards in his study. Anders had collapsed in a heap at Danarius’ feet, and Danarius had stepped forward. Fenris’ heart lurched.

But then Anders had surged abruptly to his feet and punched Danarius in the balls.

Fenris laughed, a shocked bark that was too loud in the tavern following the battle, and Danarius had wheezed, and blood had spun about his fingers, and Anders had grabbed the back of his head with one hand and slammed his knee into Danarius’ nose with a jarring crunch, chest heaving as he panted.

Then he’d picked up Danarius with all the strength promised by his tall, muscular frame, his training as a Grey Warden and the hearty meals Varric had spent nine years coaxing him into. Anders hurled Danarius down the stairs, where he landed in a heap at Fenris’ feet. Anders had looked at him, beard red with blood, body trembling with fury or pain or both.

“He’s all yours.”

And just like that, Fenris was free.

It started in 9:37 Dragon. Hawke and Isabela had fled across the sea, and Anders didn’t blame them. The Chantry was gone, and he was still getting used to the idea that he was meant to survive this. He still wasn’t entirely sure that he should, and Justice had been all too silent on the subject. So he spent his days in a waking dream, trekking for days and then weeks into the Vimmark mountains in the vague direction of Nevarra.

He hadn’t seen another living person for three weeks when an elf emerged from the fog, wreathed in white light like a ghost. Anders had stopped. His body and mind had long since become stretched too thin with hunger, horror and grief. Fenris’ countenance, for all its grim finality, came as an abrupt relief. At least he could stop running, now.

He’d dropped his staff, slowly, and held up his hands. “If you’re here to kill me, I won’t stop you.”

Fenris had not drawn his sword, but he hadn’t let the light die in his lyrium, either. When he stepped closer, he didn’t make sound, and for a moment Anders thought perhaps he really was a ghost, summoned by his imagination and too many nights in a decade spent longing for a man he couldn’t have.

Around them, birds had sung in the early morning, and not far off a stream made its laughing way down the cliffs. “Why did you run?”

Fenris asked the question as if it held the secret to the restoration of the Golden City itself. Anders laughed, stepping forward and stumbling over his own feet and the thick mass of pain that was his long since ruined knee. Fenris moved toward him through the long, dew-soaked grass, but didn’t quite breach the space between them. Anders swayed into a mostly intentional sitting position on a moss-covered boulder. “Does it matter?”

Fenris had met his eyes, and his own were dark and green and beautiful. “It does.”

Anders shrugged, and shut his eyes, leaning his head back and up into the fog. Water kissed his cheeks, and he thought: it would have been worth it, for this. It would have been worth it, to feel the weather again.

Something skittered in the bushes, and Anders opened his eyes and watched Fenris turn, bristling, to scan the trees. After a moment Fenris’ shoulders lowered, fractionally, and he turned back to Anders. He’d asked the question again, patiently, persistently. “Why did you run?”

Anders shook his head. “Because I didn’t want to bring you down with me.” Fenris’ eyes had widened a little, and Anders hurried on. “Any of you. I knew what I was doing, but the consequences were mine alone. I wasn’t going to subject you to them.”

Fenris had tilted his head, and the lyrium in his skin had sent shimmering refractions of light dancing iridescently through the fog. “I did not think you bore me so much good will.”

“More like I didn’t bear you so much ill.” Anders had corrected, before sitting forwards, feeling abruptly the weight of too many decades of exhaustion lying heavy on his aching shoulders. “It’s alright. I think killing me is the best decision, too.”

The glass had rustled, then, and Anders thought it must have been deliberate. But then Fenris’ feet were in front of him, stained green with the grass, and the light of his lyrium faded, leaving them both wreathed only in the sunlit fog. Anders looked up at Fenris, and he looked like some ancient king, backlit by the bright sky, skin dark and olive against the shimmering silver of his lyrium. “I’m not going to kill you, mage.”

And then there was a dark, calloused hand, silver with lyrium, fingers slender and elegant, thrust into the misty air between them. Anders stared at Fenris, and Fenris’ poker face cracked as he gave him a small, crooked smile. Despite himself, Anders took his hand, letting Fenris pull him easily to his feet.

“I’m going to help.”

It started in 9:40 Dragon, when the Circle of Dairsmuid was annulled, and over five hundred mages between the ages of six and seventy were murdered because they were allowed to see their families. It started in 9:40 Dragon, with the rebellion of the White Spire. It started in 9:40 Dragon, when Lord Seeker Lambert declared an end to the Circle of Magi.

It started in a tavern in Nevarra, at a meeting of former slaves and runaway mages. It started with elves, and second-hand weapons, and an apostate with a Fereldan accent who looked like an Ander. It started with an elf from Tevinter with white tattoos that looked like Vallaslin.

It started with rebellion. But that isn’t where it ended.

“No, words are a language It doesn't deserve such treatment And all my stumbling phrases Never amounted to anything worth this feeling All this heaven never could describe Such a feeling as I'm healing, words were never so useful So I was screaming out a language That I never knew existed before.”

- All This and Heaven Too, Florence + The Machine

#dadwc #fenders #da2 #fenris #anders #my fic #barbex #contreparry

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butterflies-dragons · 3 years

Text

SANSA STARK & TARGARYEN IMAGERY

A list of Targaryen Imagery around Sansa Stark in A Song of Ice and Fire

Fire and Blood

Black and Red

Silver and Purple

Dragon's Tail

Dragon Wings

Dragon Eggs

Dragon Skulls

Golden Dragons

Dragon Knights

Valyrian Steel

Dance of the Dragons

Maegor the Cruel

Baelor the Blessed

Aegon the Unworthy

Prince Aemon the Dragonknight

Aerys the Mad King

Rhaegar the ast dragon

Bonus: Fiery Hair

1. FIRE AND BLOOD

Sansa slid off her mare, but she was too slow. Arya swung with both hands. There was a loud crack as the wood split against the back of the prince's head, and then everything happened at once before Sansa's horrified eyes. Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. Arya swung at the prince again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on Lion's Tooth and sent her broken stick flying from her hands. The back of his head was all bloody and his eyes were on fire.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

The blood orange had left a blotchy red stain on the silk. "I hate her!" she screamed. She balled up the dress and flung it into the cold hearth, on top of the ashes of last night's fire. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

When the king's herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she'd had them dye it black and you couldn't see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa V

Then she realized that the blood had soaked through the sheet into the featherbed, so she bundled that up as well, but it was big and cumbersome, hard to move. Sansa could get only half of it into the fire. She was on her knees, struggling to shove the mattress into the flames as thick grey smoke eddied around her and filled the room, when the door burst open and she heard her maid gasp.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VII

"The dwarf's wife did the murder with him," swore an archer in Lord Rowan's livery. "Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws."

—A Storm of Swords - Jaime VII

As the boy's lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

2. BLACK AND RED

The queen wore a high-collared black silk gown, with a hundred dark red rubies sewn into her bodice, covering her from neck to bosom. They were cut in the shape of teardrops, as if the queen were weeping blood.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

Tyrion wore a doublet of black velvet covered with golden scrollwork, thigh-high boots that added three inches to his height, a chain of rubies and lions’ heads. But the gash across his face was raw and red, and his nose was a hideous scab. “You are very beautiful, Sansa,” he told her.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

3. SILVER AND PURPLE

Sansa closed the shutters and turned sharply away from the window. "You look very lovely today, my lady," Ser Arys said.

"Thank you, ser." Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hair net that had been a gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey's gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had been proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome thing, and he had sent Ser Boros to beat her.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

"You've waited so long, be patient awhile longer. Here, I have something for you." Ser Dontos fumbled in his pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his thick fingers.

It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. "What stones are these?"

"Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VIII

Sansa wore a gown of silvery satin trimmed in vair, with dagged sleeves that almost touched the floor, lined in soft purple felt. Shae had arranged her hair artfully in a delicate silver net winking with dark purple gemstones. Tyrion had never seen her look more lovely, yet she wore sorrow on those long satin sleeves. "Lady Sansa," he told her, "you shall be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight."

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

4. DRAGON WINGS

Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth. Otherwise she only nibbled at the fruit and fish and honeycakes. Every time Joffrey looked at her, her tummy got so fluttery that she felt as though she'd swallowed a bat.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

"What wife?"

"I forgot, you've been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head."

—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII

5. DRAGON EGGS

Butterbumps arrived before the food, dressed in a jester’s suit of green and yellow feathers with a floppy coxcomb. An immense round fat man, as big as three Moon Boys, he came cartwheeling into the hall, vaulted onto the table, and laid a gigantic egg right in front of Sansa. “Break it, my lady,” he commanded. When she did, a dozen yellow chicks escaped and began running in all directions. “Catch them!” Butterbumps exclaimed. Little Lady Bulwer snagged one and handed it to him, whereby he tilted back his head, popped it into his huge rubbery mouth, and seemed to swallow it whole. When he belched, tiny yellow feathers flew out his nose. Lady Bulwer began to wail in distress, but her tears turned into a sudden squeal of delight when the chick came squirming out of the sleeve of her gown and ran down her arm.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

In the Queen's Ballroom they broke their fast on honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, gammon steaks, bacon, fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs, autumn pears, and a Dornish dish of onions, cheese, and chopped eggs cooked up with fiery peppers.

[…] Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

6. DRAGON’S TAIL

The morning of King Joffrey's name day dawned bright and windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney grounds. "What do you think it means?" she asked him.

"Glory to your betrothed," Ser Arys answered at once. "See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace's name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey's Comet."

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure. "I've heard servants calling it the Dragon's Tail."

"King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son," Ser Arys said. "He is the dragon's heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister, another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey's ascent to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over his enemies."

Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother was one of Joffrey's enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father had died by the king's command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn't the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

7. DRAGON SKULLS

Within, the dragon skulls were waiting, and so was Shae. “I thought m’lord had forgotten me.” Her dress was draped over a black tooth near as tall as she was, and she stood within the dragon’s jaws, nude. Balerion, he thought. Or was it Vhagar? One dragon skull looked much like another.

[...] After, as they lay entwined amongst the dragon skulls, he rested his head against her, inhaling the smooth clean smell of her hair. “We should go back,” he said reluctantly. “It must be near dawn. Sansa will be waking.

[...] The Others can take my guilt, he thought as he slipped his tunic over his head. Why should I be guilty? My wife wants no part of me, and most especially not the part that seems to want her. Perhaps he ought to tell her about Shae. It was not as though he was the first man ever to keep a concubine. Sansa’s own oh-so-honorable father had given her a bastard brother. For all he knew, his wife might be thrilled to learn that he was fucking Shae, so long as it spared her his unwelcome touch.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VII

8. GOLDEN DRAGONS

"The queen raised her voice. "A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me its skin!”

“A costly pelt,” Robert grumbled. “I want no part of this, woman. You can damn well buy your furs with Lannister gold.”

[...] Shortly, Jory brought him Ice.

When it was over, he said, “Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell.”

“All that way?” Jory said, astonished.

“All that way,” Ned affirmed. “The Lannister woman shall never have this skin.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

"Petyr Baelish put a hand on the rail. "But first you’ll want your payment. Ten thousand dragons, was it?”

“Ten thousand.” Dontos rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “As you promised, my lord.”

[...] “But he saved me.”

“He sold you for a promise of ten thousand dragons.

[...]“Sansa felt sick. "He said he was my Florian.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

“Your sister’s had no difficulty finding witnesses to your guilt.” Ser Kevan rolled up the parchment. “Ser Addam has men hunting for your wife. Varys has offered a hundred stags for word of her whereabouts, and a hundred dragons for the girl herself. If the girl can be found she will be found, and I shall bring her to you. I see no harm in husband and wife sharing the same cell and giving comfort to one another.”

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IX

Someplace no stag ever found … though a dragon might.

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne III

"A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that's not likely, is it?"

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

9. DRAGON KNIGHTS

She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

"True knights would never harm women and children." The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

"True knights." The queen seemed to find that wonderfully amusing. "No doubt you're right. So why don't you just eat your broth like a good girl and wait for Symeon Star-Eyes and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to come rescue you, sweetling. I'm sure it won't be very long now."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa V

They continued down the serpentine and across a small sunken courtyard. Ser Dontos shoved open a heavy door and lit a taper. They were inside a long gallery. Along the walls stood empty suits of armor, dark and dusty, their helms crested with rows of scales that continued down their backs. As they hurried past, the taper's light made the shadows of each scale stretch and twist. The hollow knights are turning into dragons, she thought.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

10. VALYRIAN STEEL

Lord Tywin waited until last to present the king with his own gift: a longsword. Its scabbard was made of cherrywood, gold, and oiled red leather, studded with golden lions' heads. The lions had ruby eyes, she saw. The ballroom fell silent as Joffrey unsheathed the blade and thrust the sword above his head. Red and black ripples in the steel shimmered in the morning light.

[…] "A great sword must have a great name, my lords! What shall I call it?"

[…] The guests were shouting out names for the new blade. Joff dismissed a dozen before he heard one he liked. "Widow's Wail!" he cried.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

But she had another longsword hidden in her bedroll. She sat on the bed and took it out. Gold glimmered yellow in the candlelight and rubies smoldered red. When she slid Oathkeeper from the ornate scabbard, Brienne's breath caught in her throat. Black and red the ripples ran, deep within the steel. Valyrian steel, spell-forged. It was a sword fit for a hero. When she was small, her nurse had filled her ears with tales of valor, regaling her with the noble exploits of Ser Galladon of Morne, Florian the Fool, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and other champions. Each man bore a famous sword, and surely Oathkeeper belonged in their company, even if she herself did not. "You'll be defending Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel," Jaime had promised.

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne I

11. DANCE OF THE DRAGONS

Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the "Dance of the Dragons," Ned inspected the bruise himself. "I hope Forel is not being too hard on you," he said.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII

He sang of the Dance of the Dragons, of fair Jonquil and her fool, of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies. He sang of betrayals, and murders most foul, of hanged men and bloody vengeance. He sang of grief and sadness.

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

12. MAEGOR THE CRUEL

The room where Sansa had been confined was at the top of the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

In the tower room at the heart of Maegor's Holdfast, Sansa gave herself to the darkness.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

13. BAELOR THE BLESSED

"Baelor starved himself to death, fasting," said Tyrion. "His uncle served him loyally as Hand, as he had served the Young Dragon before him. Viserys might only have reigned a year, but he ruled for fifteen, while Daeron warred and Baelor prayed." He made a sour face. "And if he did remove his nephew, can you blame him? Someone had to save the realm from Baelor's follies."

Sansa was shocked. "But Baelor the Blessed was a great king. He walked the Boneway barefoot to make peace with Dorne, and rescued the Dragonknight from a snakepit. The vipers refused to strike him because he was so pure and holy."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

14. AEGON THE UNWORTHY

Aegon the Unworthy had never harmed Queen Naerys, perhaps for fear of their brother the Dragonknight . . . but when another of his Kingsguard fell in love with one of his mistresses, the king had taken both their heads.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

"A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One of the Aegons did too. The third one, or the fourth. He had lots of whores and lots of bastards." As they whirled to the music, Joff gave her a moist kiss. "My uncle will bring you to my bed whenever I command it."

Sansa shook her head. "He won't."

"He will, or I'll have his head. That King Aegon, he had any woman he wanted, whether they were married or no."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

15. PRINCE AEMON THE DRAGONKNIGHT

He took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs, like the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys's honor against evil Ser Morgil's slanders.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey." She tried to smile bravely for him. "I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies."

"Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother's queen.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

For those who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother's queen, of Nymeria's ten thousand ships. They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VI

16. AERYS THE MAD KING

"Ser Ilyn has not been feeling talkative these past fourteen years," Lord Renly commented with a sly smile.

Joffrey gave his uncle a look of pure loathing, then took Sansa's hands in his own. "Aerys Targaryen had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"The battleground is right up ahead, where the river bends. That was where my father killed Rhaegar Targaryen, you know. He smashed in his chest, crunch, right through the armor." Joffrey swung an imaginary warhammer to show her how it was done. "Then my uncle Jaime killed old Aerys, and my father was king."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"You can't talk to me that way. The king can do as he likes."

"Aerys Targaryen did as he liked. Has your mother ever told you what happened to him?"

Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. "No man threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

17. RHAEGAR THE LAST DRAGON

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Arise, Ser Gregor.'"

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

18. BONUS: FIERY HAIR

Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

"You will be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight, as lovely as your lady mother at your age. I cannot seat you on the dais, but you'll have a place of honor above the salt and underneath a wall sconce. The fire will be shining in your hair, so everyone will see how fair of face you are. Keep a good long spoon on hand to beat the squires off, sweetling. You will not want green boys underfoot when the knights come round to beg you for your favor."

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

#sansa stark #jonsa

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