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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing. tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. slice of life fluff, light smut. explicit (but only at the end).

tags / warnings. mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc. 7.6k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif, @papillonsgf, and @yeoldontknow 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note. i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this. it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless. as always, feedback means a lot!

You and forethought aren’t close friends. You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree. You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is. Careful consideration? Thoughtful patience? None of that exists for you. At least, not when you really, really want something.

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this. Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid. By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment. Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to. When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed. (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right?

“Everyone’s fully booked.” The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial. (You don’t blame her.) By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal. You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue. “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice? Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable. Well-known. Considered one of the best in the city. Surely their apprentice would be fine. Just less seasoned, not as experienced.

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter. “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall. “Last room on the left. His name’s Jungkook. His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.” It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves. Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told.

“Jungkook?” There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight. (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.) It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else.

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting: one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits. Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine. A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall; one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it. There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath. All in all, very homey. Reminiscent of your own apartment.)

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space. “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples.

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for. Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe. It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin. “Are you okay?” He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way. Good for him, but worse for you.

He’s so cute. Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.” You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete. “Um— I was told you might have some time? For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering? You’re never shy. Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess. People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!” Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder. He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway. “Yeah, I’ve got time. Come in.” Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek; the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip; each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks. “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no. You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook? He was that. In spades.

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table. It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display. “I’ve got a pretty big selection.”

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him. This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation.

“So—” He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen. You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt. It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion; it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles. He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling. The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.” It really is. You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink. “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question. Of course it did. It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally. “Like crazy, but it was worth it. This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—” He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.

“A piece of cake?” You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you. (It doesn’t. You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap. “Do any of these interest you?” He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash. There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf). They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.” It catches your eye more than the others have. Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines. A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do. “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.” He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled; you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion. A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen. “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy. Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no. You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though. You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it. You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life. There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,” you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.

“Do you have your ID?” You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form. “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come.

Alone, the nerves set in. You’re actually doing this. Getting a tattoo. Putting something permanent on your body. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap. Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come. (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.)

(But had you really made up your mind? Was this going to be it? It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise. It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!” Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope. You eye it curiously. “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”

He’s really thought of everything. Or the shop has. Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?” It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand. (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.)

You hadn’t thought about that. You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away. “My arm?”

“Upper? Forearm?” There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative. He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you.

“Tricep area, I think? Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.” Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same. “I’m kidding. That was cheesy. But I’m sure it’ll look fine. We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?”

“That sounds good.” A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement.

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake: wearing a turtleneck. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like. Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon? Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)?

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule. Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside. Whatever you’d prefer.”

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill. You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way? He was probably desensitized.)

“It’s fine.” You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly. Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though. Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater. It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath. Two.

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“So, which arm?” He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello.

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers. You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.” It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror. “It’s so pretty.”

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face. “Thanks.” He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful. “What do you think?”

“This is it. Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool. As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee.

“All right. We’ll shave you down and get started. You like the colours, right?” Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart. It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes. (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.) He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him. “Hop on up. Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace. It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?” You’d misheard that, right?

“Your skin. You’re sparkling.” He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.

“Oh.” Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly. “It’s my soap.”

“Sparkle soap?” Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure. He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before. (Which, fair.)

“It’s this specialty holiday soap. It has pigment in it.”

“That’s cool.” He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm. “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree. It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does. Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot. “Thanks.”

“Was that weird? I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.”

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle. “Ready?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog. Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue. “I think so.”

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee.

“All right—”“ The incessant buzzing stops. Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel. “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you. Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.)

“Can I see?” You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead. Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right. You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet. It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you.

“Careful!” It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.

“Sorry, sorry.” You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede. Everything straightens out quickly enough. “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?” He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall. “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art. “I’m fine.” That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.” The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open. Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words, “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention. It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours. It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.

“You like?”

“I love.” You’d stare at it for hours, if you could. Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie. “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head. Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose. Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into. “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one. It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink. (You half expect him not to answer; you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.)

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.

“So, what’re you thinking?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking. Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history. You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece. “A sleeve?”

That surprises him. His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously. “Like, a full sleeve?” It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable. “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high. “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,” he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea. “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.” He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up. For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing. (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.) “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan. It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there. He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin. A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep. Another takes up the entirety of your forearm. There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi. It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch. You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.” Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap. “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers. Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat. He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up. Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.

“You mean we did it,” you return, giddy like a child.

“Ah, right.” The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled. “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more. It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head. Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow. You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm. That in itself had hurt like a biiitch; you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?” He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to. It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.

“Yes, you are.” You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares. This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together. (Not that you’d complain. You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful. “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration. “You wouldn’t dare.” You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.

“Wouldn’t I? I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed? You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation. Had he mentioned it previously? Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain? No, you would’ve remembered that. You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.” How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea. You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway. Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago. (God, your memory is good. If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.) “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.

“Gonna miss me?”

Would it be inappropriate to say yes? Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question. You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,” he answers, offering honesty to your reticence. “You can still send me funny photos though.”

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Will you still be tattooing?” It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know. You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.” Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin. “Actually, where I got most of mine done.” You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith. He’s finally come full circle. You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise. “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,” he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair. It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn. “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,” you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder. You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go. It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk. “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you. It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available. (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.) “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black. You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?” He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to. (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?) “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended. “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you. “Hey, I don’t judge. You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there. Used your own impulsive history against you. “I would never.”

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what? Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him. “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth. There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up. You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”

“Really?” You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face. “Then why don’t you have one?” He has a million others as it is: a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs. (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)

“And hide all this?” One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home. “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual. “But I’m cuter. It’d be a shame if it were me. You…” The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean. (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.) “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him.

“I’m kidding.” You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries. A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them? Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was. Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met. It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?” The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.

Were you? You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really? You can’t?” You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it. But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously. It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears. “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”

Had he? Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall. Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of; accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff). Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought. You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,” you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.

“I think you’re cute,” he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff. The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week. The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb. (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.” Where the confidence comes from, who knows. You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering. It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits.

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go.

Then he does the last thing you expect: shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.

(His lips are so soft. A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate. Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him. French fries and beer and his Chapstick.)

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.)

“You just kissed me.” It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.” Speaking the words into existence feels bad; you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.

“I am.” At least he’s realistic. It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay.

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose.

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next. (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass. Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers. An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,” the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials. You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation.

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof. The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin. You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous. It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left.

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed. He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders. You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,” he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity. It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,” you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped. You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was. As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though. You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow. He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?” You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder. Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again. (You’re proud of that. It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine. You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness. Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad. Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around. It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper. He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror. “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals. Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care. Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre. You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life. It means so much - like progressing to the next level.

Which, you suppose it is. This is a fresh start for you. A new beginning in a new city.

“Proud of you,” he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips. He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago. A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,” you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual. “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that. You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome. From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this: a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had; to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that. Made it worth it in ways you had never considered. Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?” He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself. It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.” The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?” You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets. It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that. He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?” Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job?

(It truthfully could be. You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.” All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine. “You don’t like when I admire my own work?” Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit. The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need. (Because you really do need it. You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.) It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once.

“Kook,” you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.” He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin. They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas. A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care. Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits. When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

“Missed you too,” you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @xjoonchildx

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abbysfrenchbraid · 3 years

Note

hi! i love all of your writing, especially your abby fanfics. i know you’re in the middle of your eivor series right now, so pls disregard if you don’t feel like writing this request or don’t want to write for abby, but i was wondering if you could maybe write a hurt/comfort type imagine where abby either comforts the reader when they’re sad or after they have a nightmare. i get really frequent nightmares and love to read fanfics like this but totally understand if you’re not into the idea. all the love and i hope you’re doing well; merry christmas if you celebrate!

so this is half a year late, but I finally have a little more time to go through my requests so here it is! this is also the first time I've actively avoided gendering the reader as I've gotten a few requests for a nonbinary or genderfluid reader. This is not a cop-out on that, I definitely want to write an explicitly nb reader but I figured this would make the reading experience better for quite a few people!

Summary: The reader has recently lost a family member and stranded with the WLF. They struggle with frequent panic attacks and nightmares. Abby notices and tries to take care of them.

CW for loss of a family member (sibling), death and grief, heavy trauma, panic attacks, anxiety, nightmares, and struggling to breathe. The nightmares are also fairly violent and creepy so please watch out for yourselves and only read this if you're in a good state of mind <3

I've Got You

The truck rattled as Leah drove it up the road to the WLF stadium. It had been a particularly rough day on patrol. You and the other wolf had run into a group of freshly infected that seemed to have been three families once. The children had been the worst. The youngest had probably been about ten years old before she had turned, her eyes bright blue and her blonde curls matted with dried blood. You had taken care of them all, of course you had. But it had been horrible. You folded your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking.

You had joined the WLF a few months ago after losing your team and your little sister in a clicker-infested cellar you had set up camp in. It had been so fucking stupid, so careless. But everyone had been tired, you hadn’t seen any infected in days, and so only one of you had kept watch. He barely had time to scream before the clicker had ripped out his throat. It had been chaos, madness, everyone scrambling to escape into the network of damp corridors and storage rooms, more and more clickers being drawn to you by the noise.

Leah raised her hand at the armed guards at the gate and they opened for your truck. The sun was setting behind you and most people were inside the stadium now, eating or spending time with friends. Both of you were quiet. Leah’s legs were covered in slowly darkening blood and the smell was nauseating. The tall wolf pulled the truck into its designated spot and took a deep breath.

“Y/N?” You looked up at her. The circles under her eyes could compete with yours, but her face was still as kind as ever.

“Yeah?”

“You take care of yourself today. Take a long shower, get something to eat. I’ll let Martha know to give you a double portion for dinner.”

You smiled faintly at her. This was how it was here. All the wolves had seen terrible things and probably done even worse. They all chose to let it out in training and then leave it behind them. No sense in holding on. You nodded.

“Thanks, Lee. See you in the gym tomorrow.”

The brunette grinned and patted your thigh.

“6 am sharp!” She jumped out of the car and gave back the keys at the checkpoint, then she vanished inside the stadium.

You stayed in your seat. Your fingers had cramped up and you were scared to unfold them, scared you would never be able to stop them from shaking again.

Sierra had held your hand all the way, not letting go as you dragged her through the darkness, fought off four infected, stumbled up stairs you had not come down on, and found yourself in a ravaged theater. You had run all night and only stopped when you were unable to go a single step further. When you had found a small pawnshop that you could lock up safely, you had made a bed of your jacket and a moth-eaten blanket from the theater. Sierra had started to cry. You would never forget the way dread had started to creep into your limbs, seeping into your skin and stretching dark tendrils toward your throat. You had rolled up Sierra’s sleeve and there it was. A relatively small mark, just the puncture wounds from two teeth turned into mean scratches as Sierra had pulled her arm from the jaws of a clicker and kept on running. But it had already begun to fester, the edges of the wound an angry red contrasting the white blisters forming around the site. It felt like the ground had been pulled from below your feet. You fell and fell, unable to speak, to do anything, just staring at the thing that meant the end of the world. The end of your baby sister.

A shout caught your attention - another car had returned to the stadium and was pulling into a spot a few paces away. It was Manny and Abby, everyone’s favorite duo. The attractive joker and the stoic warrior. They were among Leah’s best friends and she had introduced them to you a while ago, all of them welcoming you warmly. It had been strange, being part of a group again, a team. Your heart was still too sore.

So you had quietly pulled yourself out of most of the group evenings, the film nights and game nights and arm wrestling tournaments and what else there was to do. Manny had tried his luck flirting with you a few times and one time you had even joined him for a dance, but after realizing he wouldn’t land with you he had respectfully backed off and now treated you more like a little sister. Mel and Owen had been nice, too, both very secluded when they turned up together, but Owen was funny and enthusiastic and always yelled your name across the cafeteria or the training course when he saw you. He was one of the few people who could make you laugh no matter how hard you tried not to.

Nora was a whirlwind, the smartest person you had ever known and unfaltering no matter what the universe threw at her feet. She liked poetry and hard rock music, big men and even bigger women. You had often wondered whether she and Abby had ever hooked up. But you weren’t sure of anything concerning Abby. Always the stony face, the impenetrable wall, the arms-length smile and polite nod in the hallway. It could be infuriating at times. Especially because despite it all, against all your better judgment, you could feel yourself growing more and more interested in her, constantly looking for her in a crowd and sneaking side glances to see if she was listening to you or laughing at the same things.

The car doors banged and the sound echoed through the small space. Manny was laughing about something Abby had said and walked with a bounce in his step as he approached the counter to hand back his keys. Abby looked like she always did, khaki cargo pants and a black cutoff, her green backpack slung over one muscular shoulder. Some strands of hair had escaped her braid and curled up at the back of her neck, slightly damp from her sweat in the hot summer air. Trying to calm down and distract yourself, you let your gaze wander up her strong build, freckled biceps flexing as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. And then she looked straight at you. You didn’t move, stayed frozen as you had for the last few minutes, wishing you were invisible.

Your face felt hot and suddenly there were tears blurring your vision - what was happening?! Your knees started shaking as well, bouncing uncontrollably as your nails dug into the backs of your hands. Your throat was closing up and your bottom lip was quivering. All you saw were specks of grey and green, all you felt was your body resisting every command and rebelling against you, trying to hold you in place and suffocate you silently.

Suddenly the door opened beside you and a soft, deep voice said your name. You tried to blink the tears away but your vision wouldn’t clear up, panic blinding you further. You began shaking your head as your chest convulsed in a desperate attempt to draw breath.

“Fuck, Y/N, okay.” Abby’s voice was determined and suddenly her hands were on your wrists. Her skin was warm and dry, her grip firm. She softly shook your clasped hands and somehow moved so her face was in front of yours, a mess of green and brown and there, soft pink where her lips moved, speaking quietly and telling you to breathe with her. One hand stayed on your wrist and her thumb massaged the cramped up muscle there, digging painfully into your flesh but pulling you back to her slowly. One hand came up closer and a calloused thumb brushed the tears from your cheek before her hand landed on your shoulder, fingers pressing into your upper back.

“Hey, look at me, look at me, Y/N, you’re okay, I’m here. Can you try to breathe in with me on three? Just stop fighting for a moment, count with me and then we’ll breathe in together. Okay? One.”

You tried to sit up straighter and stop the erratic twitching of your chest, still choking on your breath as you waited for her commando.

“Two. Three.”

Her hand pressed between your shoulders from behind and suddenly you could breathe again, a loud gasp that turned into quiet sobs as you fought to release the air from your lungs before breathing in again.

“There we go, you’re doing so good,” Abby’s hand was on your cheek again, “so good, Y/N, breathe with me, that’s right.”

Your vision slowly returned to you now, though it was still distorted by tears. Abby had half-climbed into the truck, one foot between yours and one dangling out of the open door, her weight held up only by her right leg as she pressed her back against the dashboard. A wet laugh escaped you. Abby shot you a confused look, paired with the hint of a relieved smile.

“What?”

“You’re gonna get a cramp as well,” you rasped, “if you keep that up.”

You slid further to the inside of the broad seat, making room for Abby next to you. She grinned and sat down, one hand still on your wrist. Her eyes went down to your trembling hands, your knuckles still white from your iron grip.

“Okay, let’s take care of your hands, hm?”

Her fingers wandered softly over yours, then she rested one hand over your tangled fingers and pushed her other thumb between your palms, gently loosening your hold. She pulled back each finger slowly, starting with your thumbs and stroking each one as they relaxed. Finally, your shaking hands lay freely on your thighs.

“You’re doing so well, Y/N, don’t worry.” She took one of your hands in her lap and started massaging the inside of your palm. “Wanna tell me what got you there?”

You sighed, breath still shaky with tears.

“Um.. We ran into infected today. Runners. Families, it seemed.”

Abby sucked in a breath and gave you back your hand before taking the other and starting the same gentle procedure.

“Those are the hardest. Kids?”

You nodded and Abby made a soft noise. You took another rattling breath.

“I… I lost my little sister. Back when… before I came to you.”

Her head shot up and she stared at you, shock and sympathy playing over her features.

“Fuck, Y/N, you never said…”

“I know.” You lowered your head.

When you had stumbled out of the woods around the WLF stadium and begged them to let you in, they had stripped you and searched you before bringing you to their leader. After hours of questioning to make sure you weren’t a spy for any other group, he knew about your team and everything you had done in the last three years, but you hadn’t mentioned Sierra once. It wouldn’t change anything anyway. They had brought you to Nora who had patched you up, examined you, and fed you before showing you to your new room. It was a small closet on the base level of the stadium, with only a tiny window letting in some light. You were thankful for a roof over your head and the armed posts surrounding the stadium.

“I didn’t want to talk about her. I didn’t lie to Isaac or betray you. It wasn't anyone's business.” You gave Abby a fierce look. Nothing would change your mind about this. She just nodded, her eyes wide. You sighed, brushing your hands against each other.

“She was bitten. I see her every time I close my eyes. It wasn’t fair.” You dropped your hands into your lap. “I just don’t… I can’t -”

Abby’s hand was on yours again, her fingers sliding between yours.

“Hey. I won’t tell anyone. But I’m here, okay? If you want to talk.”

You scoffed.

“No one ever talks here. You’re all made of stone.”

Abby contemplated this for a few seconds, then she squeezed your hand.

“My dad was murdered a few years ago. Almost all of our families are dead.” Now it was your turn to be shocked. Fuck. You had been so insensitive. “By us, I mean Owen, Nora, Jordan, and me. Owen lost his parents to infected and his brothers to the scars just last year.”

Abby leaned back and stared out of the windshield, the garage now dark except for a few small lamps at the exits.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry. Of course, I’m in no place to tell you how to deal with it.”

“No, it’s fine. You’re right, you know. We don’t talk about those things.” She looked at you, her gaze so intense you almost pulled back. “Would you like to?”

You forced yourself to hold her gaze.

“I think I would. Now that it’s all… further away.”

Abby nodded, squeezing your hand again.

“Then we’ll talk. You can tell me all about your sister. And… I haven’t talked about my dad in a long time. I think I’d like to tell you about him, too. He was great.”

A small smile played around her lips and you felt a rush of gratitude for this wonderful woman. You could practically see the memories playing through her head behind those green eyes. She blinked, looking back at you.

“Wanna get something to eat? You must be starving. I know I am.”

“Sure.” You shared another smile and exited the car together, fingers still intertwined as you crossed the lot and Abby held the door open for you.

Dinner was already over, but Leah had kept her word and the elder woman at the counter gave you both gigantic bowls of beef stew with thick, coarse bread. You told Abby about your patrol that day and she hummed sympathetically. She knew what it felt like to deal with infected children. After a while, the door to the cafeteria flew open and Manny came in, sleek black hair still wet from a shower. He grinned brightly as he made his way over to you and sat next to you on the metal bench.

“You coming along tonight?” he asked you, drumming his fingers on the table. You raised your eyebrows.

“What’s happening tonight?”

He tutted at Abby and gave her a theatrical frown.

“You didn’t invite Y/N? It’s Mel’s birthday! Owen got his hands on some prime hooch. You celebrating with us?”

You smiled at your plate. The last thing you needed was to get wasted and completely lose any shred of sanity you had left.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll join you. I still haven’t showered and I had a terrible day. I’m just gonna read a bit and pass out, I think.” You gave him an apologetic shrug.

“Oh, come on, Y/N. Read and pass out? It’s a special occasion! You sure?”

“Yeah, but really, thank you for inviting me. Maybe next time.”

He sighed heavily, then he clapped his hand on the table and stood up.

“Abby, you need to get moving, girl. We’re meeting in 20 and you stink.”

Abby just raised her eyebrows and shook her head, finishing her stew. Manny's laughter echoed through the empty room as he left.

“Do I really smell that bad?” There was a twinkle in her eye, a conspiratorial smile on her lips. You smiled back.

“Not at all. He probably smelled me.” You grabbed her empty bowl and placed it in yours. “Go have fun, I’ll clean this up. See you at training.”

Abby cocked her head to the side, seemingly not sure what to do. You gave her another encouraging smile.

“Really, I’m fine. Thank you for taking care of me, I owe you. Go celebrate!”

The tall blonde stood up slowly. She still seemed hesitant.

“I’ll come check on you later if that’s okay. And you can always come over and talk to me if something’s wrong, alright?”

Your chest felt tight all of a sudden, but not in the way it had earlier. It was the feeling of reaching for something knowing you’d never have it, of wanting something so bad and only being able to admire it from a distance. It felt like being homesick. You thought of Sierra again and how she had been your home, the only anchor in your life. Fuck, not now.

You shook your head as if to get rid of your thoughts and gave Abby a brave smile.

“Okay. But I’ll be fine. Promise.”

“Okay. See you later, then.”

“See you.”

Abby gave you a last look over her shoulder before exiting the cafeteria and you made your way over to the kitchen. The cooks had already left and a lanky red-haired boy was the only one still there, washing dishes and listening to music on an mp3 player. The metallic sound in his headphones echoed through the peacefully quiet kitchen. He almost jumped two feet into the air when you approached from the side, bowls in your hand.

“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me! Jesus Christ.” He pressed a wet hand to his chest, the suds leaving a dark print on his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how not to scare you, music and all. Sorry.” Both of you had to laugh and he held his dripping hands out for your dirty bowls.

“Don’t worry, I just wasn’t expecting anyone this late. You just come back from a mission?”

“Just a patrol run.”

You leaned against the counter and watched him clean the dishes.

“Anything exciting happen?” His eyes were bright and excited. He was even younger than he had looked at first, he couldn’t be older than 15. “My brother is on patrols too. Maybe you know him, his name is Danny.”

You crossed your arms and tried to remember the face that matched that name. Danny had been on patrol with Owen for a while when you had first arrived, but now he was stationed on some outpost and you hadn’t seen him for a long time.

“Yeah, I think I do. He’s not here at the moment, right?”

“He’s at the Serevena Hotel. I may be able to visit him there soon, depending on how my training goes.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Training to be a soldier?”

“Of course.” He stood up straight. “I want to do my part, protect our people. Fight the scars.”

You didn’t really know how to respond to that. Even though you were thankful the WLF had taken you in and even though you had also participated in rigorous training from the first day on, soon being cleared for missions, you didn’t really have the same loyalty and faith for the organization. The seraphites were your enemies now, of course, but they were just people. You all were. Sometimes you wondered how it could have come to this - so few people left on this earth and here you were, slaughtering each other.

“I hope you can visit your brother soon.” You let your arms fall to the side and turned to leave. “Thanks for the dishes.”

“No problem,” he mumbled, putting his headphones back in.

You were in no rush to get to your room and so you took a few detours, passing the gym which was filled with quite a lot of people getting their training in after work. You looked into empty classrooms, trying to decipher what was written on the board. Would Sierra have studied here? Sat in the front, eager to learn the things you hadn’t been able to teach her? What if you had come here earlier, before it all happened? Could they have protected her better than you had? She would probably be walking next to you now, telling you about her day.

When you finally arrived at your room, you just quickly grabbed a towel, a clean shirt, and some shorts and headed for the showers. The hot water seemed to help somewhat. You wondered what Abby was up to right now. Probably getting drunk and having fun. Was she the type of person who danced? You had never seen her dance before. Maybe Nora would persuade her. There it was again, that heavy, pulling feeling. You turned the water off, got dressed, and went straight to bed. Enough heartache for one day.

You woke up confused, not knowing where you were at first. It was pitch black and there was some kind of noise outside. You reached around you and finally found the flashlight next to your pillow, turning it on and trying to wipe the sleep from your eyes. What was going on?

It had to be after midnight. The lights in the stadium were only on from 5.30 am to 10 pm in order to save power. You untangled yourself from your sheets and got on your feet, swaying a little. There it was again, that strange scratching noise accompanied by a quiet mumbling sound. It wasn’t directly at your door but seemed to come from further down the corridor. There were a few other people living down here in storerooms and sectioned hallways.

Yawning, you walked to the door and opened it ever so slightly, pressing the flashlight to your thigh in order to keep the light down at first. You couldn’t see anything, so you waved the flashlight around the corridor. Your stomach dropped.

At the far end of the hallway, a small figure stood in front of one of the doors, trying to open it to no avail. Small hands scratched at the wood, quiet brabbling reached your ears. This was wrong. Very wrong. The figure hadn’t noticed the light yet. It went on to the next door, trying the door handle and whining in frustration when it didn’t open.

Why didn’t the people inside wake up from the noise? You stood frozen as the figure tried the next door. It was a child, dressed in dotted pyjamas. Its blonde hair was shoulder length and tangled in knots. You slowly pushed your door open wider in order to step out into the corridor. Suddenly, the hinges squeaked and the sound echoed through the hallway.

The child slowly turned toward you. Blood was dripping from its mouth, its eyes were cold. It took a step toward you. You looked down and realized you were holding a gun. Oh. Right. Infected. You were supposed to shoot them.

As the kid made another strange brabbling sound, more blood ran down the front of the cotton pyjama shirt. You raised the flashlight with shaky fingers and aimed it right at the child's face.

Your blood froze in your veins. No. This couldn’t be. You had taken care of her, you had made sure she wouldn’t… wouldn’t turn into one of these… No, you had given her a peaceful ending.

“Sierra.” Your voice was raspy, quiet with terror. “Sierra, what are you doing here, baby?”

She growled. A horribly wrong sound, coming from someone so small and so lovely. Only she wasn’t lovely anymore. She was sick. Infected.

“Sierra!” You spoke louder now, your voice pleading. “Baby, please don’t do that. It’s me, see?” You raised the flashlight to light your own face for a moment. When you put it back on her, she had stopped walking. Her face was a mask of ice-cold fury. When she spoke, her voice rattled like nails in a metal box, rough like chalk on board.

“Y/N… Why?

You sank to your knees.

“Oh baby, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry Siri, I was so helpless. I didn’t know, I didn’t…”

“You… killed… me.”

She was getting dangerously close now and all of a sudden you could smell her, too. Foul, dead, vile. The smell of sickness and decay. You raised the gun, a war raging between your head and your heart.

“Sierra, stop. Stop.” Tears were streaming down your face. “Please stop, Siri. Don’t come any closer. Stop, stop! Please stop!”

Your little baby sister was so close that you could have reached out a hand and brushed through her hair. You stood up and took a step back.

“I’m gonna have to shoot you if you don’t step back. You’re infected, Siri. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you can’t, please Sierra. Don’t, please don’t…”

She hissed at you and lurched forward. A shot rang through the air and the girl fell to the floor right before you, her tiny body at your feet, blood slowly pooling around her head. You dropped the gun and it clattered on the concrete floor. You clapped your hands to your mouth and screamed into your palms, crying out again and again, trying to gasp for air. It felt like your heart was being torn in two.

Suddenly there was a hand on your shoulder. You whirled around, but there was only darkness. You let yourself fall to the floor and kept weeping into your hands. Someone gripped your wrists and shook them slightly. You opened your eyes.

Abby was sitting on the side of your bed, her face right above yours and full of worry. You shook your head, frantically looking around your room for any kind of danger. The room was almost dark, light just seeping through the crack under the door. It was still early in the night.

“Y/N? Hey, hey. You’re okay.” Abby slowly let go of your wrists. “You had a nightmare. You’re okay now, I’m here.”

You were still too terrified to speak, so you just scooted further to the side and grabbed Abby’s hand, giving her a pleading look. She understood immediately, kicking off her shoes and climbing into bed next to you, holding out her arm for you to crawl into. You pressed yourself to her side and rested your head on her chest, feeling yourself tremble in her arms. She just held you for a while, letting you listen to her heartbeat until your own body began to calm down.

“Hi,” you whispered into the dim room. Abby stroked your hair while she held you tightly.

“Hey there,” she mumbled back. “Feeling better?”

“Not really.” You looked up at her. She smelled faintly of alcohol and something sweet. “How was your party?”

The corner of her mouth twitched.

“It was absolute chaos. I had to escape from there before it could consume me. And I also had someone to check on.” She squeezed your shoulder. You cringed at the thought of her finding you like this, writhing and talking in your sleep, crying out or even fighting her without knowing who was in front of you. You had always had horrible nightmares and Sierra had taken the brunt of them, waking you countless nights and trying to stay brave when you yelled at her or shoved her away in the first moments of consciousness, not yet fully back in the real world. Now that she was gone, they were a hundred times worse. You pressed your forehead to Abby’s shoulder.

“Did I scream?”

“Not really. I just knocked a few times and then I heard you talking, and you sounded so panicked that I thought I should make sure… I’m sorry I just came in like that.”

You shook your head.

“No, don’t. Thank you for waking me. It was… God, I hate this.”

Abby’s fingers combed through your hair, massaging your scalp. It was heavenly.

“Does this happen a lot?”

You snorted involuntarily.

“Every night. Several times. I never sleep through and I never sleep enough.” You wiped a hand over your face. “Sorry, I know I’m not the only one and it could be worse. It’s just… hard.”

“Excuse me?” Abby’s tone made you look up at her. “You’re telling me you have several panic attacks in your sleep every night but it’s fine because others have nightmares, too?”

You frowned. Panic attacks? You’d never thought of it that way.

“Y/N, you’re allowed to complain. To me especially. Remember, we wanted to talk about our problems? Be open about all this?”

She was right. You pressed yourself closer to her.

“I guess, yeah. Thank you for… for being here.”

“Wanna tell me about your nightmare?”

You held onto Abby’s shirt, clenching the fabric in your fist as if she might be ripped from you at any moment.

“I don’t know… I mean, why not. Well…” How were you even supposed to explain all this? How would you ever talk about your sister without freaking out again?

Abby pressed a kiss to the top of your head and you felt the tension in your stomach dissolve. You took a deep breath.

“I can never tell I’m dreaming. This time I thought I heard something in the corridor and I went to see what it was. A little girl was scratching on doors, trying to get in. She looked like the… like one of the infected we ran into today. But I made a noise and when she turned around she was... She was -” You gasped for air, trying to keep your calm. Abby hummed softly, stroking your back and giving you time to think.

“She had the face of my sister. Sierra.” You hadn’t said her name out loud in so long, only in the nightmares. Maybe it was time to rid her name of that terror, that fear, and grant it the love and warmth it deserved. “Sierra was my little sister. We ran with a group the last few years, stayed with them after our mom died. But she was bitten and I had to… I had to let her go.” You swallowed hard. Abby’s thumb drew circles on your back.

“So in the dream… the girl turned around and she was her . And I didn’t know what to do. I begged her to stop, to not come any closer because she was infected, she was bleeding, and -” You drew in another breath and buried your face in Abby’s chest. “She asked me why I’d done it, why I had… and she kept coming and then she attacked me and I - I had to, I had to shoot her.”

Hot tears were burning in your eyes and your throat was impossibly tight again. Abby gently placed a hand on your cheek and turned your face up toward her.

“I’m not gonna tell you it was just a dream because I know it's more complicated than that. I get them, too, sometimes. But what I can tell you is that I’m here, that you’re safe now, that your sister is in a better place and that one day you will be able to speak about her without feeling like you’re falling apart.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it. And now you're with me. We can heal together. I’m here, I’ll always be here for you, okay?”

You raised your head from her chest and turned a little in order to get face to face with her.

“Abby?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you doing this? Why now? I didn’t even think you liked me. You don’t have to take care of me.”

Abby’s features softened and she huffed out a silent laugh.

“I don’t know. I really… You were right when you said we keep everything to ourselves. But some of us do it more than others. And I guess I’m the worst when it comes to showing what I want.”

The sentence hung in the air for a moment. Abby took a deep breath.

“I like you, I really do. I just thought you needed more time. I know what it’s like to suffer and to feel like you can’t breathe. I wanted to give you space. But then I saw you in the car and I immediately knew what was happening. And I finally realized that I wouldn’t make things better by staying away.”

She held your gaze and you felt something shift between you. Her hand on your back came to a halt. You smiled softly.

“I always thought you didn’t find me interesting enough to talk to me. I was so jealous of the others for being this close to you and for making you laugh. I wanted that, too.”

“You’re the most interesting person that’s ever walked into this stadium,” Abby said softly. “God, I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to feel left out.”

You rested your head back on her shoulder.

“You made it up to me already. Really, you saved me today. Twice.”

Abby chuckled.

“Just wait until I have my next breakdown and then you can return the favor. Shouldn’t be long, they get to me every few days.”

You wrapped your arms around her torso.

“Well, then you’ll just have to stay close by.”

She hesitated, holding her breath for a second. You waited.

“Do you want me to stay? Tonight?”

You smiled to yourself.

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

You kept talking for a while. Abby told you about the party and about the cook Nora was currently hooking up with, and you told her about the boy in the kitchen. She recalled training with Danny when she first joined the WLF, laughing about how he had boasted that he wouldn’t lose to a girl and how she had him on the ground in a headlock in about two seconds.

At some point you must have fallen asleep, because the next thing you knew you were in the truck again, sitting in the passenger seat as the car flew through Seattle at top speed. You looked over and in the driver's seat there was the red-haired boy from the kitchen. His face was determined, a hard mask of concentration. He was panting hard, driving as fast as he could. Arrows were flying around you, soaring through the broken windows of the car and missing you by mere inches. A horse was whinnying. Scars. You immediately pulled out your gun and started shooting at everything that moved outside, hitting at least three people and a horse.

“Sorry,” you whispered as you reloaded. Animals weren’t fair.

You looked up and suddenly there was someone standing in the middle of the street. A small girl, brown-haired and in a red dress. Her back was to you. You screamed at the driver, but it was too late. The truck hit the child and it was thrown against the windshield, making a horrible noise as it cracked the glass and rolled over the roof to the back of the car where it fell to the ground. The truck came to a shrieking halt and you jumped out, gun drawn. The scars had vanished. You and the redhead ran back to where the girl was laying in a heap on the street, so small and fragile. Blood was running through the cracks in the pavement.

You turned the girl on her back and froze when you saw her face.

“Sierra! No, no, no, oh god no, what have we done - Sierra, Sierra, baby, look at me!”

“Y/N!” You heard your name but Sierra’s lips weren’t moving. “Y/N!” You whipped your head around and woke up.

It was dark and Abby had an arm wrapped around you, the other was holding your cheek. You swallowed and struggled for air.

“I’ve got you, hey, just breathe for me, I’ve got you.” Abby’s voice was sleepy and rough, something you'd have never thought you’d have the privilege of hearing. It calmed you down instantly. You dug your fingers into her arm, strong muscle flexing beneath your touch.

“Shhh, that’s right, just hold on. You’re okay.” You melted into her arms, hands and legs still shaking. She made a quiet humming noise in the back of her throat and pressed another kiss to your scalp. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you. I’m here.”

“You’re here,” you whispered and she hummed again in response. You rested your head against her chest and listened to her breaths as they slowly became more regular, chest steadily moving against you. Her heartbeat thumped softly in your ear. Cocooned in the wolf’s arms and serenaded by the quiet symphony of her sleeping body, you finally drifted off to sleep again.

#abby anderson #abby tlou #abby tlou2 #abby anderson fic #fanfiction #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #angst/comfort #angst/fluff #manny tlou #wlf #washington liberation front #abby anderson / reader #abby/reader

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theaceofskulls · 2 years

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Okay this is the last one for now, but I’m chewing on the other Eisenhorn books, the absolutely fantastic The Infinite and the Divine (I’m not done with it but seriously, even if you’re not a 40k fan, do yourself a favor and go read about those gay robots and their weird divorced couple energy across space and time), and of course, the palate cleanser of 40k, the Ciaphas Cain novels, so you can expect more of these in the future.

Anyways, this time it’s Ghazghkull Thraka: Prophet of the Waagh!

Did I intentionally set two series back to back that both have Prophets as their central character? No, but I’m happy it turned out that way.

This is a story that is carried by it’s framing device: the story being told of the great ork warboss being told to a very radical Inquisitor via translation from Makari the Grot, Ghazghkull’s most constant companion.

It’s a fantastic use of unreliable narration in every way which does a great job of showing cultural disconnects between humanity and orks as well as orks and grots.

I’ll admit that even though I like 40k orks, I’ve never liked the fact that like a lot of 40k, they’re locked into an alignment, which is Always Chaotic Evil. This story doesn’t go out of its way to change that, but it doesn’t 100% lean into it. It tries to understand the orks in a way but never attempts to fully humanize them, and I think it works out for the best.

The book is funny at times, reads in part like tall tales mixed with second hand accounts, and a blend of half truths. Ghazghkull himself feels distant, the narrative only rarely allowing us to see more than he purposefully presents himself as, and the odd cast sitting around the story are insanely easy to get invested in, from the Space Wolf shaman on permanent loan to the Inquisitor, the psycker Ogryn lady who bucks every stereotype, or the translating ork who presents an edge of danger despite his unnaturally calm demeanor.

The plot itself in the story feels like a straightforward, if oddly delivered, retelling of Ghazghkull’s story with only a few cracks from his wiki page being smoothed over or filled in, but with such flavor and personality that it justifies itself. The mysterious nature of orks and whatever is going on with the Prophet really serve to draw you in as you get closer and closer to some unknown truth behind it all, just tantalizingly out of reach.

This is not a complicated book and there’s not a lot to discuss that the book itself doesn’t already lay out without spoiling its more clever twists, so instead I’ll point to some fun bits of fluff from the book to leave off with.

Orks, despite being asexual beings, have a concept of biological sex but also loan the concept of gender, and the book early on goes out of its way to establish correct pronouns. While this is probably just used to establish the fact that the title character has always been referred to with he/him, it’s still interesting to see it be brought up in universe and then to note that at least via translation, they/them tends to be a default for several orks. (Side note, this brings up my biggest pet peeve with orruk in Age of Sigmar where rather than confirming the fungus thing, they refuse to elaborate at all but like every other franchise with orcs in them has moved on from male-only)

And my other fun detail to leave off with is that Makari relates the idea of a grod, an ork’s favorite enemy, to the closest concept an ork has to love (which is translated as “the word for when you like someone enough it makes you stupid). This is further expanded upon when an ork wants to make sure their ship is confirmed by asking if Yorrick ever talks about how much he hates Ghazghkull too.

#warhammer 40k #ace's bookclub reviews

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rhysismydaddy · 3 years

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Unholy Matrimony Pt. 5 (Nessian)

Damnation Series

Parts 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

____________________________________________________________

~Cassian~

A week later, I’m exceptionally proud to say I haven’t given in yet. No matter how much I want to.

Tensions the past seven days have been... high, to say the least.

Both of us are doing our absolute best to drive the other insane.

She’s doing it so I either sign the deed and give in or turn to someone else, both which would give her Sera back.

I’m doing it because if I have to suffer, she can bet her pretty ass she does, too.

Ironically, tonight’s our engagement party. A celebration of our undying love and an announcement to the world the Russians and Italians of New York should no longer hate and murder each other.

They’re allowed to be sexually frustrated as hell, but no, they can’t kill each other.

I’m waiting for the little minx who’s spent the week making me regret ever even asking for the club, drinking bourbon so I’m too drunk to even be tempted by her--which is likely enough to kill me--when she finally deigns to grace me with her presence.

I take one look at her, starting at the high blonde ponytail that would wrap around my fist at least twice and ending at the very high, very red shoes I immediately want by my shoulders.

“Fuck.”

Obviously the reaction she was looking for, she smiles.

Her dress is a cream color thing that clings to her curves and is short enough to showcase her long legs. It’s somehow classy, while low enough to draw my eyes to her breasts as she comes down the stairs towards me.

Nesta stops right before me, close enough I smell the jasmine and vanilla of her skin, and looks at me through her lashes.

I turn my gaze to the ceiling, vowing to keep it there until I trust myself to not do something stupid like tell her she’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m so fucked,” I mutter hopelessly.

If possible, she comes closer, sliding all the interesting, female parts of her against me. “You would be if you just gave me back my shit.”

I glare down at her. “I don’t like to lose.”

“Would you really be losing?”

I keep my mouth shut, because the answer to that question is a big fat no. God, she’s good.

“Tell me again why you refuse to put us out of our misery?” I ask in return, trying to remind myself who the fuck I am.

Even though I wonder if it is our misery. I can’t read her, can’t tell if this is affecting her like it is me.

She gives me a cold look. “What do you see happening after we get married, exactly? You think you’ll work a few hours at the club I spent three years building from the ground up, come home and eat a home cooked meal, then fuck your complacent little wife however you want?”

I have no idea what to say, because when she puts it like that, I sound like the biggest douche in the world.

Nesta sees the hesitation in my eyes and rolls hers. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I allow you to disrespect me like that, stronzo.”

“I respect you,” I say immediately, meaning the words.

“Just not enough to value my career.”

“Nesta-”

“Deal with it. If you somehow keep the board from voting you out in the next two weeks and manage to not sleep with me--which is unlikely, considering the way you look at me--the club will be yours.” She takes a step back, steeling her spin. “But I will not.”

I’m conflicted as hell, torn between wondering if she’s just playing me or being sincere.

Apparently done with the verbal smackdown, Nesta spins towards the door.

Hand on the handle, she turns back around and cocks her head. And then she answers the questions I hadn’t realized I’d been too scared to ask.

“No and yes.”

My brows raise. “What?”

“No, it hasn’t all been just me trying to mess with you. Yes, I want you as much as you want me. But I respect myself too much to allow someone who blazes into my life and steals something from me without a care or even a real negotiation to have my body, too.”

She walks out the door, leaving me standing in the living room stunned.

I eventually follower her down to the garage and we leave for the party Rhys is hosting for us downtown. But even though I go through the motions once we arrive, my mind is on the woman next to me the entire night.

I hate admitting it, but she’s right.

I took something that belonged to her, didn’t even question talking to her first, then acted like she was in the wrong for doing whatever she could to get it back.

I’ve said I like how strong and independent she is, but I tried to take that independence and turn her into something else. I bulldozed my way into her life, then acted like I was the one inconvenienced by it.

And seriously, why am I even fighting for this place? Yeah, I like it and think it’s unique, but the place is above board. Which to me translates as boring.

The past two weeks, I’ve had to go to investment meetings, deal with sending out the nightly invitations for entrance, and plan events for upcoming holidays. Things I never do with my other properties.

I hate managing things--I hire people to do that kind of thing for me. But I know I can’t hire someone, because who the hell besides my fiancé would do the job right?

No one.

I realize that on the drive home, and it gets me thinking. By the time we’re inside the apartment, I’m already mentally finalizing the details.

I tell her I have to take care of something, go to my office, and close the door.

Then I pull up the marriage contract, along with the deed to Sera, and hit print.

~Nesta~

A week after our engagement party, I realized I’ve started to lose hope.

Cassian’s managed to wrangle or bribe or threaten the board into not voting him out, and the employees have stopped calling me to ask when I’m coming back. He hasn’t touched me or tried to seduce me in six days--probably a record for him--and I start to feel like I’ve lost.

My club will be his in a week, and after we’re married, only him signing the deed over will get it back. Something that will never happen, considering it’d be a serious hit to his pride to do something as weak as give me what’s rightfully mine.

My club will be his, but like I said, I won’t.

Which honestly is just as upsetting.

Even though he’s a stubborn, boneheaded stronzo with a big enough ego for us both, it’s hard for me to overlook the moments of the past three weeks that haven’t revolved around Sera.

Little moments that have made it harder for me to pull away from him.

He’s made me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met, whether with his foul sense of humor or stories about his violent, wild childhood. He stopped leaving the toilet seat up when I pointed it out. He hasn’t said a word about me ordering take-out all the time or working in bed while he tries to sleep.

He even dealt with one of Alexei’s buyers for me when they tried to renegotiate the price originally agreed upon.

And he hasn’t really pressed the celibacy thing. Sure, he’s complained about it enough for me to want to smack him, but I don’t know any other Made Men, Russian or Italian, that would’ve respected my wish after how much I’ve teased him.

If he would just-

I cut that train of thought off and focus on the report in front of me, because at this point, it’s obvious he won’t.

I sip my wine, which is starting to grow on me, and look over shipment records from one of Alexei’s yards, flagging crates that need to be smuggled instead of brought in through the main channels. Repressing a groan at the thought, I realize I’ll have to go down one night this week and make sure they arrive without problem.

I take another long pull from my glass.

“Drinking to forget?” Cassian asks, leaning in the doorway of the bedroom and looking me over.

I shrug, not much in the mood for banter.

“I got you something.”

Sighing, I reply, “Yeah, me too. It’s on the nightstand.”

His brow furrows as he walks over and picks up the ring box, opening it to look at the titanium band inside.

Just another symbol of our lifelong, happy, sexless marriage.

He puts the ring back in the box and extends a hand. “It isn’t a ring.”

“What is it?”

“Get your ass out of bed and find out.”

I would, except I don’t want to. And I don’t really want whatever stupid, materialistic thing he’s bought me-

He closes my laptop and pulls the cover back, ducking when I swing a fist towards his head. “Violent little wolf,” he teases.

“Stop calling me that,” I demand, trying in vain to keep the blanket on me so he can’t tell I’m not wearing anything underneath the t-shirt I stole from him.

He pauses, sighs, and scoops me up, blanket and all. “I love watching you fight how much you love me calling you that.”

“I don’t have to fight anything except he overwhelming urge to smack you.”

Cassian just huffs, walking us out of the room, through the living room, and into his office. Then he puts me down, smacks my butt to get me moving, and grunts when I elbow him in the ribs.

“Maybe this will fix your bad mood,” he mutters, flipping the light switch on and bathing the office in golden light.

I take an involuntary step forward, eyebrows going high on my forehead.

I’ve only been in here once before, just long enough to notice the obnoxiously big desk and wall of windows behind it. I’d taken in the black leather couch and wing-backed chairs, determined it was a typical male office for a typical male, and vowed to work somewhere else.

But that was a while ago, and it’s obvious he’s done some home improvement.

There are decidedly now two desks in the corners near the windows, angled in to the middle of the room where two cream-colored leather chairs sit. The desks are identical, mahogany and classic without being ostentatious.

A rug covers the hardwood floors, a deep maroon color that matches small details throughout the room.

It’s beautiful.

Cassian leads me with his hands on my shoulders to one of the desks, and I let him guide me around to the chair and push me down in the soft leather.

I look up to ask him what this is about, but he jerks his chin to the desk where to two papers lie.

One is the deed to Sera.

A rush of surprise goes through me as I see he’s transferred the building back over to me, even going so far as to deem the process irreversible. It’s signed and dated a week ago, the night of our engagement party.

My eyes are shiny as I look at the other document and read through it.

“What is this?”

“A partnership, of sorts,” Cassian explains, leaning a hip on the- my desk like he did in his Capo’s office. “You’re now a partner at my businesses, and if you sign, I’ll be yours.”

My eyes find his, and I see that he’s serious but still choke out, “What?”

He smiles and shrugs, like signing over half of your life’s work is easy. “You had me pegged when you first saw me and figured out I’m a fighter. I hate everything about running a business except the in-person negotiating and knitty gritty shit. It’s boring to me, and while I can do it, I’m not nearly as good at it as you are.”

“Cassian-”

“So run them both. I’ll do the day to day shit I know you hate, and you’ll do the rest.”

I can’t hardly process what he’s saying.

“What if we disagree?” It’s a valid question, considering we’ve basically been fighting the entire time we’ve been engaged.

“We talk about it and try to figure it out. And if we can’t, the original owner has the final call and veto power in all situations.” His eyes say he knows how important it is to me as he says, “You’ll still be in control of your property, and I’ll still be in control of mine.”

I don’t know why I’m still asking questions, because it sounds great, but there’s one more thing I want to know.

“Why?”

He sighs, sitting on the desk fully and looking down at me with open, honest eyes. “Because I’m tired of doing this shit alone. I’m tired of going to work and dealing with every single thing and then coming home and having no one who understands.”

He looks out the window, shoulders tight. “I thought you’d be like my friends’ wives, which is why I was such an ass. I thought you’d be just another thing for me to take care of, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to realize you could be my partner, not just my wife.”

His eyes are back on mine, the heat in them making my heart pound. “I’m sorry, Nesta. I’m sorry I stole Sera in the first place, then refused to hear you out and give it back. I have a tendency to be a little stubborn.”

My lips twitch, and his eyes soften at the sight.

“But what you said about respecting yourself stuck. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t respect you, because I do. You’re smarter than me, cool when I’m rash, and have the mind for business I never have.” He smiles softly. “I know you’re just as alone as me, and just as tired of it. So say yes.”

I feel a smile on my face as I get to my feet, moving to stand between his thighs. “Are you just doing this so I’ll sleep with you?”

He sighs, dropping his head in shame to rest against my chest. “You caught me.”

My arms wrap around his shoulders, his going around my waist, and I use the opportunity to play in his hair. It’s so soft and curly, and he makes a content sound as I run my hands through it.

“Are you saying yes, little wolf?” he murmurs against my collarbone, dropping his head to rub his face across my breasts.

I roll and tug his hair to keep the randy bastard away. “Yes, pervert, I’m saying yes.”

Cassian smiles a big, goofy smile so ridiculously charming I lean in and kiss him.

His hands lock at my waist, resting on the curve of my back, and for a moment, he just lets me kiss him.

It isn’t our first kiss by any means, but it’s the first one where neither of us have ulterior motives, so I take my time.

I kiss his top lip, his bottom lip. Find I like them both equally.

My hands work across his shoulders, the thick muscles contracting under my hands, and I sigh his name.

Cassian’s hands fist in the fabric of my pajamas--which happen to still be his shirt--and draws me closer. He kisses my neck, inhaling deeply.

“You smell so fucking good,” he mutters, biting down softly and making me gasp. “It drives me crazy.”

His hands slip to the back of my thighs, then I’m on his lap, knees on the desk next to his hips. “You drive me crazy,” he clarifies.

He kisses me again, hands sliding up my thighs to my ass to grind me against him. Callouses scrape against my skin as he sweeps the shirt off and tosses it behind me.

“Shit,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to take me in.

The fact that he’s still fully dressed while I’m in nothing but my underwear makes me feel even more exposed, doing strange things to my mind. I start unbuttoning his shirt while he kisses down my chest.

He teases one with his hand while he takes the other in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak. I squirm, pressing my hips more fully against is, but he holds me still, kissing and teasing me until I can’t take it anymore.

“Cassian,” I murmur, tugging his hair to pull his gaze to mine. “Thank you for the desk. I love it.”

His brows furrow, and I can see him start to think about how much I’ve teased him, but before he can worry that’s what I’m doing, I whisper, “Now fuck me on it. Please.”

A muscle in his jaw flickers, and his fingers dig into the flesh of my hips.

Before I can say another word, he stands and spins us around, sliding me on the desk. He holds my thighs around his hips, and then an idea seems to dawn.

“Wait right here.”

“Seriously?” I ask, even though he’s already half-way out of the room.

“Don’t you dare fucking move!” is the shouted response.

I roll my eyes, but he’s back quickly, holding the red stilettos I wore to our engagement party. I howl with laughter, and a faint blush colors his cheeks, but he stays firm in his desire and puts them on the floor beside my feet.

Then he leans against the window and watches while I slip them on.

His golden eyes blaze as I lean back on my elbows and slowly spread my thighs, in nothing but lace panties and heels.

“I’ll buy you all the desks you want, if you sit on them like that.”

Laughter bubbles out of me, and he’s suddenly on me, leaning over me to kiss me in a frenzy.

I rip his shirt open, and he doesn’t even break the kiss as he throws it to the floor. I hear the telltale clink of a belt, and then he stands up to slide my panties down, grab my legs, and guide them up.

I feel him brush over the center of me, instinctively lifting my hips to give him a better angle.

But he doesn’t give me what I want.

Cassian just stands there, gaze gliding from the hells on his shoulders to the apex of my thighs.

“Hold that thought,” he mutters, dropping to his knees and putting his mouth on me before I can even blink.

My back leaves the desk, a gasp escaping me.

“Cassian.”

“I want you to come on my tongue, then you get to come on my cock.”

“Cassian.”

He hums, the sensation sending shivers down my spin. He kisses me like he’s doing it for him, not me, mouth on every part of me it can reach.

I can see the lines of his tattoos on his shoulders, the top of his curly hair. It’s too much to handle, so I just lay back down on the desk and throw my hands above my head to hold on to the edge of the desk.

The only time he stops is to tell me things that apparently can’t wait five minutes, but I don’t even care because every word out of that sinful mouth makes me burn hotter.

“Come for me,” he demands breathlessly a few minutes later.

“Don’t boss me around,” I groan, even as I do exactly what he wants.

He lets me ride it out, dropping kisses to my thighs and stomach and hips.

As soon as I catch my breath, he’s on his feet, putting me in the exact position I was in earlier.

And then he’s pushing inside me, and I honestly almost come again from the feel alone. “Thank God,” I groan, the past three reminding me of the misery teasing him put me through.

“Fucking hell, you’re perfect.”

Hands on my thighs, he holds me in place as he starts to move. But as he picks up speed, going harder with each thrust, his hands have to slip to my thighs to keep me still.

I say his name, sounding like I’m begging him for something, and he groans. His head’s thrown back, bare skin shining and making him look likesome sort of beautiful devil.

“Hurry up, little wolf,” he almost pleads.

The sound of that stupid fucking nickname does me in, and I come with a loud moan. I would’ve kicked him in the head if he hadn’t immediately dropped down on top of me to kiss me without abandon.

His hips still but he keeps kissing me until he has to break for air.

I’m boneless and limp beneath him, and he looks me over with male satisfaction.

Then his mouth drops open, betrayal in his eyes, and he says, “I just realized you didn’t speak even French! All these weeks of me fucking fantasizing about that... well, I guess we’ll just have to do it again.”

“Accorde moi un instant,” I pant in French, asking for a moment.

He grins down at me. “Take your time. We have a lifetime.”

My lips twitch, and I don’t stifle the urge to smile.

I’m about to say something, but then his expression turns serious. “You realize I have to fuck you on my desk now. Equality and whatnot.”

I laugh and pull his mouth to mine. “As long as you know I’m still not giving you my side of the bed.”

He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth. “We can share.”

We get married seven days later, surrounded by a crowd of family, dirty politicians, thieves, drug and arms dealers, and friends.

In the past week, we’ve solidified our business model to a thing of perfection. I handle public relations, real estate and development, and negotiations for the shipping business. Cassian handles both the Bratva and Cosa Nostra soldiers in New York, training new recruits, drug distribution, and negotiations for the arms business.

Basically, I do what I’m good at, and he does what he’s good at.

I know it’s ridiculous to trust someone with half my business after only a month of knowing them, but like Cassian said, I was tired of doing this shit alone.

I’d been dreading the future, dreading taking over and doing everything myself. And now I don’t have to.

I have him to lean on, him to trust.

Looking up, I notice him watching me as we dance, not at all paying attention to the crowd. “What are you thinking about, little wolf?”

“I’m thinking how I thought of this marriage as nothing but an alliance at first. I guess it still is that, but... it’s also more.” He spins us around to the music, watching me with a knowing expression. “You’re more to me than that. And I’m... I’m happy. Working with you and the thought of our future makes me happy.”

He smiles.

“You love me,” he states with quiet confidence.

My heart starts pounding, because I’ve never told a living person that before.

But it’s never been true before, and it is now, so I respond steadily, “I do.”

“I love you, too, Nesta Orlov. Have since the moment I saw you.” He sounds so relaxed about it, the words falling from his lips so easily.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” I ask, not understanding how he’s the calm one all of a sudden.

“Anything you love something, there’s the risk you could lose it or it could hurt you.” Cassian brushes a thumb over my cheek. “But I could never be scared to love you.”

I shake my head and start to say something, but he cuts me off.

“Every morning, when you wake up, there’s this little moment where you look around, confused. And then you look at me, and that hesitation in your eyes just... melts.” He dips me, wrapping his arms tight around me. “You look at me like you trust me, and love me, and want me.”

He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “That look is worth every risk and hardship and whatever else loving someone entails.”

I kiss him back as he brings us to standing. “Italians are such saps.”

He shows off the smile I’ve realized he only gives me, and I say the words I know he needs to hear just as badly as I did. “I love you, Cassian. You’re worth the risk, too.”

______________________________________________________

THANK U FOR READINGGG soft ending for the win

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #acotar #acosf #acowar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fanfiction #nessian archeron

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miraculouswolf99 · 3 years

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Field Trip To Greece

My own take on the Field Trip salt stories that usually are crossovers with Batman and have Damienette. But this is my version with them going to Greece and involves my OCs Lyon and Vallia Garden.

*****

“Mari, Mari, MARI,” Adrien basically yelled into his friend’s ear.

Marinette woke up with a jolt in her bus seat.

“What,” she groaned, never being much of a morning person.

“We’re almost at the sanctuary, so I figured to wake you up,” Adrien smiled at his friend.

“Thanks and curse how fast this bus is,” Marinette said.

“And curse Hawkmoth for late night akumas,” Adrien suggested.

“That to,” Marinette agreed. “Even in Greece, he still finds a way to annoy us in Paris.”

“Well, you brought the horse miraculous for a reason,” Adrien said.

“How are you not tired,” Marinette questioned him.

“I’ve always been a morning person,” Adrien shrugged. “Blame my father for a lot of early morning photoshoots.”

“I’d slap your father if it did not mean risking my future as a fashion designer in the process,” Marinette says.

After revealing themselves to each other after Miracle Queen, the two had developed a more brother-sister relationship. They both thought that it would be better for them to know each other after having all their allies exposed to Hawkmoth and Mayura. They joked around, teased each other, and also always had each others backs.

Having each other’s backs certainly helped them when Lila’s lies got worse. After Chloe had willingly helped Hawkmoth, she had been sent to a private reformatory school in Sweden. Lila took the opportunity to tell more of her lies, saying that she had been telling her “best friend” Ladybug to keep the Bee miraculous away from Chloe for months. And just like everything else Lila ever said, their class ate it up like it was their last meal.

Adrien had joined Marinette almost immediately after he made his “deal with the devil” in order to get her back into school. He threw himself off the “high road” the moment that Marinette told him that Lila threatened her. But even with him backing up Marinette every time she caught inconsistencies in Lila’s tales, there were still few that actually believed them. Some even went as far as scolding Marinette for her “brainwashing Adrien” into thinking that Lila was a liar.

Kim, Juleka, and Nathaniel were the only ones that stayed loyal to their friends. Especially since Marinette had done so much for them in the past. Like curing Juleka of her photo curse, helping Nathaniel get together with Marc, and Kim had been her friend since they were in diapers. With their group was also Kagami, Luka, Marc, Aurore, and Mireille. The rest of Bustier’s class was pretty much made up of Lila’s attack dogs.

What annoyed Adrien the most was how his so-called best friend. Nino may be siding with his girlfriend, Alya being Lila’s biggest supporter/attack dog, but that also meant he was part of the problem. He certainly never helped Adrien when Lila would constantly hold onto his arm no matter how many times he told her to let go. It was driving Adrien crazy and he was very close to taking Plagg up on his offer to Cataclysm the liar.

“I bet the garden is going to be beautiful,” Juleka says, her seat next to the two heroes.

She was sitting next to Nathaniel while Kim was in the seat in front of Adrien and Marinette. They were all in the seats at the back of the bus.

“I heard that the Garden Family Sanctuary is ranked as an unofficial wonder of the world,” Nathaniel said.

“Anyone else find it odd that a nature sanctuary is run by a family with Garden as their last name,” Kim asked.

“I think this is one of those ‘don’t think about it too much’ times,” Marinette shrugged.

“I haven’t been here in years,” Adrien was glad to be back.

“You’ve been here before,” Juleka asked.

“There was a charity fashion show here about a year before my mother disappeared,” Adrien explained. “I was here with my parents for it.”

“Did you meet any of the animals here,” Kim looked excited. “I heard that they let any animals here roam free even when they have events or tours here.”

“The animals do roam around the sanctuary as they wish,” Adrien says. “But the Garden family and all their employees work hard to tame all their animals privately to make sure that even the predators do not harm anyone. They spend months to years taming them before releasing them into the main part of the sanctuary.”

“It really sounds like an amazing place,” Marinette said.

“I can’t wait to draw some of the animals,” Nathaniel already had out his sketchpad. “Marc requested I draw him the most amazing animal that I see. No pressure. Haha.”

Juleka patted his shoulder, but her obviously hiding her laughter made her attempt to comfort him fail.

But, as usual, their good moods had to be ruined by the Italian that never seemed to go five minutes without hearing the sound of her own voice. And, also as usual, she was spouting her nonsense. They were very close to throwing her out the back of the bus if she did not stop talking.

“Of course I know the Garden family,” Lila brags, lying through her teeth. “They are basically family to me.”

“Here we go again,” the five friends groaned.

“The mother and her two daughters mostly handle the plants,” Lila continues. “The father and their son handle the animals. It’s only natural since they are the only ones that can stomach having to put down the more dangerous animals.”

“Tell us more, Lila,” Alya was recording the entire time.

Adrien growled. “There has never been a case of an animal being put down at the sanctuary. The closest that comes to that is when an animal gets sick and there is nothing they can do to help it.”

“They have to put it out of its misery, don’t they,” Marinette asked.

Adrien nodded. “The youngest two Gardens speak fluent French, so I was able to spend some time with kids my own age during the fashion show. They told me that while it breaks their hearts, it is better than letting the animal suffer.”

“I can see where they come from for that,” Juleka says. “They love, take care of, and train all the animals. So it’s only natural that they form a bond with them.”

“I know I am not the brightest person in class, but how can they believe such crap,” Kim shook his head. “Whenever anyone even slightly mentions someone famous, she instantly says she is either best friends with them or somehow related to them. It’s impossible.”

“Tell that to the sheep that follow her around like she’s god’s gift to the world,” Marinette rolled her eyes.

“Makes you wonder if we really are the only ones in class with braincells,” Nathaniel, of all people, said.

The bus doors opened as it came to a full stop at the sanctuary. Bustier was the first out and the class followed her. They all first went into the sanctuary. And even from what little they could see from where they were, it already was one of the most beautiful places any of them have ever seen.

Trees, flowers, and even fruit and vegetable plants were growing as far as their eyes could see. The entire sanctuary also seemed to be covered by a glass dome, making an environment similar to a greenhouse. It made sense since there were probably plants in certain areas that needed to be grown in certain temperatures.

But today the dome’s windows were open, letting in the natural light of the sun, even if it looked like squares on the ground because of the dome’s window linings.

As Bustier lead them to a stop, two teen their age approached the group. Adrien recognized his two penpals. The ones he met in Greece when he was there for the fashion show. Lyon and Vallia Garden.

Vallia was quite beautiful and had a grace and elegance to her style. She had long blond hair braided with roses and butterflies and had pink streaks. Her eyes were a stunning silver that you could see, if you were close enough, had specks of blue in them. Her style was a red, pink, and purple dawn colored dress with gold flats. On her wrists were diamond rose cuff bracelets, a butterfly on the one on her right wrist.

Lyon gave off a very icy exterior that also screamed honor and loyalty that only a knight would have. A tall boy with hair that was black with streaks of white and blue in it, coming to the length of Adrien's. His eyes were the opposite of the girl's, blue with silver specks. His outfit of choice was a sky blue t-shirt under a white jean vest, matching the blue pants with white boots. On his hands were white fingerless gloves. Around his neck was a sword and shield pendant as well as a white cloak only going down to his knees.

They all also saw that the two did have crystal medallions on their foreheads. Vallia’s was a rose quartz butterfly and Lyon’s was a sapphire wolf.

“Your pen pals are hot, Adrien,” Marinette smirked as she saw her honorary brother staring at Lyon.

“Shut up,” Adrien grumbled, making Marinette giggle.

Bustier turns to the class. “These two are going to be our guides through the sanctuary. Please show them the proper amount of respect since they are the ones that work here.”

Lyon and Vallia gave the teacher the side-eye. While they technically did work there, their family owned the sanctuary and it was like Bustier had completely forgot about that and thought that they were just employees of the sanctuary.

“Shouldn’t we be guided by adults,” Mylene asked, trying not to sound offensive to the two teens.

“We’re your tour guides because we are the only ones here fluent in French,” Lyon told the class, his French flawless.

Adrien hid that he was chuckling behind his hand. He knew the twins were fluent, but the looks on his classmate’s faces when Lyon spoke in French was just so funny.

“Before we begin, let us introduce ourselves,” Vallia said, also switching to French. “My name is Vallia and this is my twin brother, Lyon.”

“Please also take note of a few rules of the sanctuary,” Lyon says. “While the animals here have been tamed, do not touch or interact with them without permission. Certain movements or actions could cause them to badly react. They are all also on specific diets, so do not feed them unless we give you food to give them.”

“The plants should also all remain untouched,” Vallia added. “There are certain plants here that are not native to the area and survive here only because we created the right environments for them. Especially the ghost orchid. There are barely even 2000 ghost orchid plants left in the world and they need to remain here so that they do not go extinct.”

Most of the class nodded, understanding the rules. Lila hid how annoyed she was at not being able to take whatever beautiful plant she wants or touch any cute animal that she sees.

The tour than began, the class following the twins deeper into the sanctuary. Already they were starting to see a ton of the animals that lived there. There were some animals of Greek origins. Such as brown bears, red deer, lynxes, rock lizards, weasels, and wild boar. There were also more international animals. Like white-tailed deer from North America, jaguars from South America, pandas from China, African panthers and lions, Indian tigers, horses from Canada, even komodo dragons from Indonesia. And that was just the beginning.

“The Garden Family Sanctuary was founded almost a hundred years ago by siblings Apollo and Persephone Garden,” Lyon says. “Having been named after the god of the healing and the goddess of flowers, they had always loved helping nature and animals.”

“They started out with an animal shelter that took in any and all animals,” Vallia continued for her brother. “They had a very clear rule about being a no-kill shelter. The more popular they became, the more room they needed. And since they already came from a rich family, they bought more land. And over the years, it grew into the sanctuary you see today.”

“With the amount of animals and plants coming, there has been chat about buying land on another island to expand the sanctuary,” Lyon said. “Which means more area to protect from smugglers and poachers.”

“Your French is very good,” Marinette compliments them.

“Thank you, we’ve had years of practice,” Vallia says.

“It helped when we hosted a few French fashion designers here a few years ago for a charity fashion show,” Lyon said.

Adrien caught the smirk that Lyon sent his way. It made the blond blush.

The group continued walking through the sanctuary. A few of the animals curiously looked at the group, but chose not to get near them. There were a few did cuddle up to the twins, who happily petted them before sending them away with a treat in their mouth.

But even as the twins tried to talk about the sanctuary, Lila was still telling her lies as the classmates not under her spell surrounded her. They listened to her more than they did their actual tour guides.

“Yeah, poachers and smugglers try to get in all the time,” she was saying. “The first time I was here, I saw one and tried to tell the employees and they didn’t believe me. They certainly did after I single-handedly stopped him from taking a rare blue tiger.”

“That is so cool, Lila,” Rose unknowingly encouraged more lying.

“They should make you a partner here if you caught a poacher that they did not even know was there,” Alya said.

“They wanted to, but my mother said I was too young to be part of a business,” Lila says.

Adrien saw the twins look at each other as they hear what is being said. He knew that while the two were mostly quiet around those they do not know, other than when they gave tours, they would definitely not take liars sitting down. They were extremely protective of their family, which was why Lyon practiced archery while Vallia is an expert with the bo-staff.

“The Garden family would never offer someone outside of the family a part of the sanctuary,” Lyon stated, making the class look at him.

“We would appreciate you not tell such tall tales about such a charitable family,” Vallia crossed her arms. “They are well-respected by all of Greece and do not deserve to have such lies told about them.”

The class looked very insulted at the accusation of Lila being a liar, which happened whenever anyone said that. It happened more than you think since Bustier’s class was the only one in the entire school that actually believed her. Everyone else knew that Lila was nothing but a liar.

“Something tells me that things are about to get interesting,” Juleka whispered to the rest of their group.

“You’re the one that knows them, Adrien,” Marinette says. “What do you think they’ll do?”

“I’ve been in contact with them for years,” Adrien said. “And from all I know about them, it’s a slight miracle that Lyon hasn’t already threatened to shoot her with an arrow.”

“Does he do that often,” Nathaniel raised an eyebrow.

“Only to those that really anger him, really annoy him, or threaten his family,” Adrien said. “But that last part also includes the sanctuary and all of the animals kept here.”

“Guess we should be thankful that he doesn’t have them on him right now,” Kim says. “Even if he could get rid of our liar problem with a single shot.”

“Lyon was actually scouted by the coach of the Greek Olympian archery team,” Adrien tells them. “But Lyon doesn’t like competition. He says that they are nothing but barbaric events meant to to do nothing but enlarge egos and decrease braincells.”

“Can are class even lose what they don’t have,” Marinette smirked.

All of them laughed at her joke. When Marinette got sassy and sarcastic, it was hilarious. She could sass-talk like nobody’s business.

“Haw dare you,” Lila put a hand over her heart and then started up the crocodile tears again. “How could you be so mean to me?”

That was when her sheep glared at the twins.

“Lila is not a liar,” Alya was her main supporter as usual. “You’re nothing but simple employees. I bet you do not even know the Garden family. Lila, on the other hand, is basically an honorary member of their family.”

Both twins crossed their arms this time, staring down the class.

“Let us fully introduce ourselves,” Lyon narrowed his eyes at them. “My name is Lyon Garden and this is my twin sister, Vallia Garden. Our family owns this sanctuary and neither of us nor the rest of their family have ever met this girl.”

Adrien was seriously smirking at this point. He had seen this coming and was very glad that it had finally was. Especially since Lila did not even get the number of family members right. There were two Garden parents, but the children were another story. Lyon and Vallia were the youngest of the family, but Vallia was the only girl and they had two older brothers.

“You’re probably just lying to make Lila look bad because you’re jealous,” Alix glared at the twins. “She’s connected to the Gardens while you are not.”

“Don’t believe us, we don’t care, but we do have a friend in your class that knows who we are,” Vallia giggled. “Isn’t that right, Adrien?”

The sheep looked at the model. He only smirked as he joined Lyon and Vallia’s side.

“You two certainly know how to make an impression,” Adrien tells them, chuckling.

“If we really wanted to make an impression, I would have started at my favorite wolf den,” Lyon snickered. “But I would have been too tempted to order my wolves to eat them.”

Adrien laughed at the looks of horror on his classmates’ faces.

“If you guys haven’t figured it out, it was my family that the twins were talking about before,” Adrien says. “We were the ones that came here for the charity fashion show. It was great to meet the two youngest members of the Garden family.”

“So these are the sheep that follow that liar like lost puppies,” Vallia looked at Adrien. “The liar that doesn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer?”

“Got it in one, Vallia,” Adrien says. “And she’s been telling lies about your family since this field trip started. She even said that your family was three girls and two boys.”

The twins rolled their eyes.

“Wow,” Lyon shook his head. “Vallia might wish she had a sister, it’s just us and our two older brothers with our parents.”

Vallia playfully slapped her brother’s shoulder.

While Adrien took his two friends over to the rest of his group to introduce them, the rest of the class finally seemed to get that Lila did indeed lie to them. They turned on her like lions on an antelope and started yelling at her for lying to them.

The twins made mental notes to contact their parents about needing to sue a girl for slander and defamation.

#ml salt #alya salt #lila salt #Lila exposed #original character #miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fandom

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admiral-alby · 3 years

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not to be years too late. but like. I’ve been rewatching teen wolf. and I just finished 6B finally (I followed TW very closely in its heydays and ultimately stopped watching after 6A). and I know we are all WELL aware of writing oversights, poorly done plot points, outright disregard for previously established lore, etc. but I’ve been thinking obsessively over this one instance that I just. need to share. under the cut for anyone that cares to listen I don’t promise I’ll make sense but food for thought and etc.

in the first few episodes (if not the first? I can’t remember don’t hate me I binged all 10 eps in two nights it’s all blended together rn) there’s a scene where Lydia visits her mom (the principle of BHHS) in her office and gives her a list of every supernatural in BH. presumably it’s a leftover of the whole dead pool thing but she wants her mother to have it to be prepared and have the knowledge so she can look out for the kids on the list. her mom rejects it and feels it’s not their responsibility etc etc and doesn’t want to take the list. Lydia slips the list in a drawer in her mom’s desk and we never think about it ever again.

well spoiler alert: I’m thinking about it. I’m mad about it, actually. honestly when I first saw the scene I thought. okay whatever as one would reasonably do. and then I started thinking about it. and thinking about it. and then I thought, oh wow, this is a set up. 100%.

with the new Hunter army emerging, Monroe spearheading the anti supernatural campaign with Gerard whispering in her ear… Monroe is the (very concerning) guidance counsellor at BHHS. she interacts with the principle at some point no doubt I mean she’s faculty. and it would be plausible for her to be in the principle office. do you see where I’m going with this? I was so excited. can you imagine?

if you don’t quite see through my rambling. drawing conclusions means it would be very easy for Monroe to eventually happen upon this list. of every supernatural in BH… I mean it’s in the principles top drawer unlocked for gods sake. RIPE FOR THE PICKING. we are showed it, we’re given a scene about it, god forbid I made the assumption it was deliberate and a smoking hot chekov’s gun. (should I have known better? probably.)

I was so incredibly disappointed when nothing came of it. can you IMAGINE? if Monroe got her hands on that list… holy shit. just thinking about it fills me with horrible dreaded glee. I mean she was very resourceful and was able to manipulate (literal children no less) to systematically weed out the supernatural and she very targeted on Scott’s pack specifically but. having that list? goldmine. death and destruction. and it could have been used in such a great way to highlight some of the characters and add motivation and etc.

like. Monroe finds the list that Lydia gave to her mom with the best of intentions. indirectly, Monroe got the list FROM Lydia. indirectly, Lydia has all this blood on her hands (harbinger of death anyone) and she would feel so guilty and helpless. and how does she deal with that? how does the pack deal with that? what a motivator as well to double down to take the hunters out. I just really think it was set up so nicely and would have been SO satisfying to see it play out this way. and it’s a shame it wasn’t capitalized on. I know shit went down but the hell that would have been raised if it went like this… the real all out brutal war it would have been when the hunters already knew the names of all the supernaturals they were hunting. oof. and the best part. very little of the plot would realistically have to change. just a few very small tweaks here and there. ughhhhh teen wolf why do you betray us like this.

please if you made it this far. talk to me. tell me what you think. am I crazy. be honest.

#teen wolf #teen wolf season six #Lydia Martin #Scott McCall #Gerard argent #Tamora monroe #really missed the mark on this one Jeff Davis #the POSSIBILITIES #McCall pack #puppy pack #I just have so many thoughts #I’m gonna share them #throwback to 2013 tumblr y’all #welcome to my journey #I KNOW the writing was bad don’t come at me #doesn’t mean I still can’t be annoyed it was bad #beacon hills high school #beacon hills #teen wolf 6B

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lilyharvord · 3 years

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The Chain (Part 11)

Hello Darlings, it’s been a long time coming, but here is the next part of The Chain. (: Please know that there is a little bit of forcing in this chapter to make things work, but its called a plot hole, not a plot no (((: Also, she is nice and long for you guys since it has been sometime since she got some TLC.

I’ve got two words for you all: Time Travel.

Main concept: Two love struck idiots get sent back to a pretty UGH time period in their lives (that required me to reread all the books again) and have to hide the fact that they know everything. Stupidity ensues.

Enjoy

Find the rest of the fic here: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10

tag list: @delilahlbard, @king-maven-calore, @thatoddgirl777, @elliekratzzz, @evangelineartemiasamos, @evangeline-of-montfort, @scxrletguardsdawn, @freaky-freiday, @petergrantkavinsky, @kuwei, @whatsup-gorls, @katiemoore, @redqueenetwork, @tranquil-dusk (I’m trying to add you but for some reason it wont @... the same problem happens with @thatoddgirl777 and I have no idea how to fix it)

(/Mare/)

The barge glides through the murky water of the river and beyond the polished silver railing I rest my hand on, the shore of the Stilts rolls by like a faded oil painting. Ahead of me, hanging over the water, is an old tree Bree once dared me to crawl out on. The branches skim the water like skeletal fingers. I curl my own fingers around the railing in response to the memory of Bree’s laugh. I hope I get to hear it again, echoing in my parent’s town home.

The footsteps behind me are too light to be Cal. Even with all the work he has done to learn subterfuge, he is still a large human being. He’ll never be very good at sneaking up on anyone. I force an inhale when warm air washes over my side though.

Maven rests his forearms on the railing to watch the Stilts with me, his jaw tight and his eyes dark. I didn’t see him earlier today before we cast off, and I made sure he had no reason to speak with me now. I left nothing in those cells when I rescued Farley, not even a dusting of blood for Elara to use against me. Whatever he has come to discuss, it will define every point from now until the end.

“Have you heard of the chess move known as the King’s Snare?” His voice is softer than I thought it would be, given how hard the planes of his face are.

I glance at him warily, chewing on a response. I don’t want to talk to him about chess. I know he’s a master of it, that in all the years they played, Cal never beat him. Cal, the future general and war strategist who could throw together a plan in minutes with nothing but a handful of Reds, Ardents, and Silvers, never beat the boy before me. I don’t know why I think I have a hope of beat him or Elara.

“No. I don’t play chess.” I murmur letting the wind shift the loose hairs hanging by my cheeks. It plays in his curls too, tussling them like a loving hand.

The corner of his lips quirk up in a ghost of a smile before he turns to face me. He doesn’t flinch from my gaze, but that smile does fall. Pressing off the railing to stand at his full height, he tilts his head to the side as if in thought. “It’s a complex maneuver, and requires turns upon turns of preparation. It is the only strategy you can play once you initiate it. In each step, you make it appear as if you are losing. You let your opponent think they have won, and in the final step of preparation, you let your queen be taken and your king be cornered in a check mate.”

He shrugs before looking back onto the bank. His eyes sweep along the shacks on their tottering stilts. “Then, you take the opposing king with the only piece you have left. A pawn.”

I raise a brow at it before saying, “sounds complicated. I don’t have the patience for playing the long game, and I especially don’t like playing with people’s lives like they are pieces in my game.”

A fire lights in his eyes as he drags them over me, his expression hardening again. “I’m not so sure that’s the truth.”

His words are a warning in and of themselves. Squaring my shoulders to him and stabbing my nails into my palms, I purse my lips in a line to swallow my retort. We stand in a stalemate for a moment before he reaches a finger out to let a strand of my hair curl around it. His expression crumbles for just a moment before that mask slides up and hides the wounded boy underneath.

“Let’s not play this game Mare.” He bows his head and his lips almost ghost over my brow. I turn my head to the side to avoid the touch.

“I just told you I’m not playing games.”

His chuckle is humorless. With a quick step he closes the space between us completely and I have to crane my neck to meet his eye.

“You’re still useful to me and mother, but Cal has overstayed his welcome by a few years. His whole life actually, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

No more dancing around it then, we are going full in with the truth. I twist my lips to the side, letting my sneer finally grace my features. “If you think for one second I’m going to let you two get away with what you did a second time, you’re wrong.”

“Even if it means you lose everything you have coming?” He asks me that as if he actually cares. It makes me reel back while he smiles like a wolf. “We know Mare, and while it’s adorable watching you attempt to play against us, you played your final card last night.”

My lightning dances on my fingertips. What I wouldn’t give for Tyton’s brain lightning, so that I could turn Maven’s insides into jelly and leave him on this deck before going after Elara. I should have ended all of this weeks ago. I could have, I know that for a fact.

“I haven’t played any of my cards yet.” I warm Maven with a raised chin. I let the mask of Mareena disappear and I let him see Mare Barrow, the girl who bested two kings, the woman who has seen more than enough front lines, and who was born in a storm on top of a mountain. She has been broken and put back together so many times that she knows every piece of herself better than she ever did before. She thrives in storms and turns them to her will like this boy turns words to his.

“You haven’t seen anything Maven. Don’t for one second think you have cornered me.” My lips curl into a small smile as I look him over with a critical eye. “Besides, while you’re playing chess, I am playing another game entirely.”

A muscle in his jaw flutters when I speak, and his eyes darken further.

Pressing to my toes, I let my next words caress his lips like a kiss. “And if you two do know everything, I’m surprised you haven’t removed any and all letter openers from my reach while we’ve been together.”

His face pales in a flush, and the air around us climbs in temperature so quickly beads of sweat begin to prickle on my brow. Ignoring the monster I’ve obviously poked awake, I set my hand on his chest right above his pounding heart and drop my eyes to his lips before looking back up to meet those icy blue eyes.

“And as for your mother, I think I killed her too quickly the first time.”

His tongue darts across his teeth for a second before disappearing as his lips pull back in a sneer. There is a flash of something akin to uncertainty in his eyes though. A thrill rushes through me. She didn’t tell him that part, and she might have even kept his own death from him. Interesting.

Sliding back away from him and dropping my hand, I take in his flittering emotions he desperately tries to keep under control. I can’t image what is passing through his mind. If Elara didn’t tell him about their deaths, what else has she kept from him? It might be worth it to poke a little more and find out.

Even as the thought of prying him open and exposing his hollow insides thrills me, I can’t help thinking of how he spent hours near my bedside after Samson had turned me inside out and left me a bleeding corpse. Nor can I ignore that once upon a time, a part of him had loved me.

“Oh Maven,” I breathe, my chest aching once more as I look him over. “You could have been something wonderful if you had been anyone else’s.”

His inhale is sharp, and the heat around us vanishes as he sucks it in to fuel the furnace of his emotions. The next words that leave me are as much a truth as they are a weapon that I use against him.

“I might have loved you too, you know. I might have been happy with you.”

His entire body goes taut like a rubber band pulled too tight. I can’t imagine what those words have done to him, I know what they do to me. They relive the ache and chase away the cold bite from the autumn breeze that cuts through my loose shirt. I have known for years that he would never truly leave me, that I will always love him in a strange way. But seeing all of this, and discovering that even when I might have had a chance to save him, there was no chance so long as Elara loved him too.

“The game is beginning. Line up your pieces if you want to play chess.” I murmur to him before stepping around him and heading for the viewing deck. I pause long enough to glance at him over my shoulder though and say, “but just know, it’s hard to beat an opponent that knows every move you will make.”

(/Cal/)

Mare finds me between meetings. Her dark hair is swept up in an elaborate hairstyle she picks at nervously, drawing strands out to frame her face. Glancing over my shoulder at the remainder of the council as they pass, I pause before her long enough to say colorlessly, “Is something wrong Lady Titanos?”

The few sets of eyes that watch us look away with shrugs. Their ears are probably still tuned in, but as far as they are concerned, she is probably looking for Maven and happened to find me first.

“Farley made contact. The Hexaprin Theater just like before.”

She’s been gone most of the day with Maven, making appearances and smiling like the dutiful princess she is. I’m not sure how Farley could have possibly made contact with her during all of that, but it’s a relief she didn’t contact Maven first. Meanwhile, I’ve been locked up in Whitefire. My father has hardly let me out of his sight, which I suppose should be understandable. The attempt on my life shook him to his core. Even though I push back, insisting they wouldn’t try again, he refuses to let me leave the castle walls. I don’t know how I will get out to join Mare in this endeavor like she wants with the Sentinels that trail me almost everywhere I go. I guess it now truly understand how Mare felt during her time with us. I don’t blame her for constantly being irritable now.

Still, my brow rises as the name of the theater. I know it well. When I was younger Julian used to take me to plays and tried to pique my interest in the art form. I had squirmed in my seat the whole time, eager to get out of the dark space and run outside. He gave up once I turned ten, realizing I didn’t have much love for the arts. I knew it saddened him, that he had hoped I shared the same soft spot for them that my mother did.

My chest tightens at the thought of my uncle. I got him out of Archeon earlier than before, helping him and Sara smuggle away in the dead of night after he got Farley and Kilorn out of the cells. I sent him to Montfort with instructions to speak with Dane Davidson as soon as possible. To try and get him in contact with Guard. There’s no telling if they made it. I can only hope they managed to cross the border.

“It’ll be tough for me to get out.”

“This will only work if you come with me.” Mare insists, her eyes darting past my elbow to the doors of the council chamber. I know who she’s looking for, but she won’t find him.

“He’s seeing to something with his mother.” I instruct, even as I glance around just to be certain. Only a servant passes in a flutter of skirts. She curtsies to me and Mare before hurrying along, obviously loath to be around us any longer than necessary.

“The bloodbase.” Mare’s voice drops to a worried waver as she sets her hand on her pocket. I know she has the book hidden in the pocket of her jacket, the one Julian gifted her with the name of every Ardent he found within Norta’s borders. She sleeps with it under her pillow, her fingers curled around the faded cover as if Maven will creep into her room at night and steal it away.

Shaking my head, I grab her elbow and pull her into an alcove when I hear the sound of more steps approaching. I squeeze into the space between the pillars with her until our bodies almost have to become one to fit. Her hands rest on my chest as she evens out her breathing, recognizing a hiding place when she sees it.

A group of nobles pass us, Osanos and Iral judging by the colors of their clothes. I purse my lips and wait until they leave the hall to look back down at her and whisper. “I took care of it. I printed out all their names and wiped them from the database. They’re safe.”

“Unless Maven is already going after them.” Mare mutters bitterly.

“He hasn’t. I checked last known whereabouts too. Everyone is accounted for.”

“People lie on those stupid records Cal.”

“Not when you’re the first person in years to click on the page.” I let my lips curl into a knowing smile. She can think I’m stupid and hardheaded all she wants, but I do know my way around my own world. “There is a clicker at the bottom of each record to indicate the last time it was opened. I am the first one to look at them in years. You can’t lie to that program.”

She expels a breath, before look up at me through her lashes. “You’re too stubborn for your own good. We’re meddling too much now.”

“At this point, does it really matter?” I ask, repeating words I spoke to Julian in the dead of night when he questioned my decision to send him to Ascendent.

Her lips draw into a tight line that pales her already painted lips. “No.” She agrees before sliding out of the alcove so I can follow her.

When we step into the light, I watch the shifting sunbeams as they cut across her face. She crosses her arms before looking down the hallway and saying, “We need to get into the afternoon showing. Can you do that?”

I grimace thinking about my father and the hawk like eyes he has kept on me recently. “It’ll be difficult, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Do you want to rehearse with me?” She teases, eyes lighting with laughter when she notices how I chew on my lower lip.

“I think I’ll tell my father that I’ve decided Evangeline can take a long walk off a short pier and that I much prefer you and I plan to make heirs with you as soon as we enter than theater box.”

Her eye widen and a blush paints her cheeks. It’s so ferocious the makeup almost can’t hide it. It makes me chuckle before reaching a hand out to cup her jaw and stroke a thumb along that warm puddle of red staining her skin. “Kidding love. Although I think that he’ll be so surprised and horrified that he lets me go just to see if I’m serious.”

“Mess up my nice skirts Tiberias and I will take your hands for it.” She snorts before pulling away and throwing a smirk over her shoulder. “Get us tickets to the show and be there with me. Also, it might be a good idea to assign Walsh to a... different part of Whitefire.”

I grimace, remembering the last time I saw her foaming at the mouth while I tried to close her throat to keep the poison from spreading. I sent her for Mare, trusted her with the secret that I met a Red girl in the Stilts and cared. Regardless of what Mare might have thought of me before when that moment passed, I did care. A part of me had been horrified to watch the light leave Walsh’s eyes.

“I’ll make sure of it.” I whisper.

(/Mare/)

The theater darkens, and I sink back into my chair, keeping an eye on the Sentinels standing in the doorway. They are here to protect Cal. Allowances had to be made so that he could leave Whitefire, but its an allowance that may cost us our meeting with Farley. There are more of them than before, but they’re simply a hinderance, one that will have to be dealt with at some point very soon.

Honestly, Maven and Elara trying to kill him has simply become an annoyance now. If they hadn’t, it would be so much easier to sneak around with Cal.

“They have to go.” I murmur, letting my eyes flint to them as I edge a little closer to the railing of the box and glance over it into the crowd below.

With a quick nod, Cal leans back in his seat. Before Maven gave the secretary that came with us a mischievous smile and quick order to get rid of our tail. Cal can do no such thing without raising suspicion. It’s already gotten out that I am the one that shouted his name and stopped the bleeding during the Sun Shooting long enough for Sara Skonos to get to him and save him. But Cal spread a faster rumor behind it, his words burning like wildfire through the High Houses, erasing the rumor I know Elara started about us. My shout hadn’t been in fear according to his account, it had sounded like nerves. Maybe I’d lost Maven in the crowd and gotten overwhelmed by the proceedings, and when I had seen Cal I called to him for help. Because of that, I had been close enough to stop the bleeding when the gun went off.

I had been shocked at the lie he told with an abandon to his father and the court, and how well he crafted it on a moment’s notice. Perhaps he needed to stop spending so much time around Dane. I had noticed that crafty man spending a suspicious amount of time trying to craft Cal into a better Statesman in the recent years.

“Sentinel Osanos, if you could take the others into the antechamber.” He nods over his shoulder to the small sitting room attached to the box. “I doubt you and the others have any interest in this show and your presence is unfortunately ruining Lady Mareena’s first impressions of it too.”

“I have my orders, sir.” The Sentinel warns, his eyes darting between the two of us.

“I can handle anything that comes.” Cal lets his lips quirk into an arrogant smile. I haven’t seen it in a long time, but it’s one of the few soldiers masks in his arsenal. It still makes my stomach flutter. “Besides, Lady Mareena has proven herself quite capable of saving my life if need be.”

Osanos debates it for a very long second as the murmurs below us quiet and the curtain rustles with the start of the performance. During that second, my heart pounds. I don’t dare look up at the grating above out heads where I know Will Whistle will appear.

“Of course, Your Highness.” The Sentinel bows his head and then nods to bring the others with him into the room. The door clicks shut, and the lock engages. I grab Cal’s hand and squeeze it in silent praise, before glancing at him side on.

“Impressive.”

His smile falls as he looks away from the door and forward again. “We’ll have to be silent. We’re lucky my father didn’t send an Eagrie with us.”

Unfolding from his position in the chair to relax further, he turns his hand over to lace his fingers with mine. The touch sends waves of reassurance through me. Now we just have to keep him hidden long enough that Will doesn’t recognize him and gets us to Farley. After that, I’m not quite sure what we will do.

“Farley won’t let you on the Undertrain without a fight.” I murmur, glancing at our joined hands. He sweeps his thumb along my skin in a soothing motion even as his eyes stay forward on the stage as it comes to life.

Gentle touches in the dark, so very like how our relationship started. It almost makes me snicker. I suppose things never really did change between us.

He doesn’t reply to my comment, but I know he’s thinking about it all the same. His palm heats with his frustration, but he doesn’t show it on his face.

I let my eyes wander to the stage where I finally get a look at the play I never watched before. Brightly colored costumes dance across the stage and I tilt my head to look at them, trying to understand the story. “We never went to any of the plays in Ascendent.” I murmur to him.

There were plenty of playhouses, and I know for a fact Julian got us tickets to one he loved. We never got the chance to go, but now I wish we had.

“I’ve never been a fan of theater.” He chuckles and finally turns to look at me. He traded his finer regalia for a more toned down jacket and black shirt today. With the aid of the darkness, I can almost imagine we are in Ascendent, that it’s just another weekend and we decided to do something we’ve never done.

“Then when you annoy me, I am going to drag you to shows when we get back and tie you to a chair so you can’t leave.” I say with a smirk.

The ceiling panel above our heads slides away, and his eyes dart up at the same time as mine. We’re both accustomed to how the Guard functions. The sudden disappearance of the tile doesn’t surprise him like it did Maven.

“Show time.” I whisper to him before dropping his hand and stepping on the seat of my chair. Grasping the edge of the hole I haul myself up into the darkness. When I glance down to help him though, he is already half-way into the crawl space with me. The panel slides into place as soon as Cal vanishes in the shadows. I wait half a second for Will to sound an alarm to notice that I don’t have the right prince with me.

He does no such thing, simply speaks into the darkness the same words he did before. “Be quick and quiet. I’ll take you from here.”

I reach for Cal’s wrist in the dark and grip it tightly with a reassuring squeeze. Will turns and begins to climb through the space, not waiting for us to follow.

“Watch your head,” I instruct as I skirt the edge of the ceiling panel. “It gets low in a few places.”

Cal grunts in understanding but follows at a pace that surprises me. It was a tight squeeze for Maven, so I don’t really know how Cal manages but he does. I’m sure he has Farley’s work with him to thank for that. He crawled through enough sewer tunnels and drains with us while we were at the Notch after all. I’m sure while I was locked away with Maven he was doing the same thing too.

The sounds of the play overhead mask our movements as we drop down ladders and steps and through little trapdoors. Cal only smacks his head once, and I flip around to grab his head to check for blood when he curses soundly in the dark. I grimace when I feel the nasty knot already taking shape on his forehead near his hairline. That will have to be explained away when we get back, but we really truly don’t have time to assess it too much. Will sets grueling pace, and Cal practically shoves me forward when the Whistle almost disappears around a turn.

It takes only minutes for us to drop into the access tunnels that connect to the Undertrain platform. The damp chill of the space presses through my thin jacket and pants, reminding me of the march we did into Archeon to save Cal and everyone from the Lakelander invasion. Cal drops lightly down behind me though, and instantly the space warms and the memory fades. It’s still too dark to see his features clearly which is only to our advantage. I can’t have Will trying to stop us now.

That cover does not last long though. The platform is haunted by a lone torch, and when Will turns around with a sharp smile, ready to bask in our surprise, his eyes widen as he takes in Cal behind me. I set my hand on Cal’s chest in response, trying to push him back into the shadows while I light my hand with lightning.

Will never gets a chance to act though, the furious screech of the Undertrain as it rushes into the station shakes the walls and announces Farley’s arrival. As it coasts to a stop in front of us, Will spins to the doors and waves his arms while trying to shout over the screeching of the brakes to give a signal to not stop. The train grinds to a halt though, and the doors still open to spill more light onto the platform.

Farley unfolds from the chair like a spring let loose. Her hand flies to the gun at her hip, and I spin to face her with my lightning at the same time. Even with my ears ringing from the sound of the brakes engaging, I can hear the click of her turning the safety off as she draws the gun.

“Farley—” I try to shout, but Cal beats me to speaking, his voice a dangerous warning echoing in the tunnel as he glares Farley down.

“Diana, stop.”

He would have gotten the same reaction if he burned her alive. Farley’s eyes widen at the usage of her birthname, and her fingers wavers on the trigger long enough for me to speak.

“He’s with us.” I urge as I drop my hand, but I don’t dismiss the lightning bouncing between my fingers like webbing. It’s my own warning to her. She knows what I can do, and like her, I don’t miss anymore.

Her laugh is unexpected, and I almost jump at the sharp bite of it. She keeps the gun raised, but her fingers slides from the trigger to rest alongside the barrel. It’s the only sign she is still listening to us. “The little prince was right. He’s whispered his way into your head.”

“The only ones whispering into anyone’s heads is Maven and Elara .” Cal speaks quietly, his eyes scanning the track and the platform for any more Scarlet Guard operatives. There are none to be seen though.

Farley tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing to diamond colored slits. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t pull the trigger or even move her finger in the direction of it.

I expel a slow sigh of relief and take a step forward. I can feel the burn of electricity in the train, screaming like an upset toddler to be released. Gritting my teeth against the heachache forming because of it, I murmur, “you trusted me to get you out of that cell, trust me in this Farley. Hear us out.”

Her eyes moves past my shoulder to Cal who staggers his stance to move in either direction if he has to avoid her bullet. Her jaw ticks, and the electricity reaches an all time high pitch that stands my hairs on end. I haven’t felt anything like it weeks, not since the shield during Queenstrial exploded around me and tried to contain me.

“Make your decision, the Undertrain won’t wait.” I grimace as I reach up to press my fingers to my temple where the ache is strongest. If she notices my use of the train’s name, she doesn’t say anything.

Cal takes a step forward, stealing ground, only for Farley train that gun on him again and rest her finger on the trigger.

“Not another step, Your Highness.” She squeezes gently, putting enough pressure on that trigger that even the slightest movment on her part will fire the gun. I side step to put myself in front of Cal should she overestimate her abilities, but Cal simply pushes me to the side again.

With quick movements he unclasps the bracelets around his wrists and holds them up to the light for Farley to see. “Incentive,” he murmurs before tossing them in her direction. She lowers the gun to catch them one handed, almost dropping them due to their weight. I inch forward, my hand extended for them in surprise. I trust Cal to make a tactical decision, but he just threw his own tactical advantage five feet away from him.

The metal bands glint dully in the odd florescent lights of the Undertrain, but Farley glances down at them, unimpressed. With a quirked brow she raises the gun again, although its much more hesitant this time.

“I’m nothing without them.” Cal instructs while he sweeps his arms out from his sides as if to accentuate his point. “Keep them until we finish talking if it pleases you. But we do have to talk.”

“I know.” Farley reasons, her eyes narrowing before darting between the two of us. Even if I didn’t know her as well as I do, I could see the distrust and unease in her eyes. I can’t imagine what Maven has told her, but I know that he hasn’t spoken to her since before the Sun Shooting. It is our only advantage right now, that and the fact that Julian and I were the ones to get her and Kilorn out of the cells below the palace. It doesn’t hurt either that by the time we got down to the cells, the king was more concerned with his son almost dying than the rebels trapped in the cell before him. There had been no time for the interrogation that I know almost cost Farley her arm. She got off easy, too easy, because of us.

Whatever battle she is fighting with herself ends, and she steps to the side to let us pass.

(////)

Narcery is more disheveled than I remember. Perhaps it’s because I’ve already seen most of it repaired and turned into a decent city again years from now. Or maybe it’s because I’ve truly forgotten how downtrodden the world was before we began to right it. Either way, it’s hard not to grimace as we slink through the streets toward the café Farley stomps toward.

The Reds in the doorwards gasp and whisper as Cal passes, and I reach down to grip his hand. None of them are New Blood that I know of, but if someone gets it in their head to finish was Farley started, they won’t make it more than two steps.

He gives me a reassuring squeeze as we pass through the crumbling doorway of the café and into the dimly lit space. In his little booth, Kilorn practically almost leaps to his feet, his eyes wide while his hand flies to the gun on his belt.

“Stand down.” Farley orders smoothly, earning a frown from my friend. He doesn’t immediately listen, but his fingers eventually relax and drop back to his side. I release the tension in my shoulders in response. The air in the room shifts with the change in heat and static that Cal and I bring, but the ice in Kilorn’s gaze might as well be tangible too.

“And why haven’t we shot him?” He asks Farley as she drops into the booth.

With a wave of her hand, she dismisses him and glares in our direction. Cal’s bracelets clink against the dusty table as she sets them out in the open. With a tilt of her head, her expression relaxes and the nasty scar cutting through her lip softens. It never ceases to amaze me how young she really was when this all started. We were all still just children, playing games we never should have.

“They want to speak,” she says, her eyes dropping to our entwined hands. “And I have to admit I am curious what excuse Mare will give to explain blowing our entire operation to pieces.”

“We hardly blew it to pieces, you were almost completely successful.” Cal huffs behind me, and I dig my elbow into his side in response. No use pissing off Farley, or enticing her to pull that gun out again. We both know she will too.

Glaring at Cal for his comment, I address the other two sitting in the booth. “Maven gave you Cal’s name, but he was not the original target.”

“No,” Farley agrees, “he wasn’t.”

“It was Ptolemus Samos.” I turn my eyes back to her, and am rewards with a quirked brow, the only sign she is surprised by my knowledge. Kilorn is not as good at hiding his emotions. His brows dart up towards his hair line as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“You missed that meeting, the one where he gave us the original names! He told us that he never told you them... you can’t possibly have known—”

“I know because I’ve already been through that shooting before. You don’t get Ptolemus that time either.” I step forward and leave Cal behind me, safely in the line of my body. If Farley wants to shoot him at any point in time, she’ll have to shoot me first. “The Sun Shooting was a disaster that time, and it was a disaster this time.”

Kilorn blinks at me, confusion sweeping over his face now. Farley is simply more skeptical, and rightfully so. I didn’t exactly explain anything, just created more questions and puzzling conclusions for her.

“What are you getting at Barrow?” She murmurs as her eyes dart to the broken window behind me. I don’t dare look at who might be there. If its Shade, I will never be able to leave these ruins.

“You have to promise to listen to us, to let us explain as quickly as possible.” Cal speaks for me and the heat that rolls off of him washes over me as he steps closer, soothing tense muscles I bunch in preparation to run. His hand presses into my lower back only a second later. “We don’t have much time.”

Farley’s eyes narrow even further as she takes in how we stand next to each other, and how we remain close enough to protect the other at all times. Even if Maven told her that I was slowly teetering toward Cal, our body language suggests a deeper relationship and understanding of each other than could ever be established in a few weeks. Not to mention Cal knew her name, her real name. There’s no way in hell he could have found that out on his own.

“Who are you?” She asks quietly after a moment, earning a worried glance from Kilorn.

My lips curl into a slow smile as I take in her uncertainty. I can’t remember the last time Farley was on the backfoot. She has always been so headstrong and driven, but she reels back now, like a horse seeing a snake under its hooves. “We’ve all met before, and known each other for years.”

“Bullshit.” She says, pushing to her feet and advancing on me. Cal’s fingers curl around my arm to pull me behind him. I stand my ground though and raise my chin as she stand over me.

“How’s your dad? The Colonel? Has that eye healed up yet?” I ask with a quirked brow. Her breathing fluctuates at the mention of him while she stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes dart to Cal as if to assess how much he reacts to my words. He does nothing but glance down at me and drop my arm, catching on to what I’m doing. Farley won’t be bought over with a cute story like what we told Julian and Sara. She will need cold hard evidence, painful evidence if need be.

“It’s kind of cute that you decided your code name would be lamb, since his is ram.” I tilt my head to the side, earning an strangled inhale as she backpaddles. “Even more so given how infuriating he can be for you.”

Her whole face goes red, and tips of her ears tinge pink immediately. Kilorn opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, and closes it again. I don’t blame him, the fury in Farley’s eyes is enough to burn me to the ground.

With her lips pressed into a firm line, she presses her shoulders back to stand to her full height. “Are you Command?” She asks stiffly, her eyes roaming over me and settling on Cal when he barks out a dry laugh.

I elbow him again and shoot a glare, but he laughs at my expression. Turning his amusement on Farley, he says, “no. I’m not even on the list of people they would open a position for.”

“We know those in Command though.” I shoot a single spark into Cal’s arm to shut him up, making him snap back and rub the spot.

“I don’t believe you. Its not possible.” Farley growls setting her hand on her gun.

“I would appreciate you not drawing that gun Diana.” Cal warns his amusement dying as fast as my comfort with the situation.

“Who told you my name.”

“I know it from previous experience.”

“Don’t see how that’s possible.” Kilorn grumbles before rising from the booth as well. His eyes dart between the two of us, and as he starts to form his own opinon the curiosity in his eyes bleeds away into brittle resentment.

“Like I said, we’ve known each other for years.” I push past my locked jaw. This is starting to look next to impossible but if we have any hope of saving ourselves from the disaster to come, then we have to get them to listen to us.

“To be more clear, we will know each other for years someday.” I correct my previous statement quietly, letting the words hang in the too heavy air for a few seconds. Farley quirks a brow, realization crossing her features as she starts to put things together. She’s always been quick as a whip, and that works to our advantage.

Right when I think she’s about to say something though, she laughs. Kilorn blinks at her, taking a hesitant step away. I doubt he’s ever heard the sound, but I know it well. It still cracks on the edges the same way it does in the future. Honestly, it always sounds like she never laughs, even though I know for a fact she does that more than anything someday.

“Barrow, I have seen what you can do. And while it turned everything I knew about the world upside down… you cannot expect me to also factor some form of time travel into this whole mess.” She shakes her head, and dismisses me with a wave. Still laughing to herself she sinks down into the booth, and takes to fiddling with Cal’s bracelets. There is a hint of uncertainty behind her eyes though, and I know exactly who and what she is thinking about.

“There are hundreds—thousands like me Farley. You haven’t met all of them yet, but there are abilities far stranger than mine. My brother’s for instance.”

Her expression pulls tight for a heartbeat before she smoothers the emotion. I pull on that line though, and step forward, pointedly ignoring Kilorn who is still gapping like a fish and trying to come to the same conclusion as Farley. “I know he’s alive, and that he’s here with you. He jumps, appearing in different places in seconds. I make lightning. There will be a New Town girl who becomes our friend that can kill you with a thought and silence Silvers in the same way. There are three other Reds just like me in Montfort. There is a girl who can bathe everyone in a bubble of silence so no one outside of it can hear you. Another woman can remember every single thing she reads or that is said to her. Another older woman can change her face to be whoever you need her to be.” My heart squeezes at the memory of all the Ardents I rescued and then sent to their deaths. I promised them safety, security, and then pulled all of that away from them. All because one man told me I had to do it. “Is it so hard to believe then that there is someone years from now who can send people back in time?”

Those diamond eyes snap to me and look me over before Farley’s lips twist into a half sneer. “Your brother is dead Barrow, he was executed for—”

“Farley, please.” I whisper, coming to stand over her. Even sitting she is almost as tall as me, but I channel every ounce of military prowess she tried to teach me as I glare down at her. “If I walk out of this room, I will find him in less than an hour, and you will feel incredibly stupid when I do.”

Her lips pale as she pushes them together, tighter than ever before. Her eyes dance to Cal beyond me again, who has thankfully kept his mouth shut this whole time and has decided to simply sit on the edge of a table to watch us.

“He came with me.” I soften my tone and slowly sink down into the seat opposite her. Her eyes follow me like a rabbit would a wolf. Her fingers are cold when I take them, even with how warm it is in the room. She doesn’t pull away though, and I wonder if somewhere, her future self recognizes my touch. “I need you to trust us. I know how hard that is with everything that has happened, but Farley you have to.”

“Do we win?” She asks the question so quietly, I almost miss it while I’m speaking. Every muscle in body tenses against the truth that wants to escape though. I glance at Cal, wondering if he heard the same thing as me. He simply looks down at his boots, unable to offer any aid.

Swallowing past the rock in my throat, I look down at the table top. It’s dusty and cracked in some places. But it has no answers either. We have already done so much to destroy the path we were supposed to be on, what was one more change? “Yes,” I whisper and her eyes flash bright and wide.

“But we pay may terrible prices for it.” The last part almost doesn’t make it out. Shade’s death tries to claw that statement to ribbons, Archeon burning, and all the people we lost in the Harbor Bay siege and the final Archeon siege weigh heavy against my chest. The silence stretches to the breaking point around us as those memories consume me. I wish I could take back those words, swallow them and refrain from admitting to what I’m sure she suspects. She must read the memories as they pass across my face because her expression softens a hint.

“Its war Barrow,” the Farley I know so well comes to the surface when she switches her grip to grab my hands instead. “I never expected to win for free.”

She narrows her eyes at Cal then, who simply gives her a tight nod she doesn’t return. “I still don’t like you.” She announces a second later. “And I hope I never do.”

“You give me a hard time for years, I promise you that much.” He teases, some of the light returning to his eyes. I crack a weak smile at their banter, even though I ache at the reminder of the future relationship they share. Farley never does let him off the hook, and every chance she has to remind him of his past, she does. I don’t blame her though, she never lets herself get too congenial with anyone.

“We trust him… just like that?” Kilorn tries to burn a hole between Cal’s eyes with his glare. He doesn’t succeed, especially when Cal smirks at him and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He’s the picture of ease, and I know that drives Kilorn insane.

“Relax Kilorn,” I tease, and then beckon Cal over to me. “He knows that if he steps out of line I won’t hesitate to put him back in his place.”

Farley glances between the two of us before saying, “So the second prince wasn’t lying. You two are…”

“In this together.” Cal finishes for her. His eyes narrow at what Maven might have inferred even as he looks down at me for confirmation.

“We don’t have time to get into details,” I add, making room for him in the booth as I lean forward to start drawing a map of Archeon in the dust on the table. “Maven and his mother know what we know. Which means they have been pulling the strings and trying to sabotage any advantage we have. They will not hesitate to wipe the Scarlet Guard off the map this time around.”

“I don’t understand.” Kilorn grumbles and crosses his arms tightly across his chest. “I thought we trusted that prince?”

“Maven is the one we have to worry about.” I finish drawing the bridge and narrow my eyes at the crude drawing. “He was always going to betray us.”

“How?” Farley sneers, obviously not happy with me inferring that she made a mistake in judgement. Maven was her recruit after all. “He’s given us names, information.”

“All fed to him by his mother, who is counting on us tomorrow night staging a coup and failing so that she can murder the king and remove you and any true Scarlet Guard opposition.” I murmur and watch as Farley’s fury melts into horrible understanding. My stomach drops but Cal speaks before I can.

“He’s already spoken with you and made the plan.” His voice is cold, even while the space around us starts to burn with the heat he releases. My own lightning wants to be unleashed as well. It takes more effort than I like to reign it in. I was wrong. He did speak with her, about more than just me and Cal.

“He said Barrow would try to come to me and change my mind, that I had to know she was in collusion with you and planned to stand by your side when the time came. That she would ultimately betray me.” Farley breathes, her eyes widening. “He said that the coup was the only way we would win, remove you two in one swoop.”

“He and Elara were counting you believing him wholly and me not bringing Cal.” I growl, and swipe my hand through the map on the table to erase it. The plan is useless at this point. Maven already took it and molded it to his needs. I should have never spoken to him on the barge, maybe I should have just continued to pretend I was some stupid girl that didn’t know how to play the game. I may have destroyed any hope we had of beating him and Elara now.

“They also aren’t counting on us having any other plan. Or my support.” Cal murmurs before drawing his own map in the dirt. The angle is far different from what I drew. “They don’t know that I know the future or that I am with you all. They think Mare is the only one.” His finger moves through the dust and Kilorn finally edges closer to see what he draws.

“So we play into their hands.” He murmurs as he glances at me for my support.

“What?” I wheeze as I watch him draw the same offensive we instigated last time. “Cal, if we do that—”

“Then it all goes the way it did before, with the added benefit that when you get captured this time, we can stop Elara. We know what’s coming and we can plan for it.” Cal finishes drawing his map before drawing a second more detailed map of the Whitefire next to it. “This time, we won’t be alone in that room.”

I struggle to keep up with his thought process, trying to determine exactly how he plans to make this work. The only way Farley and the other Scarlet Guard members will make it into that room is in shackles like me. Elara will slaughter us all like pigs then.

“The tunnels run under Whitefire right?” He asks Farley who hesitates for a second before nodding tersely. He etches a few makeshifts ones into the picture and then sits back to say, “when I take Mare captive for treason, you and a small unit will move through the tunnels and get to the throne room. From there, you wait for a signal Mare and I will give. When that happens, we take Elara and Maven.”

“Bold.” Farley murmurs as she glances over the plan. “And suicidal. We’ll never make it in.”

“You will if I don’t station anyone at a specific entrance. Name it, and I will keep the regiments away from it.” Cal waves his hand over the picture and glances forlornly in my direction. “If it fails, we still go to the Bowl of Bones, but this time we’ll know what to expect.”

My heart pounds in my chest as the memory of the too thin sand shifting beneath my feet almost overtakes me. Even though it is years behind me and days ahead of me, the heat of Cal’s fire trying to catch on the sand still burns my cheeks and my stomach twists at the echoing sound of the bar punching through Arven’s chest.

“In the meantime, you need to evacuate Tuck.” I whisper forcing the bile down as I look up at Farley. She blanches at the command, but I narrow my eyes to silence her. “Elara has seen in my mind. She knows about Tuck, she knows about a number of other Scarlet Guard strongholds like Narcery too. Did you not find it strange that Maven was not afraid to travel to a supposed heavily radiated place?”

She opens her mouth to argue with me, only to shut it like a trap and narrow her eyes. The thought never occurred to her, and I understand why. He probably got on the Undertrain and immediately started spilling honey and poison in her ear until she couldn’t even hear herself think. I can’t blame her for anything, he did the same to me, and I lapped at it like a starving child.

“Where will we go?” Kilorn whispers anxiously, his eyes darting to the street outside, as if a regiment might come marching down it right now. I don’t blame him. My friend is brave, always has been and always will be, but a Silver regiment is no laughing matter to him yet.

Cal stiffens next to me and says, “Irabella is the only safe haven. Mare was never there, but I was.”

“Why—”

“I doesn’t matter.” I interrupt Kilorn, and lean forward to speak again. “You just have to trust us. Tell the Colonel you have reason to believe Tuck and a number of other bases have been compromised. That an informate you have high up in the palace you trust explicitly told you that. The Notch is not safe either.”

Farley’s eyes widen, and it is then I realize that the mention of that safe haven is what finally secures her trust. The Notch was her hiding hole. Not one her father came up with. Command might not have even known about it. If what Cal and I said was true, and we were her allies in the future, she may have taken us there at some point. I wish I would have been smart enough to start with the mention of it. We could have saved time.

“And you need to start finding the others like me.” I whisper, as I pull the book out of my jacket pocket and set it on the table. The cover gleams against the dusty surface of the table, and I almost can’t pull my fingers off of it. The fates of so many reside inside of it. Cameron’s furious expression flashes through my mind as I ordered her taken onto the Blackrun. I will not force her into anything this time though. I only hope I don’t have to rescue her from a prison though.

I slide the book to Farley and trail my fingers off the cover as I whisper, “Maven and Elara might already be on the hunt for the Ardents in here, but I circled the names of the people that we rescued together. He will target them first if he is going after them, so you have to beat him to it.”

She picks up the book gingerly before looking between us and saying, “you mentioned the Bowl of Bones.”

Cal smiles wearily but leans back with the poise of a general to say, “we won’t have to worry about it. We’re going to avoid that point all together.”

Farley’s fears are not soothed by Cal’s confidence, and I can almost see the spikes she wants to drive through his eyes. At least she nods though, agreeing with him for the time being. I can’t even begin to express the relief that courses through me as she puts the book in her own pocket and nods once more.

“Then we will go with your signal.”

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runningwithhellhounds · 3 years

Text

Theo, across recent timescapes. Theo x life: a series of impressions.

Theo is an invasive agent in Hayden's sensory collection. She's trying to not pay him any mind.

She also tried to erase his self-importance by pretending he didn't exist when she knew he watched with his bridge-burn eyes as she and Liam kissed. Found success in his uncharacteristic silence in a moment that was ruinable.

They are standing in dappled shadows on the forest ground, waiting for Liam, who ran ahead to make a call out of Theo's earshot. Theo is sitting by a tree with his knees up and loosely spread, with his hands in between them. His hands, chained: it's simplest hazard control. Effective, though. Hayden feels spiteful as she's walking left to right, throwing a palm-sized rock from hand to hand. Theo looks bored, irked.

''Where are you going to, little Red Riding Hood?'' Theo addresses her, smooth to self-entertain, making her stop mid-throw, causing the rock to hit her palm and fall on the ground. She picks it up and mimes throwing it at him. Success unfound, in how he doesn't flinch. Success unfound, in how he's making this into a story about a little girl and a sneaky wolf.

She considers him. If answering at all would cater to his amusement, or lesser his situational unpleasantries, which she's trying to avoid. But Theo is in the midway of doing nothing and determined to draw attention to himself, the way he has been.

''We're out of flowers, I'm afraid. Would you like some redwood wood, instead?'' Theo offers in a made-pleasant public service voice. Hayden notices that he's siding with the forest, here, scuttling into its floors where he has found purchase through extended stay.

''You know all the tree species?'' Hayden asks. Takes a bite and wills it into a treat for herself, rather than bait. Theo probably meant the tall and non-wiggly tree he's sitting against; Hayden wonders if he ever studied forestry, or if this is werewolfery knowledge.

''I know better things, too. If you come closer, I'll whisper them to you.'' He grins. Lifts his chained wrists as he adds, ''No pressure, though.''

Hayden considers him. Again and again. This is, she guesses, learnt prudency; a refined taste for justice, maybe. Guesses resurrection does that to you.

''Warning, beware of dog,'' she says.

Theo looks at her, eyes hooding and mouth neutralising. He shrugs, looks sideways. Attention, lost. Trade, declined. Secretful threat traded for blankness, if anything. Hayden, it seems, does not entertain in Theo-ways.

—

Theo Raeken, it turns out, has a finitude to his spread of catastrophe. Sheriff Stilinski watches cross-armed as running-mouth-boy exposes the culprits of murder; aggravates them like it's his best expertise until they say things they tried not to say and so saves his own slate from police-worthy additions.

Stilinski watches as Theo, for some inexplicable reason, lingers in the police department. Theo is sitting on one of the reception benches, eating a bag of mixed nuts from the vending machine. One would think it's ill-advised, that as soon as Parrish released him, Theo asked Parrish to buy him some goods from the vending machine, said he was detained unfairly. Deprived of food for this short but uneasy time. Didn't have his belongings on him. But it mustn't be nonsensical; it must be some behavioural tactic of making himself appear unconcerned. As having clear consciousness, innocence, all of those.

Stilinski resumes watching through the screen as Theo's chewing slows down when an officer with a police dog walks to the machine. He watches Theo's frowned, suffering, doubtful expression, staring into the dog's eyes like he can't take the dog seriously. The officer stops fishing change out of his wallet with a metal scoop in his cupped hand to shoot Theo a questioning look.

''Everything alright, son?'' the officer jingles the change in his hand, looking Theo over.

Theo's gaze doesn't even change when he looks up. Doesn't turn into a stranglehold of a gaze, either. ''Does your dog bite?''

The officer considers Theo, the sagged, unruffled spectre of him.

''No need to worry,'' he assures. Starts inserting the coins. He then turns to Theo in an afterthought. ''Is someone picking you up? You need anything?''

''Oh,'' Theo breathes, ''for real? Would you? Just something to eat? I've been stuck here waiting.''

Stilinski watches as Theo picks up a protein bar from the machine drawer. Flavoured water, a second later. Probably, apathy comes easily to him. He must not think in any understandable way; rather, he must think unfeelingly. Kid's got— not a care in the world.

—

Liam is holding a bouquet and inspecting its flowery contents. Frowning at the petals he's scraping at, glowering at the buds he's poking.

In the aftermath of the ceremony ran on the anniversary of Liam's school in the decorated sports hall, his mother is standing by the chairs in unison with another boy watching her son.

She knows him from a photo Liam showed her, a boy new in the school, softly named: Theo. It was evident that Liam took the photo discreetly, which she commented on and which Liam denied. She notes the distance at which Theo keeping and approaches him.

''Don't worry, he's not keeping secrets from his friends,'' she says. ''He doesn't have a girlfriend, at least not that I know of. I was the one who gave him the flowers.''

''Oh?'' Theo says. ''I see.''

He puts his hands in his pockets. He's probably shy. This happens sometimes, with high-school boys, they can become clumsy with themselves. She feels motherly talking to them in moments like this; motherly and pleasant in her efforts to engage adolescents when they are dithering.

''I think he's reconciling masculinity with flowers,'' she comments.

He smiles. Smirks, more like it. They must be close.

''Good colour choice,'' he comments on the orange of the flowers.

She nudges his arm. ''Go talk to him when they're done taking photos.''

Theo shakes his head, shrugs once. ''Nah. I will be leaving soon, anyway,'' he says, and she drops her hand from his arm. He's probably a little shy.

—

Mediterranean sunrise comes with a surprise: a man awakening on the ground a few steps from the barely-formed footpath. A man, or maybe younger, his Mediterranean awakening accompanied by the smell of fig trees, and all. Kind red soil.

He's naked. He's slowly wiping a hand across his lips. You know, suddenly, that this is a complication. The circumstance makes his body looks like an involuntarily stripped body. Perspective changes: red soil is now needled soil. Acrid tones sour the sunrise.

''Hey,'' you call, stepping closer in your sandals and a coral-printed towel around your neck, feeling unsuitable for the demands of the situation. ''Hey. Are you okay? Should I call the police?''

He's pushing himself up. Not looking at you. Not mindful of the resin at his back. This is indicative, you think, of something, because you're mindful of the way road dust is making your hair dry and webby, while his attention is this narrow, or overall absent.

He looks up, then, at you. ''What?''

A surprise gifted by a foreign agency; not Italian, then. You switch to English and try to make it not clumsy.

''I'll call the police for you,'' you assure him. Scramble to find your phone in your tote bag.

''D'n't call th'police,'' he says. He isn't trying to cover where his body is exposed.

''I don't want to assume anything,'' you say, feeling odd and performative. ''But— Look. I can just call the emergency number and they can direct you to a centre for sexual assault.''

Body, bodily manuscripted into the soft soil. He looks like he's processing slowly. Gets distracted inspecting his hands. Is that blood, you wonder, realise, really, it all just getting worse and fraughter. In between his fingers.

''Don't call th'police,'' he says. ''Was jus' drunk.''

''Is that blood? On your fingers.''

''I jus'. D'n't call. Did s'me things I shouldn't have.'' He reads your face, then says, ''Not like that. T'myself.''

Heat is lowering to the grounds of the morning and your sandals are light on your feet, escape-hairs pleasant, pine trees your favourite. And the hostility-seen boy is trying to act alright.

''It's okay,'' you say, wondering if it is; something complicated about the okayness of not-okay. You squat down, to balance the eye heights. ''I can call the hotline for—''

''No, n't—. Just stupid, no police. Please.''

''Do you want some water,'' you say, taking it out of your bag, and he takes it. Uncaps and smells it, blinking with his nose above the bottle opening, before he shakes his head a little, and starts drinking. Your phone is still in your hand, but you're unsure. You give him your second non-swimly shorts and wait until he overcomes his hesitance and gingerly takes them.

''You don't have to tell me,'' you insist. ''But I'm sure that there's someone who—''

''Thanks. It's okay, you can go now.'' He starts moving to get the shorts on, then swiftly straightens his back, inhaling deeply and looking up. Must be avoiding some hidden ache.

You hesitate, phone in your hand, legs starting to feel stiff from the position.

''I could drive you someplace. My car is ten min—''

''Thanks, but I'm okay now. You can't help,'' he interrupts. There are cases like this one, right, people using caustic means for secret-maintaining ends.

''Are you sure?'' you press. ''I could go away while you're talking to—''

''You're not helping,'' he says, monotone now, now operative and controlled to be alkaline. He's looking at your eyes fixedly, and you stop hesitating. ''You should go.''

Ground gives. You shake your head and start walking away, leaving him with your shorts and thinking then good fucking luck, honey.

You turn back one more time. He's looking at you leaving with unfocused glossy eyes, and you wonder, surely not for the last time, how deeply and stickily swamp-lodged he must be.

—

A hot guy is walking in the chest-high sea and doing little dives. Grazing the water surface with his fingertips in between and wiping salt from his eyes, before diving again and re-salting his eyes, like some deliberately mindless-seeming cyclical mechanism. Salt for maintenance, salt a nuisance.

Now he bends his knees and only submerges up to his chin, and you imagine he's sensing freshness at his nape.

''You just have to relax,'' you say loudly from where you come to stand in the water to your ankles, ''and you can probably hold your breath for longer than that.''

He stands up and turns until he spots you. You walk closer until the water is at your waist and he's looking at you like someone unexpectedly interrupted. Unexpectedly perceived, unfortunately. A popular kid being addressed by an unpopular one.

''You wanna teach me how to swim?'' he asks and smirks a little, and you shrug.

''If you feel like you can't stay underwater for more than five seconds, it's probably because you're panicking. You can hold your breath comfortably for at least fifteen seconds, I dare say.''

He looks at the glistening in the water, looking weary.

''Can I,'' he says, more of a response made to be unrevealing than a question.

''One thing I'll say,'' you say, untying your hair to avoid breaking it when it will be wet and to be casual, maybe; mitigate the upfrontness and possible insinuation, ''is that your body looks mad functional. Don't take this in any funky way.''

''I won't,'' he says.

—

Theo is in no space. Some telephone line space.

Should I be taking this personally, Liam texts him. He knows that Theo has been straightforwardly ignoring his messages. He hopes, actually; hopes Theo hasn't run into any of his long-known non-friends who see his face as a face, fanged, and not eyes, often confused, tongue, often tied, responses, often belated. Hopes that Theo isn't not answering because of some surviving anachronism from his past, but rather because of something new. That would be more manageable.

He also hopes that Theo isn't not answering because he is succumbing to his self-damaging instincts, even though that would mean simmering resentment towards Liam; even though that would likely be the best possible option in the precarious array of options in Theo's life.

Liam texts, did you know that if space was infinitely big and infinitely old, it would be white? I don't really get why, do you?

—

You have a boy couched in your living room. His name is Theo. Picked him up on a staff-only fire escape. It would be a leisurely sight, now, a tracksuit-hoodie-boy sitting right next to a drying rack, which he said he didn't mind. If it wasn't for your rapid heart. Heart: heated, speaking in unit-free measures. Heat: a smooth, unfibrous thing.

''May I,'' he murmurs, and you lean in.

It's a classic student situation: a breathless undertaking to the backtune of wine in tea mugs. He selected a Sierra Nevada mug with a setting sun. Came with the flat.

''Add me on Facebook,'' you say. The two of you haven't even done much, but you feel so hooked, by the fire-escape boy who moves in a way so self-assured and touches indoor objects warily. ''Or Instagram. Wherever you want.''

''I don't use social media,'' he says. He uses his hold on your hand and your finger to push his hair out of his eye. You like the way it parts and hits his temples.

''Phone number?'' You suggest, more joking than not. Exchanging phone numbers feel more joke-like than not.

''No phone number,'' he says. Must see your expression, shrugs and says, ''Guess I'm too old for technology.'' He smirks at the dry look you shoot at him, knowing your age of twenty-three to his twenty-two. He's saying too old and you don't buy it. He carries no weariness in his jaguar body. He takes his lower lip in his mouth. ''What if,'' he then says, ''I'm a vampire.'' He touches the tip of his tongue to his upper teeth.

''My favourite paranormal activity,'' you say.

''Too bad,'' he says, grinning. You look at his ajar lips and think: too bad.

''Your canines are sharp, though,'' you say. ''At least.''

He grins wide. Pointedly and slowly leans towards your neck with an open mouth, until teeth make contact. You feel your smile dropping when his phone beeps. He hesitates for a beat and then leans his forehead on your chin, just breathing there, and you know you are both thinking about him saying no phone number.

''But none for me,'' you say. Because of all the places your bodies have been touching, a beat of silence means: five heartbeats of him staring at his phone, engulfed in the jacket he discarded on the floor by the couch, and you staring at him. And then he leans over, easily shifting your weight, until he can kick the jacket, some, not really achieving anything.

''Another vampire,'' he says, then, on the side of unapologetic. Luckily, you are known to be unresentful. Good at not taking things personally. ''From another brood.'' He places his hands back on your hips.

''Hm,'' you say. It's fine. The monomania of the green-eye boy is temporary. He's hot, but your desire never lasts, anyway.

—

There's a guy on your bus ride, on the opposite side of the passage, one seat forward. Your age. You noticed the generic niceness of his face.

He's drawing a sinusoidal curve on the fogged window. Moves his hand further right, where the window is still fogged. Starts drawing vertical lines, carefully, some methodology to it, the lines parallel to each other. He pauses after he draws four. Huffs, twists his smile into one that is hiding and downturned. He crosses the four lines with one that is horizontal, then adds another vertical line to the side.

You feel yourself smile. He drops his hand, shakes his head a little. Looks through the window at the frost-covered barren brown fields, away from his prisoner day-count. It's funny. He's funny. You look away.

—

It's a short, crude thing. Like this:

A fictitious boy stumbles out of a bare-walled building. Languid, unrestful body. Unleisurely, water-logged body. A tired backstreet play-doh thing. Young.

''Hey,'' you call. ''You. You good?''

The night is warm, humid. A post-rain road construction night. A night for cicadas, if you drive further out.

He inhales in the way of catching breath. Squints at his watch, eyes go glassy. Looks at the moon overhead, then squints at you. And you— you feel awake now.

You look him over, the sugarburn boy with a backwards baseball cap. The trouble of a tooth cavity, which means: okay, if you have some money. Some reckless uncare, too. He's watching you. You inhale slowly, but it turns out all tell-tale anyway. He must see the appeal you feel, in how he licks his lips and tilts his head.

''Interested?'' he asks.

You hesitate. Feel for your jacket pocket with your wallet in it. Lift it without taking it out, clear enough.

He nods. Clears his throat.

''Can you play nice?'' he asks. Teasing, but also not.

You can.

He nods. Looks at his watch. You follow him.

—

You pick up your pretend-sugar fake-care service by a closed ice-cream stand, its inviting light sign shining red on his face. It's raining lightly when you pull up and he doesn't have his hood up like he knows the wet hair strands sticking to his forehead make him look good. In the car, he has no song requests when you ask.

''How can I service you?'' he asks.

—

''What should I call you,'' you ask.

''No need to call me,'' he says.

''What if I want to,'' you admit. Not subtle and elusive. If I may be so bold as to in the back of your mouth.

He pauses, thinks. His gaze is saccading empty spot to empty spot and you know the only type of name you'll get is a fake. You'll take it, as a consolation purchase.

''Theo,'' he says.

—

Alec answers the knock with a toothbrush in his hand.

''Theo. Jesus,'' he breathes.

''Hello,'' Theo responds, overly carefully-crafted for the simplicity of a greeting, but Theo has never carried himself as though he was simple. ''I brought you those,'' he hands Alec paper sheets folded in half. ''I got my hands on some werewolves. Could you give those to Scott?''

It's more automatic than not, when Alec takes and unfolds them. They are black-and-white prints of photographs of ID's.

''You did?'' Alec says, still dumbfounded, still in the act of being interrupted. Habit-mindedness sliced in half. ''How?''

Theo shrugs. His face furrows for a beat, then he fiddles with the door handle, pushing it down twice.

Alec looks at the goods in his hands: a toothbrush, werewolfy profiles. ''Do you want me to tell him that they're from you?''

Theo looks conflicted. That's fair; it's a conflicting state of circumstances, or what is it that Liam told Alec. Maybe Theo turned to Alec because of the implied similarity: both well-accustomed to doing what it takes. Maybe Theo is finding some comfort in that; like Alec would recognise that Theo is a runaway object, or a throwaway one, only having made himself a weapon because he had been made into one first. Like Alec would recognise that Theo is trying to pay his dues. Or maybe Alec is misjudging and Theo isn't seeking comfort at all, which is what Malia thinks. Guess Alec is a little soft for softer scenarios.

''Jesus,'' Alec says again. ''You were gone so long. You didn't say anything. Have you—'' He hesitates, frowns a little. ''Does—Ah, well, you know. Does Liam know?'' He was going for tentative with this one before he swerved. Tending to the habits of skittish wolves.

Theo is looking past Alec's shoulder, distanced and glassy. Alec thinks of dolls, their eyes amiss in that they are unseeing and custom-built. It's a thought too cruel, unless it's sympathetic.

Theo shakes his head, slowly, and exhales, touches his temples with his index fingers, then drops them lower and presses them over his jaw muscles.

''TMJ pain?'' Alec asks.

Theo drops his hands. ''What?''

''Oh. The jaw joint,'' Alec points to his own.

Theo shrugs. ''It's just tender. This muscle,'' he taps.

''Have you been stressed? TMJ problems are common for young people. Can happen because of stress. Stress can cause teeth grinding.'' A clumsy explanation, but Alec can't re-order its parts now, just hopes Theo takes it. Hopes Theo makes his skin onion peel and shows something less dry underneath. And Theo:

Theo looks at him expressionlessly, for a beat, and then exaggeratedly sad-faces. Pouts, closes his eyes, nods slowly. ''I've been stressed,'' he says.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32225941

#teen wolf #theo raeken #thiam #teen wolf fic #for theo-thinkers who hunger #and dont frequent ao3 my home #do you like it any #do you want to buy me a treat yet #i painted a generic boy into my painting and am calling him theo for implied and unclear wolfery

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carriagelamp · 3 years

Photo

Since it’s Pride Month, I decided this year I wanted to raid the library for a bunch of different queer books to read. Mostly graphic novels in this case, because I’ve had a hard time settling into much reading lately... thought hopefully now that it’s summer and I finally have my second shot I’ll be able to relax a bit more and dig into some heavier novels again. For now, enjoy some light, queer reads that I indulged in this June.

A Wolf Called Wander

A beautiful novel I had been hearing lots about. This story follows the young wolf Swift, who grows up knowing that he and his pack are the mountains, and the mountains are them. It’s in those mountains that he grows and learns and loves… until disaster strikes and he finds himself viciously torn apart from his family and forced out of the mountains that have always meant home to him. Forced to survive on his own. Swift then begins a gruelling journey that makes him face injury, starvation, and the everpresent danger of humans as he seeks a new place he can call home, and new people with whom he can form a pack.

This is all based on the true story of a tagged wolf known as OR-7, following the unbelievable route he took through Oregon and northern California! It was a very neat read, and I’d definitely recommend it if you enjoy stories told from an animal’s perspective because this book is a master class in it.

Bloom

I decided for June to try to read a handful of different queer books, and this was one of the first graphic novels I picked up. It is a super sweet story and the art is lovely. It’s about Ari, a boy who has just graduated high school and is now desperate to move away from his small town and his family’s struggling bakery, to join his band in the city where they hope to make it big. An agreement is finally reached: Ari’s father will let him leave, if he can find someone who can replace him in the bakery, which is how Ari meets Hector, someone who sees artistry and peace in baking. For anyone that’s read Check, Please, it gives off those types of vibes!

Boule et Bill: Bill est Maboul

Another book of Dupuis comics, because I can’t get enough of them! This one I just stumbled across and ended up reading on a whim but it was very cute. Geared younger than the others I’ve read, but still quite funny. It’s the charming hijinks of a young boy, his dog, and the family they live with. Each page or so is a different stand alone joke, a bit like Calvin and Hobbes except expanded beyond a single strip.

Chicken Run: Chicken Pies for the Soul

This was a ridiculous urge I got and had to follow. I recently rewatched Chicken Run (which is, of course, one of the best movies ever made) and felt the need to see if it had ever been novelized. Well, I found something better than a novelization! This is a chapter book with “advice” and stories written by the various characters, post-movie. It really does a good job with grasping the different characters’ voices and making something simple and funny out of it. It was very cute (and available on The Internet Archive if anyone else feels like reading something ridiculous!)

Doodleville

I picked this up on a whim and honestly, I shouldn’t have bothered. It was not very impressive. Very mediocre, awkward feeling artwork, and a story that only slightly manages to redeem it. The concept was kind of neat, and I did like how the ending came about, the rest was rather… plodding. I did not like the main character at all, her friends felt very Intentionally Quirky Aren’t We Cute :3 in a way that just tries too hard, and… yeah. Meh. It technically gets the “queer graphic novel flag” but it’s so in-passing that it feels rather excessive to give it that.

If you are interested, it’s about a world were doodles actually exist as living creatures that can be drawn into existence (the rather unsettling implications of which is never fully explored). This is all well and good, until the main character draws a monster and takes it with her to her art club... where it begins ravanging not only her doodles, but those of her friends. Together they need to work together to figure out how to stop this menace.

FRNCK v4

Phenomenal. I adore the FRNCK series, and book four wrapped up the first “cycle”, revealing several of the big secrets dogging the series so far, and changing how things are going to be able to run in the future.

If you haven’t seen me talk about it before, FRNCK is a graphic novel (a franco-belgian bande dessinée) about a young orphan, Franck, who’s chafing under the constant parade of uninterested foster parents that visit the orphanage he lives in. Determined to learn about his mysterious abandonment instead, he flees the orphanage… but finds himself tumbling through time, landing among a family of cave-people who rather reluctantly take him in and ensure this modern boy doesn’t die in the strange, dangerous new surroundings he finds himself in. You can get these ones in English as e-books, so if you want a really kickass graphic novel series to read please try these.

Haikyu!!

I’ve heard so much about Haikyu!! that I finally gave in and picked up the first book from the library. And I gotta say, it’s well worth the hype! This series really does capture the best parts of a good sports manga -- which is to say the team is filled with interesting, enjoyable character who all need to learn to pull together, boost each other’s strengths, and cover for each other’s weaknesses. Love me some found family tropes and this series oozes it in the best possible way. And then you also get some very cool action scenes as it makes high school volleyball seem like the most intense thing on earth. I can’t wait to continue it

Queer Eye

I haven’t been keeping up with Queer Eye but I was watching it ravenously when it first came out, and this seemed like a very cathartic book to read… and it really was. It had the same gentle, loving encouragement as the show. It doesn’t expect you to change your entire life, but to learn to embrace who you are, and take small steps to enhance those things. There a segment written (presumably) by each member of the Fab Five, explaining the mentality behind what they do on the show and how you can grow in those areas too. It’s very zen.

Spinning

I got this graphic novel out at the same time as Bloom, but it was the one that interested me less of the two... though that’s just because I have less interest in “real world” slice of life as a genre and this one is meant to be autobiographical. If you’re into that, you’ll probably love this because it really is stunning. Very pretty, and the format and pacing is all really well done. It’s a coming of age story for Tillie as she grows up dealing with a crosscountry move, complicated friendships, a burgeoning attraction to girls, and attending competitive figure skating classes.

This Place: 150 Years Retold

A stunning and heart-wrenching graphic novel told by a collection of different First Nation’s authors/artists, recounting oral histories about the 150 years since the colonialist formation of the country known as “Canada”. In other words, this is a post-apocalypse story, but one that really happened and that entire peoples are still fighting to survive. It’s very eye opening and beautifully told. Very strongly recommend the read, especially if you’re at all interested in history.

Torchwood: Serenity

Whoops, not technically a book. I had thought these were technically audiobooks at first, but rather they’re audio dramas that were played on the radio. Still, I decided to include one because I’ve been listening to them like a person possessed and they’re too fun not to at least mention. Let me indulge in my obsessions.

If you don’t know Torchwood, it’s a BBC series that spins-off from Doctor Who, focusing on the enigmatic and flirtatious Captain Jack Harkness, who is running the covert organization known as Torchwood, which is tasked to protect humanity from and prepare them for alien contact. It’s goofy and campy but also more adult and heavy than Doctor Who tends to get, so it is (in my opinion) a really fascinating series. Though it also has content warnings coming out the wazoo so maybe make sure it’s for you before delving in.

Serenity specifically is possibly one of the best Torchwood stories I’ve ever experienced. The Torchwood team concludes that there’s an undercover alien hiding in the idyllic gated community Serenity Plaza, and so that means it’s up to Jack and Ianto to go undercover as a happily married couple and flush out the alien without being discovered first. Even if it means being sickly sweet together, pretending to care about the local neighbourhood barbecues, and actually caring a bit too much about the Best Front Lawn competition. What is truly magical about this one, is that it manages to make it a Fake Dating AU despite the fact that Jack and Ianto are actually dating in canon. But they’re both used to dating as a pair of alien hunters with insanely dysfunctional lives, and who now need to figure out how to deal with domesticity. It is marvellous.

Wilderlore: The Accidental Apprentice

A middle grade novel that felt a bit like a cross between Harry Potter and Pokemon. It’s about orphan Barclay Thorne who wants nothing more than to be accepted in the rule-bound village of Dullshire, and live up to his apprenticeship as a mushroom farmer. He certainly wants nothing to do with the fearsome Beasts who live beyond the village, deep in the Woods or the sinister Lorekeepers that bond with them. It was, after all, a Beast that had killed his parents all those years ago. But when he finds himself at the very edge of the forest, hunting for an elusive mushroom, he is suddenly unable to avoid any of that. Not when a wild girl and her bonded dragon appear to summon a horrible Beast and end up getting Barclay bonded to it instead. Now, if Barclay ever wants to be welcomed back into his home, he has no choice but to venture into the Woods and find a way to sever the bond imprisoning him to the massive, monstrous wolf now imprinted on his body as a living tattoo.

I honestly can’t decide how I felt about this one. I feel like it’d be a really fun read for maybe a grade 5 to 7 student? I was a bit more meh about it. It was fine, but it was very hard not to draw unfavourable parallels to Harry Potter. But for a kid who’s never read Harry Potter? Or even an adult that has but is looking for something different to scratch that itch, this might be a good book to try. I’ll probably try reading the second book when it comes out.

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thatgirlonstage · 3 years

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I'd be very interested in a ficlet about the Witcher daemon AU you messaged me about a while back, if that's something you ever meant to actually write out. 👀👀👀 If not that, then, hmmm, some soft geraskier, maybe with this sentence from a prompt list that went around: "Is that my shirt?"

I got too into writing Sad Jaskier Hours + puppy therapy and the length got away from me but here is that inciting scene I talked about, in full prose

(And now that I’ve done this one scene I feel freer to do more stuff in this AU, so more later possibly)

Witcher & HDM fans please forgive me my lore sins, I have only seen the Netflix Witcher and I haven’t read HDM in like over decade, so please hand wave any wrongness as crossover changes

———

The words still stung.

They felt physical, still crawling over Jaskier’s skin like ants four days since he had come down the mountain. Whenever I find myself in a pile of shit, it’s you, shoveling it. He half expected to wake up to them tattooed across his arms like the mark of a pariah. “Stay away from this one. No one who knows him wants him around.”

Geralt was prickly and stubborn and rude and what friendship Jaskier got from him came quietly. It came in his perfect recollection of all the stories Jaskier told him, no matter how inconsequential or how much he professed to be annoyed by Jaskier’s prattling. It came in those rare, sardonic smiles Jaskier had gotten better at drawing out over the years. It came in his acquiescence to let Jaskier wash his hair whenever they could afford hot baths, in the yellow-eyed glare he sent anyone who tried to cheat Jaskier at cards, in the way his shoulders would relax and he would start humming along under his breath when Jaskier practiced music by their shared campfire. It came in the softest press of lips against his forehead, when Geralt finally came back from Yennefer’s the night after the djinn and thought Jaskier was asleep. Until the mountain, Jaskier had thought it came in the lack of any serious objection to his presence, in the way Geralt seemed to take it for granted that they would travel together for a while each time they ran across each other. Now, he was starting to wonder if he had misunderstood. He was starting to wonder if he had misunderstood a lot of things, and only imagined others.

He poked listlessly at his fire. His lute sat with his pack, untouched for a week. Kazia, his daemon, perched on a fallen log opposite him, preening her feathers for lack of anything else to do. Even she had been almost entirely silent the last four days, making none of her usual songbird chirps as she and Jaskier made their lonely way back—Jaskier wasn’t even sure where he was going. Away. That was all. Away.

Some rustling in the woods made his back stiffen. He tossed another log on the fire, hoping to deter whatever was out there. It had been a while since he’d camped this far out in the woods without Geralt to scare off anything that stalked the nights. He’d been so unable to face running into Yen or Geralt or even the gossip about them back in town that he’d just struck off into the wilderness. Hopefully that piece of stupidity wouldn’t be enough to actually kill him.

He held out a finger for Kazia, and she hopped onto it. He deposited her on his shoulder. “Fuck him, right?” he asked. Despite his best effort he found no flippancy to put into his voice, only bitterness.

“He didn’t mean it,” she said. “You know he didn’t.”

“No,” Jaskier said. He poked the fire, flipping over a log, sending a burst of sparks skyward. “I wish he didn’t mean it.” He leaned back, careful not to jostle Kazia on his shoulder, bracing his palms on the ground. Tilting his head up, he could see the light of a few stars, just managing to poke through the canopy. “I tried,” he said, and hated the crack in his voice. “I’ve been trying for so long but— what else could I have said? What else could I have done?”

She nuzzled her head against his cheek. “I don’t know, Jask. Maybe nothing. I’m sorry.”

He kept staring up at the stars. Silence fell again, Geralt’s final terrible words scraping him raw.

Witchers didn’t have daemons. When people said they felt nothing, had nothing human left in them, they pointed to that fact. You couldn’t possibly be human without a daemon. Even the likes of elves and dwarves had daemons. Witchers were monsters in the shell of something that had once been human.

Jaskier thought that was a load of horseshit. He hadn’t wavered on that point. Geralt had his own fears and feelings and wants like anyone else. Jaskier was just beginning to believe he might have misinterpreted what some of those feelings were.

He nudged Kazia to get off his shoulder and pulled his blankets up. Blankets, plural, because his own had proven woefully inadequate for the mountain and Geralt had, with a grumble, come over in the middle of the night to the miserably shivering Jaskier and dumped a thick, scratchy wool blanket over him, and when Jaskier had protested, Geralt had said it wasn’t cold enough for him to need it, and then Jaskier had forgotten he had it before he fled. Gave him a blanket, and then a day later screamed for fate to get Jaskier out of his life. Jaskier hadn’t quite managed to parse that yet. It hurt too much to look at.

“Do you expect me to keep watch?” Kazia quipped. “I can hear something moving around out there. I don’t like it.”

Jaskier curled his hands around the blanket, tugging it around himself. “Hopefully the fire is enough to scare it off,” he said. “I need to sleep or we won’t be able to make any progress tomorrow.” He turned, a little petulantly, on his side, facing away from Kazia. “It’s not like I can do anything if something decides to come eat us, even if I am awake.”

He heard the flutter of her wings as she took off into the low branches of the nearest tree. “Sleep lightly all the same,” she told him.

Jaskier didn’t respond, tugging his knees up to his chest, closing his eyes, and willing the world to disappear for a while.

Kazia’s frantic chirping woke him with a start.

“Jaskier! JASKIER! Jaskier WAKE UP!”

He blinked his eyes open, squinting in the dim light of the dying embers of the fire, and found himself staring directly at a giant white wolf.

He shot up and back in instinctive terror, hands scraping against rocks and roots. “Geralt—!” he squeaked, on reflex, and felt his heart twist somewhere beneath the terror as he remembered no Witcher slept beside him. Kazia was fluttering frantically around his head. He stared at the wolf. The wolf stared back.

It was a gigantic thing, its shoulder probably higher than Jaskier’s hip if he were to stand next to it. It was white from head to toe, shining like a ghost in the firelight. Its eyes gleamed yellow, a misplaced pang to Jaskier’s heart. Something about it felt off, not-quite-a-wolf, almost as if it were a daemon, but that didn’t seem right either. He wondered for a moment if it were a mage’s daemon — out here apparently alone as it was — but that wasn’t right either. He’d met Yen’s daemon, a sleek black feline thing with four eyes and two tails. He’d known it for daemon instantly, despite its strangeness. This wolf just seemed not quite right, somehow. He tried and failed to place it in Geralt’s endless bestiary, and came up blank. If there was a monster that looked almost exactly like a wolf but wasn’t one, Jaskier hadn’t heard of it. At least it wasn’t eating him. Yet.

He stayed frozen for a long few minutes, he and the wolf just staring at each other. Kazia landed on his shoulder, puffing herself up as much as she could, her claws digging in just shy of breaking skin. He tried to calm his thundering heart. Maybe the wolf would just go away. Maybe it had smelled what meager rations Jaskier had left. Should he make a go for his saddlebags and toss his last piece of salted beef at it? Would it attack him if he moved?

The wolf did not leave, nor did it attack him. Instead, after a long enough pause that Jaskier was afraid they’d be stuck at this impasse all night, it ducked its head and whined. It shifted forward, almost cautiously, as if it wanted to avoid spooking him. It snuffled around his feet, at his blanket, and whined again. It took another step closer. Then, to Jaskier’s terror, it butted its head into his chest.

Jaskier inhaled sharply, quickly, trying not to hyperventilate. The wolf whined again, one ear flicking. It moved its head back and butted against him again — not with any force, just pressing its head into Jaskier. It reminded him of...

“Do... do you... want... pets?”

His voice sounded hysterically high in his own ears, but the strained tone didn’t seem to scare the wolf. It butted into him again and whined emphatically, almost a quiet howl. Very, very tentatively, Jaskier lifted one hand and, telegraphing his movement so the wolf could pull away, gave the wolf a quick little scratch behind the ear.

The wolf gave a little huff and — of all fucking things — wagged its tail. It whined and turned its head into Jaskier’s hand, so Jaskier gave it a longer scratch this time. He could still feel Kazia’s heart thumping a million miles an hour, but her panic had abated somewhat. She hopped off his shoulder and onto his head, letting him lift his other arm to pet the wolf’s side. Up close, now that Jaskier could focus on something besides just size and eyes and teeth, the wolf seemed nearly pitiful. It was far too skinny beneath its fur, with mangy patches here and there. He caught sight of a line of scratches across its haunches. One eye looked crusty and swollen, as if it were infected.

“Poor thing,” Jaskier murmured. “Did you get left all alone too?”

The wolf howled, a low and piteous sound. It butted its head against his chest again and pressed into him. Jaskier wrapped his arms around the wolf, taking comfort he hadn’t wanted to admit he was craving in its solidity and warmth.

“Jask...” Kazia took off from his head again. “I don’t know if I like this. I thought she was a daemon at first but she’s not. I’ve never been mistaken about that before. I’ve never even heard of anyone being mistaken about that before.”

“She?” Jaskier leaned sideways, peeking between the wolf’s legs.

“That’s not the point!”

“I know, I know.” Jaskier leaned back from the wolf, getting another look into her face. “You’re... not a daemon, are you? You can’t be, you wouldn’t have come up and asked for pets if you were a daemon.” The wolf looked back at him, her gaze almost too steady for mere animal intelligence, but she didn’t speak, and no one jumped out from behind a tree to strangle Jaskier for molesting their daemon. “Where’d you come from, huh?” he murmured. The wolf only whined and pawed at the blanket where it had pooled on Jaskier’s lap. “You want to sleep with the blanket and the fire, I bet. I don’t blame you, it’s cold out there tonight.”

“Jaskier!” Kazia wailed. He looked over and shrugged helplessly at her.

“Do you want to tell the giant wolf to go off and mind her own business?” he hissed. “If she were going to eat me, I think she’d have done it by now.” He looked back at the wolf, one finger still idly scratching behind her ear. “You promise you’re not going to eat me?” The wolf huffed, blowing in his face. Jaskier, for the first time since he’d arrived at that godforsaken mountain, laughed. “I think she’s telling me I’d taste bad,” he said to Kazia. “You’re probably right,” he confided in the wolf. “I haven’t had a proper hot bath in two weeks.” The wolf huffed in his face again.

Kazia fluttered down to a nearby branch, and then again to the log she’d been on before, and then up near the wolf. The wolf looked at her, her gaze steady. Kazia landed on the wolf’s head.

“Kazia!” Jaskier yelped, but the wolf went still, and then let out another very quiet howl. Jaskier felt Kazia soften, saw her feather down smooth.

“Oh,” she said. “She’s so sad.” She looked up at Jaskier. “I still don’t know what she is but— I’ve never heard a sound that sad.” Jaskier’s fingers curled into the wolf’s fur. He leaned forward, resting against her shoulder.

“That makes all three of us,” he said. “A fine group of sad, lonely outcasts, hmm?” He shifted, trying to spread the blanket so the wolf could lie on some it without leaving Jaskier cold and exposed. Kazia took off again, landing back on her perch on the branch. “Here,” he said to the wolf, patting the blanket. “You can stay the night with us, if you want.” The wolf’s tail wagged again — just a brief lash back and forth — and then it turned itself in a circle, settling down against Jaskier’s side.

He was not going to cry for how all the times he had wished Geralt would lie down beside him, to keep him warm in the night. But he curled a hand in the wolf’s fur and let himself be lulled by her quiet breaths. “You know,” he mumbled, just on the cusp of sleep, “if Geralt did have a daemon, I bet she’d look exactly like you.”

After breaking camp the next morning, Jaskier got barely a hundred paces before he found the carnage.

The graveir’s throat was torn out — arduously, ripped along the edges, its thick skin snagged again and again until its head was all but severed from its body. It smelled of rot, its fingers were bloody, and it had white wolf hair sticking out of its wounds. The wolf gave a quiet whine when Jaskier froze at the sight of the thing. He glanced down at her, back at the graveir, and back at the wolf.

“Did—” He swallowed thickly. “Did you do that?” he asked. The wolf looked up at him and barked once. She stalked over to the graveir, growling at its body. Jaskier felt suddenly very faint. He steadied himself against a tree. Kazia flitted around his head, concern radiating off her.

“That thing got so close to our campsite,” she said. “Way too close.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier said, not quite hearing himself. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Hey,” he called the wolf back over, and gave her a scratch behind the ears. “Good girl,” he told her. “Very good girl.” He looked up at Kazia. “I think she ought to come along as long as she wants to.” Kazia flitted down to land on his shoulder, puffing herself up territorially.

“As long as she understands that I’m your daemon.” Jaskier almost smiled, and tickled a finger over her head.

“Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite, Zizi,” he teased. He glanced down at the wolf again. She was smiling, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. She was clearly enjoyed the scratches. “Thank you,” he said, quietly. She howled in response, that low, piteous noise from last night, as if she dared not be any louder. Jaskier stood back up, hefting his pack, shifting the lute case against his back. “Right. I am not spending another night almost getting eaten alive, so let’s try and find the road again today.”

He traipsed off through the woods, leaving the mangled graveir behind him, Kazia flitting about his head and the mysterious wolf loping along at his side.

—————

(if it’s not super clear, that 100% is Geralt’s daemon. the conceit is that in this world part of becoming a witcher is being severed from your daemon, but Geralt’s escaped after that happened and she’s been wandering the wilderness. she’s lost a lot of herself, which is why she can’t speak and it’s iffy how much she understands, but she still remembers the smell of her lost human :’) and hopes that Jaskier can lead her back to him)

#the witcher #geraskier #answers #my writing #jaskier #fluffyblue-artnwriting

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btsmosphere · 3 years

Text

This is Rigged | KSJ

~summary: just a night in with your friends, courtesy of your boyfriend. Although he may have a slightly different grasp of the rules to you... lion shifter!Jin x reader ~word count: 1.9k ~shifter au, domestic fluff Rating: pg ~warnings: basically nothing, ...the game is rigged? allusions to Lion King spoilers, that’s not a real warning but better to be safe haha ~a/n: this is my secret santa gift for the incredible Eva @aroseforyoongi!! I really wanted to write something you would like as a huge thank you not just from me, but from everyone at the net for being such an amazing team mom! Joining @thebtswritersclub is honestly one of the best things I’ve done this year and I appreciate all the hard work you put in to make it so amazing💖😊as for this fic, I have never written a shifter au before, but I couldn’t get over this idea, so I went with it. I hope you enjoy it!

“If you guys win?”

“You give me a kiss,” he said, smirking (you wish you could call it infuriating, but really, who were you kidding? It was endearing).

“Is that so?” you popped your hands on your hips, “and if I win?”

“Then… I’ll give you a kiss.”

“Ah,” you nodded, “I see. That is a good incentive. You’re on.”

Indulgent smile spreading onto his features, Jin leaned down with his lips puckered, but you ducked out of the way, holding him off at the shoulders.

“Not until I’ve won later!” you laughed, running from the kitchen and leaving him to fume loudly behind you.

“Yah! Don’t make me get my claws out!” he called.

But you knew he was already collecting up the dishes to wash.

Jin was sure he had convinced you to let your friends come for games night. In reality, you were going to say yes no matter what – they were your friends – but the promise of some love from your boyfriend was definitely worth stalling for.

To be honest, he was probably more than happy with giving you the love anyway. Aside from the obvious fact that he was your boyfriend, you had been working hard this holiday and he wanted to spoil you.

So some love, from him and from your friends, was certainly in order.

You knew his tactics for cheering you up. He probably knew you knew. But it didn’t matter – they worked perfectly every time, just as your ways worked for him when he was stressed or down. Good food was a must, and usually you two would end up on the couch as you stroked your fingers through his mane, hearing his deep purrs to affirm his lighter mood.

Of course Jin’s plan to make you feel great was a little more elaborate than that, only allowing you to snatch hugs while he called your friends and prepared what he called ‘nibbles’.

Eventually, you resigned yourself to stealing the snacks, although this didn’t go down well with Jin. After what must have been the sixth time he caught you sneaking away some popcorn, he promptly attacked you with a bear hug, pinning you onto the sofa while you squealed with laughter.

“I should have known,” you giggled, “all I had to do to get your attention was steal your food!”

“Okay, I get it,” he conceded, “let’s wait here until they arrive.”

Peppering your face with kisses, he slid off you and tucked you against his side. Though he flicked on the TV, neither of you paid much attention to it as you swung your legs over his lap and curled up against him, content with each other’s presence until the doorbell sounded.

Tae rummaged in the little basket Jin had prepared, eventually producing a card, being sure to cup his hands and hide it from sight. A smug smile stretched across his mouth.

Tucking the card into his pocket, he swaggered forwards to stand in front of you all; you were spread across the two sofas, according to which team you were on.

And so it began.

“A movie!”

“4 words!”

“First word…”

As he bent his knees, the shouting started straight away. Trying to focus on him instead of laughing at your friends, you watched as he settled in a crouching position.

“Kneeling!”

“Stooping!”

“Floor!”

“Why would it be the floor, Hobi?”

“Maybe it is, you never know!”

“It’s not the floor, look, he’s shaking his head!”

“Hey!”

Two ears had sprouted from Taehyung’s head, and now fuzzy stripes made themselves known on his face. Curling his fingers, he made a pouncing motion as he showed his claws.

“Scary?” Jimin guessed first.

“Hunter!”

Suddenly the frown melted from your face, the answer clear to you.

“Crouching! It’s Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon!”

Clapping his hands, Tae stood back up again, a proud smile coming your way. As he squeezed back in beside you on the sofa, you glanced at Jin. But though you had expected him to glare back at you from fear of losing your little game, however pointless it was, instead you were met with a cocky quirk of the eyebrows.

However, the way Yoongi’s eyes widened when he read his card gave you back some confidence. His cheeks turned bright red, but he huffed anyway and positioned himself in the middle of the room.

“I-I don’t know how to…”

“Yes you do Yoongi,” Jin urged, “get on with it.”

You weren’t sure you had ever seen a bigger eye roll than the one Yoongi gave, but he complied anyway.

“Okay… one word! Film?” Joon started, leaning forwards and studying Yoongi’s gestures.

“Nonono, that’s a musical,” Jungkook interrupted.

Yoongi nodded and moved on. Your eyes nearly popped out of your head when he turned to the side and started strutting, swishing his butt about with his hands on his hips. For someone who looked as embarrassed as he did right now, he was really going for it.

“Sexy!”

“Scarring?”

“Oh my god, is it Burlesque?”

“You’ve watched that?”

“It’s not Burlesque, look!”

The next to resort to shifting, Yoongi was now prancing around in a circle with his tail in the air.

“Tail! Bum!”

“Cat-rocity!”

“Jin, shut up-“

Even though you knew he was the most versatile shifter of the group, it still surprised you when he jumped and landed as a tabby cat, then a black one.

“Cheating! Cheating!”

“Hobi, Tae literally shifted in your round too.”

“I know! I know!” Jungkook leapt from his seat, hand dancing in the air, “It’s Cats! Is it Cats?”

“Yep,” Yoongi replied gruffly.

Turning back to his fully human form, he crossed his arms tightly as he sat back down.

“This is rigged!” you complained, “Charades is so much easier when you can change shape!”

“We can only change to one animal,” Jin replied as he got up to hand the basket back to your team.

“Sure does come in handy when your card is Cats, though,” you quipped in return, but Jimin had already got up.

Turning your attention back to the front, you watched as he swooped into the air, suddenly a small bundle of wings and feathers. Of course, he apparently had a tailor-made card as well. In fairness, it was quite entertaining.

Stopping in mid-flight, he brought a wing across his chest (over-dramatic, even as a bird) and flopped to the ground, landing in human form again, eyes closed.

“Death!”

“Getting shot!”

“Floor!”

“Hobi, what films do you know called ‘floor’?”

Back on his feet, Jimin was sticking his tongue out, waving his hands at the side of his head.

“Rude!”

“Childish?”

“A… a dead child!?” (he had fallen back to the floor)

“Time’s up!” Jin exclaimed then, eliciting groans from the three of you who slumped back on the sofa.

“Come on guys, it was ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’” Jimin got to his knees, “see? Mocking… bird… killed…”

“Too hard,” grumbled Tae.

Jin’s team was up next, and although they guessed Kung Fu Panda correctly, you thought it a fitting consequence that Joon was now stuck with fluffy black ears on his head. Usually a bear shifter, he clearly didn’t find it as easy as Yoongi to change it up.

Refusing to look at your scheming boyfriend, you focussed hard during the next round, not liking the fact his team was drawing ahead of yours.

However, their next turn crashed and burned, not without an intensely heated debate about the differences between Spiderman and Antman and how to suitably portray them.

Next up, you reached for a card, hoping you didn’t get a difficult one. If Jin could manage to fix the cards for the shifters among you, you hoped he would go easy on you.

Apparently not.

Despite not being able to change shape, you thought you acted out the Wolf of Wall Street pretty well. Jimin guessed it just in time, thankfully before you resorted to any of the… well, more explicit content.

Perhaps Jin had been hoping for that, you thought, smirking back at him as you took your seat.

By now the other team were back around to Yoongi, who, handily, had to act out the Cat in the Hat.

It didn’t take long.

From here on in, the game devolved into Jin’s laughter and your groans as the cards magically got harder for your team. Seriously, how can you go about Pulp Fiction in charades?

And then there was Jin, roaring in all his majesty and putting an imaginary crown on his head. There was no need for Jungkook to look so proud when he guessed the Lion King, anyone could have seen that. You were surprised at how long it took them, Jin having to throw himself from a cliff screaming and howling for them to guess it.

But who were you kidding? Of course your boyfriend was going to try to sabotage you, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t having a good night, mind completely away from your work.

By the time you waved your friends off, you had laughed yourself sore at Hobi’s silly guesses and Jin’s dramatics, stuffed yourself with the damn nibbles and were ready to fall into bed and sleep happily.

On leaving the shower later on, you found Jin already waiting for you in bed. Seeing you, he grinned – that endearing infuriating grin – and spread his arms wide.

“Where’s my kiss, then?”

“No way!” you scoffed, sitting on the edge of the bed with hand over your heart, “you rigged that game!”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You liar, Mr Lion-the-Witch-and-the-Wardrobe. We totally would have won!”

“But you didn’t,” he smirked.

You narrowed your eyes at him, only to be assaulted by light tickles to your sides.

“Hey!” you gasped, suddenly finding yourself underneath him. And gosh, no matter how long you had been dating this man, he never failed to make the blood rush to your cheeks.

Triumphant smile adorning his face, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your lips. They lingered there, and only pride stopped you pulling his face closer still. When he eventually pulled away, a grin spread onto your face.

“Ha! You kissed me! I did win!!”

Eyes widening almost comically, a look of anguish quickly took over Jin’s face.

“Aargh! Nooo!” he cried, melodramatic as always as he flopped back to his pillow.

The sound of your laughter was all that followed as you climbed into bed next to him, satisfied when his arms circled your waist to tug your closer. Until he started trying to pull you over to face him.

“Give me a kiss!”

“Nope!” you laughed, “I won!”

A valiant effort was made on your part to squirm away from your boyfriend, ending with several kisses to your face and neck as he aimed for, and missed, your mouth. Coming in breathless gasps, your laughter rang out in the dim room.

“Spoilsport,” he muttered eventually, though he failed to sound genuinely bitter.

Finally dissolving, you hid your giggles in his chest as you settled in his arms. It was only once your eyes slid shut that he whispered into your hair.

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Pulling away to look at him, even in the low light, you smiled widely.

“Of course I did! Thank you, Jinnie.”

(It’s safe to say you both kissed each other, in the end)

Thank you for reading! To Eva, happy holidays and I hope you liked it!💞

taglist: @aianloveseven @preciouschimine

My main masterlist here

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queenxxxsupreme · 4 years

Note

Heeeey you absolutely queen of writing 😍 hope you're doing ok. Can I request prompts 2 and 35 from the angst prompt list for Eskel x reader, please?

A/N: Aw babe you’re too sweet! This was longer than I expected it to bed XD Thank you thank you thank you to my hubby @writingawaymylife for helping me with the ending and with literally everything else.

Warning: Angst, mentions of blood, no comfort, sadness

Eskel hadn’t moved for the last three hours. He sat in a chair across the room from your bed, his elbows on his parted knees and his hands over his ears. His head hung as he tried to fight off the dark thoughts clouding his mind.

Your screams echoed in his ears, sending chills down his spine and making his stomach twist into knots. You begged for him to help you, to save you from the bruxa that had taken you hostage. His enhanced hearing was a curse.

He could still smell your metallic blood and salty tears. The image of you laying on the floor covered in crimson burned his eyes. There was so much blood that Eskel was sure you’d bleed out in a matter of seconds.

With tears in your eyes, you had managed to lift your head, weak and trembling. A ghost of a smile, fleeting and relieved, flickering on to your bloody lips. Your witcher was there, your savior had come to rescue you. But was he too late?

A hand on his shoulder made the witcher flinch. He lifted his head from his hands then turned his head to look at Geralt, who knelt beside him.

“You need to go change your shirt.” The White Wolf said, encouraging his brother with a hand on the shoulder.

The chest of the brunet witcher’s gray tunic was covered in your blood.

“No. I’m-I’m not leaving until she wakes up.”

“You have a while.” Yennefer said, glancing over to the two wolves. “She won’t be waking for hours. A day at the very least.”

Still, Eskel shook his head. He was too stubborn to leave the room.

He couldn’t look over to the mage, afraid he’d catch sight of your mauled, pale body.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“It’s too soon to tell. It’s only been five or so hours since she was attacked. With the spell I’ve put her under, her body will produce blood at a quick pace as well as heal the damage done to her organs. She lost so much she was nearly dead.”

“I know.” Eskel muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Eskel.” Lambert spoke. For once, his tone was serious. “Y/N’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

Eskel said nothing.

***

Quiet chatter pulled you from your slumber. Your eyes fluttered open to find yourself staring at a ceiling.

Lambert was the first to notice your change in breathing, to hear the way you took a slightly deeper breath than what was normal. He stood to his feet and moved to your bedside.

“Welcome to the land of the living.”

“Hi, Lambert.” Your voice was raspy and your throat burned.

“How do you feel, Y/N?” Yennefer’s voice came from somewhere in the room.

You lifted your head, wincing just slightly.

“Worse than I did that time I took an arrow to the stomach in Redania.” You admitted.

Lambert helped you sit up, sturdy hands providing support where you needed. Geralt placed pillows behind your back so you could lean against them.

You thanked both witchers and looked around the room.

Yennefer stood at the foot of your bed, one hand resting on the wooden footboard. Jaskier and Geralt were crowding the chest that sat at the foot of your bed. Lambert had returned to his chair near the White Wolf and the bard.

You were about to ask for Eskel when your eyes caught sight of him. He stood by the door, brows drawn together just slightly as he watched you. He seemed hesitant on moving, like one wrong move would make you disappear.

You could see the way he locked his jaw, see the muscle pulling taut beneath his lightly tanned skin. His fingers curled into fists by his sides.

If he would’ve been able to, he would be crying now. But witchers couldn’t cry. They were physically incapable of it. That didn’t mean that Eskel didn’t feel the burning in his nose or the sting in his eyes or the ache in his chest. It was there, just unaccompanied by tears.

“Eskel.” His name fell from your lips in a soft murmur. You were a little confused. Why was he not by your bedside? Why hadn’t he been the first one you saw?

“We’ll give you both some time-,”

“No.” Eskel cut Jaskier off, pausing for just a second to clear his throat. “No. I-I need to go.”

“Eskel, wait!” You tried to call for him but your voice was just a squeak. Tears sprung to your eyes quicker than you could register.

“He’s just….” Geralt tried to explain but he couldn’t find the right words.

“He was afraid he lost you.” Jaskier helped out, giving you a soft smile that did little to comfort you. “We all were.”

“But why-why did he go?” Your eyes remained where your witcher had once been. “I-I just-I….”

You wanted him to hold you, to kiss you and tell you that he was there to keep you safe. You wanted to be in his arms and to know that you’d be safe so long as he was there.

“I’ll go check on him.” Lambert sighed, slipping out of the room.

“It’s probably best that he doesn’t go alone.” Yennefer said, her words directed to Geralt.

“Right.” The witcher nodded.

You brought your gaze down to your hands, eyes closing tightly as you tried to think of what could be going through his head.

***

You had been up for three hours now, chatting quietly with Jaskier and doing whatever Yennefer asked of you.

Jaskier was telling you a story about one of his times in Cidaris when he trailed off from his story. There was shouting from somewhere outside of the room.

“You fucking idiot, Eskel! Why the hell would you do that?” Lambert’s loud voice could be heard.

“Lambert, I don’t have a choice-,” Eskel tried to protest but the young witcher wasn’t having it.

“Like hell you do!”

“Enough!” Geralt’s baritone voice drowned out Lambert’s.

You looked at the door, brows drawing together.

“What’s wrong with them?” You asked quietly, hoping Yennefer had the answer.

“Hard to tell with those three.” Yennefer said.

Eskel appeared in the very doorway that you were looking at.

“Come on, Jaskier.” Yennefer moved towards the door, brushing past the witcher.

Jaskier gave you a smile and a pat on the leg before he left.

You chewed your bottom lip, fingers fisting the blankets so tightly you were sure you’d break one of them.

Eskel stayed in the doorway, eyes on you. The longer you held his gaze, the more you felt your composure slipping away. The fear you felt when the bruxa had you, the absolute terror that ran through your veins at the thought of never being able to see him again.

“Please-Please just…. just hold me.” You practically whimpered. You were trembling, shaking in fear. Had you done something wrong? Why was he avoiding you? Why had he said nothing to you when you woke up?

Eskel knew it was better to just stay there, to keep distance between you two while he told you what needed to be done. However, the irrational part of him that longed to feel your lips upon his cheek and to smell your floral scent told him to hug you. He was allowed to share one last hug with you before he left.

He crossed the room cautiously before sitting down on the edge of the bed next to you. The sight of your Y/C/E eyes filled with tears made his chest hurt and ache.

“I-I’m sorry that-that I scared you.” You whispered. You wanted to throw yourself into his arms and bury your face in his neck. But you knew how flighty he was, how easy it was to spook him. You didn’t want to do anything that might cause him to run again.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, doll.” His rough voice was quiet as he embraced you in a hug.

You melted into his arms, ignoring the stinging pain in your abdomen as you wrapped your arms beneath his. You were thankful for Yennefer’s magic. Because of it, you weren’t able to feel the excruciating pain of your ribs having been broken in numerous places.

You buried your face in his chest where his tunic was unlaced, tucking your nose into the base of his neck where his collarbone was. Your tears were warm against his cold flesh, your hair tickling his skin.

He rubbed your back for a moment before bringing his hand up to cradle the back of your head, holding you close. He hid his nose in your hair, eyes closing tightly as he breathed in your scent.

“I-I was so scared.” You hiccuped. “I didn’t think I’d-that I’d ever see you again.”

He softly hushed you, whispering into your hair that he loved you and that you would be safe.

After what felt like hours but could have only been a few minutes, you pulled your head from his chest to look into his honey eyes. His hand came up to cup your face, the rough pad of his thumb brushed a tear from your cheek.

“Y/N…. I don’t…. I don’t think it’s wise that I see you anymore.” His words, though quiet and timid, hurt you more than any bruxa ever could’ve.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart stuck there, preventing you from breathing. You shook your head, brows drawing together as you gripped the sleeves of his tunic, now terrified to let him go.

“I know it won’t be easy-,”

“Eskel, no. No, no, no. This-This doesn’t have to happen.” You cut him off, your words coming out a jumbling mess.

“Yes, it does.” He carefully pried both of your hands off of him and stood up. “I-I can’t see you like that again. Covered in…. Almost dead.”

There was a voice in his head, screaming at him for doing this. You were the only light in his life, the only solace he’d ever been able to find in the hellish world.

But he knew this was what was right for you. It didn’t matter how he felt. This was for your safety and wellbeing. He couldn’t live with himself if you died.

“But I-I didn’t die, Eskel! I’m-I’m right here! I’m here!” You reached out to take his hand but he pulled away. You drew your hand back to your chest as if he burned you. The way he pulled away made your stomach twist up into knots, a storm beginning to brew. “Eskel, my love-,”

“If you had died, Y/N, I would’ve….” He shook his head, turning his back to you as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Eskel, but you love me! And I-I love you! More than I can ever tell you.”

“I love you. That’s why I can’t do this to you. I can’t keep you.”

“Please, Eskel, just please let-let me choose what I want!” You cried. “I’m afraid to live without you!”

“Are you afraid to die?” He turned to face you, those golden eyes you loved so much hardened. He was shutting down, pushing you away. That would make it easier for him to leave. “Because that’s what will happen to you if you stay with me.”

“I’m not afraid to die.” You shook your head. “I’m only afraid to lose you.”

The witcher shook his head, turning once more to leave the room.

“Eskel, wait!”

He stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn to face you.

“If-If you are honest about wanting to do this, just give me one last kiss.” You murmured, tears trailing down your cheeks. You brushed them away with the back of your hand. “Please.”

He turned around to face you, golden eyes gazing at you intently. He breathed deeply, doing his damnedest to keep the pain and anger at bay. He needed to stay controlled. He needed to do this.

You were shaking like a frightened fawn, glossy eyes watching him, silently begging him to change his mind. Your fingers tightly fisted the blanket you were covered with. Your heart raced with panic. What would you do without him?

His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath. Then he crossed the room.

You were afraid to reach out and touch him first, to scare him away. So you let him make contact first, his large and calloused hands cupping your face and tilting your head up so he could once more look into your eyes.

Seeing you so afraid and so upset was almost enough to make him change his mind. But then his thumb brushed across your cheekbone where a bruise rested. He locked his jaw for a moment, reminding himself why this was happening. You needed to be safe.

“This is for you.” He murmured, warm breath flushing over your face.

“I don’t want this.” You barely whispered, voice cracking as you gently shook your head in his hands. One of your hands came up to hold his wrist, the other finding the back of his neck to pull him into you.

Your lips met with a bruising force. You would miss him, his touch, his taste, his scent, his voice. The bristles of his scruff scratched against your soft cheek as you gripped him firmly, afraid to let go.

Your sweet scent filled his senses, making him forget everything for a moment. His rigid form loosened beneath your touch. His tongue traced across your bottom lip before he kissed you once more.

Eskel’s kisses always had the ability to make things better, to calm you down or cheer you up. But this time, all you could feel was fear and abandonment.

He pulled away but kept within inches of your face.

“Please, Eskel. Think it over.”

His eyes opened to look at you. Your eyes were still shut but a tear was running down your cheek.

You immediately found him when your eyes opened. His yellow gaze was hardened, devoid of emotion. You hated that he was so good at that, so good at pushing his emotions to the side even though he knew it would do him no good.

Silence fell between you, tense and scary. He pulled away from you, gently prying your hand off of him and stepping away. He let out a sigh, his brows drawn together in pain. He shook his head. You could see the pain seep on to his face. He didn’t want this either.

For a split second, you felt joy and relief, thinking he changed his mind.

But then he took two more steps back, bringing his hand up to his face.

“I’ve had plenty of time to think this through.”

You wanted nothing more than to follow him, to chase after him and make him listen to you. But you were bound to the bed, unable to get up because of your injuries. You were trapped, watching the love of your life walk away while there was nothing you could do about it.

Your muscles ached with how tense you were and how you were shaking as if you were freezing cold. You weren’t sure if it was from the pain from your wounds or if it was from the pain of your chest.

The door closed quietly behind Eskel, and another silence consumed the room, consumed you.

Your eyes remained on the door as you hoped and prayed that it would open again, that he would come back and fix what he had done.

The door stayed shut, and the silence reigned.

Taglist: @pressedinthepages @MishaFaye @whitewolfandthefox @ayamenimthiriel @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @wolfyland07 @belalugosisdead @persephonehemingway @romancebibliophilia @keira-hulmaster @dinonuggs69 @greatestauthorofmygeneration @shadow-hunters-lover @dancingwith-thesunflowers @tedi-fach-las @thecomfortofoldstorries @raspberrydreamclouds @natkowaa @disasteren @weathervanes-my-oneandlonely @onlyhenrys @crazybutconfidentaf @wackylurker @criminaly-supernatural @Magpie343 @permanently-exhausted-witcher @hina-chans-stuff @the-space-between-heartbeats @havenoffandoms @carriebee1 @ger-bearofrivia @naominami @thefirelordm @writingawaymylife @reaganjenelle @badassspaceprincess @theawkwardpedestrian @scarlettwitcher @runawayolives @badassspaceprincess @just-a-sad-donut @summersong69 @an--actual--human--disaster @she-wolfoftheinquisition

#angst prompts #Eskel angst #eskel x reader angst #eskel x reader #the witcher

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thegreenwolf · 3 years

Photo

Betting on the Ponies (originally posted at my blog at https://thegreenwolf.com/betting-on-the-ponies/)

(Above: Breyer Classic Arabian Stallion made over into a winged unicorn with real wings from a barnyard mix rooster I raised for meat.)

If you’ve been paying attention to my social media or my shop links at all, you may have noticed that I haven’t really been posting much in the way of new hide and bone art for the past year or so. It’s not that I’ve stopped; I still make some fun things for my Patrons on Patreon every month, and I make some bone, tooth and claw jewelry on Etsy to order. But ever since events dried up, I haven’t been regularly making new batches of costume pieces or other Vulture Culture art. My usual M.O. was to make all sorts of new things for an upcoming event, and then once the weekend was done and I was home, post whatever hadn’t sold on Etsy. And since there haven’t been events…well…I’ve just found myself doing other things.

Some of that is because I’ve had to scramble to make up for the lost income; events were a pretty big chunk of my “pay”, and losing them meant having to tighten the belt. I also lost several other income streams thanks to the pandemic making it unsafe to be around groups of people, which didn’t help. So I had to rely on what was left, along with adopting a few new sources of bits and bobs of cash here and there.

And, honestly, I’ve needed a bit of a break. I’ve been making hide and bone art for over two decades now, and while I love it, any artist eventually wants to explore different media for a while. Sure, I’ve stretched my Vulture wings in new directions, going from costume pieces and ritual tools to assemblages and the Tarot of Bones. But ever since the Tarot came out, I’ve been feeling….not really burned out, but a little creatively wrung out, at least. I’ve really appreciated my Patrons and Etsy customers who have helped me keep a hand in that particular medium, while also allowing me to head off in other directions, too.

Which is to say that if you have been paying attention to the aforementioned social media and shops, you may have also noticed that I’ve been increasing the number of customized Breyer model horses and other animals I’ve made over the past couple of years. This might seem like a heck of a departure from skulls, bones, and other dead things. But in a way it’s really me getting back to long-neglected roots.

(One of my favorite customs I’ve done on one of my favorite molds, the Breyer semi-rearing mustang. )

See, I was a horse girl when I was a kid. Or, rather, I was a wannabe horse girl. I never got to lease or own a horse, and even now in my early 40s I’m still about the greenest rider you’ll find. (Seriously, I need one of those kid-proof horses that’s seen it all, done it all, and is probably more trail-smart than I am.) But I was obsessed with horses from a young age. It started with my very first My Little Pony that I got Christmas morning, 1983 (Applejack, if you must know), and then exploded further with a book on how to draw horses and my first Breyer model (Black Beauty 1991 on the Morganglanz mold) in my preteens. Horse actually took over for Gray Wolf for a few years as my primary animal spirit during my teens, so we have a very long history indeed.

And since I couldn’t have a real horse, I ended up collecting model horses, mostly Breyers with a few old Hartlands for variety. I had over 100 at the peak of my collecting, but I had to sell them all in my early twenties when I was between jobs. In hindsight it was probably for the best because having less stuff made it easier to get through the period of my life where I was moving about once a year, but I do miss that collection.

Back then I did my part to add to the artistic end of the model horse hobby, mostly with badly blended acrylic paint jobs and terrifying mohair manes and tails. But it made me happy, and that was the most important thing. Even though I only knew a couple other collectors in my little rural area, and my only real connection to the hobby was through the quarterly Just About Horses magazine Breyer put out, my collecting really made me happy in the same way that my first fur scraps and bones would catch my interest a few years later.

2020….well, it sucked. We all know that. Pandemic, political stress, financial roller coasters and more made it a really tough year for anyone who wasn’t wealthy enough to hide away and weather it all. And many of us found ourselves with more time at home, in need of distractions and solace. It ended up being a time where many people rediscovered their love of childhood hobbies. I’m one of those people. I’ve been slowly edging my way back in for the past few years, starting with repainting a few old Breyer models found at thrift stores, and then gaining momentum as I found that not only was I much better at customizing these models than I used to be, but I was having fun without the pressure to make a living off of it. (Yes, I love my hide and bone art, but when an art form is your bread and butter, it changes your relationship to it. But that’s a post for another time…)

So 2020 saw me really ramp up my customization efforts. I had to stop for a few months in summer and fall when I moved to a spifftacular new living space on the farm I’ve been working on the past few years (with, by the way, THE best studio space EVER!) but as the days shortened I found myself making more dedicated time to repainting and otherwise customizing models. I even started keeping a few of the models I’d bought to customize that were in better condition to create a small, but slowly growing original finish collection, and that really helped me feel like I was back in the (not actually a) saddle.*

That’s why a well-established artist of organic, pagan-influenced arts made from fur and leather and bone and feather suddenly started painting all these secondhand plastic ponies. It’s giving me that deep injection of childhood nostalgia balanced with adult skill and perspective, and it’s offered me a much-needed break from the exhausting schedule I’ve been living the past decade or so. Because suddenly, even with the time spent rearranging my income opportunities to make sure I could stay afloat, I found myself with a little time that hadn’t been scheduled to death, and when I thought about what I wanted to do with that time, I gravitated toward one of the few creative outlets in my life that was purely for fun.**

(Yes, this IS fan art of “The Last Unicorn”! I used a Breyer Stablemate rearing Arabian for the unicorn, and a Breyer Spanish fighting bull for the Red Bull. A LOT of fun to make this particular project.)

In a way having all my events canceled was one of the best things that happened to me, because it made me slow the fuck down. I no longer had several weekends a year where I had to spend weeks beforehand making art and otherwise preparing to be away from all my farm responsibilities for 4-7 days at a time, with all the packing and moving and setup and vending and teaching and teardown and going home and unpacking and exhaustion that goes with each event. I realized just how much each one was taking out of me, especially as I’ve gotten older. And I also recognized how much pressure I had been putting on myself to ALWAYS MAKE MORE STUFF FOR ETSY EVERY WEEK OR ELSE.

So the model horses are really sort of a symbol of the childhood joy I’ve managed to recapture, wresting time and energy back from my workaholic tendencies. I’ve even been thinking about what my professional life is going to look like once the pandemic eases up enough to allow events again, and whether I’ll put the same amount of time toward vending and and teaching at conventions and festivals as I used to. (There are a few favorites that I’m not going to miss for anything, so don’t worry about me dropping out entirely.) But for the first time in a very long time, I’m relearning to prioritize myself, and figuring out that maybe I don’t have to go hell-bent for leather every week, every year, in order to keep the bills paid and the critters fed.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay for this dead-critter-artist, pagan-nonfic-author, teacher-vendor-farmer, to indulge herself with something fun, and bet on the ponies to help her get through the tough times.

(P.S. Amid everything going on, I am back to working steadily on my next book, which I mentioned in this blog post almost a year ago. As a recap, its working title is Coyote’s Journey: Deeper Work With the Major Arcana, and it’s a deep dive into that section of the tarot using pathworkings with the animals I assigned to the major arcana of the Tarot of Bones. It’s not just a Tarot of Bones book, though; it’s a good way to get a new, nature-based angle on the majors in general, as well as hopefully gain a better understanding of yourself. My goal is to have it out later this year, self-pub of course, and at the rate I’m going it may end up being my longest book! Stay tuned, and if you want to get excerpts of the work-in-progress, become my Patron for as little as $1/month!)

*At the height of my “horse girl” phase, I had a really beat-up pony saddle I’d bought for ten bucks at a yard sale, and got a cheap saddle stand for it and put it in my room. And yes, I occasionally sat on it and pretended I was riding an actual horse. Hey, it made me happy at the time, and it was the closest I was ever going to get apart from a trail ride every few years.

**Yes, I do sell my customs. But I don’t make them on a schedule, I take commissions VERY sparingly, and I’m getting to stretch some new creative muscles, especially in the realms of sculpting and painting, so this is primarily for my enjoyment. The sales are just a side benefit.

(My ode to the forests of the Pacific Northwest, a Breyer deer repainted to resemble the Columbian black-tailed deer that frequent the farm I live on, along with hand-sculpted Amanita muscaria mushrooms, real and fake moss, and real lichens from fallen branches.)

#Breyer #model horses #vulture culture #artwork #artist

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infinitum-imaginaerum · 4 years

Text

Graffiti | Jaehyun | 05

Badboy!Tagger Jaehyun | Series Words | 5,000+ Warnings | Language, Mature themes, Blood, Violence

04 | 05 | 06

The way his nose brushed against yours sent a tingle through your spine, bringing you up on your tippy toes to shift between his feet. His eyes had fluttered closed with the proximity, something in him begging to make the step, but you could hear his teeth grind together, feel his fingers covered in crusting paint drop from your cheeks to furl into your jacket against the small of your back. The shift of his feet ground against the loose gravel on the pavement, and that was the only sound besides his soft breathing mingling with your own that you could hear. One of your hands slithered away from the back of his neck and down the curve of his chest, against his immaculate black v-neck under his leather jacket where you could feel the rapid beat of his heart. You leaned into him a little further, trying to give him some encouragement, and his breath hitched a bit.

“You should be afraid of me. You shouldn’t be here. You should be staying as far away from me as you can,” he reasserted stubbornly, trying to tug you away from him with the loose fabric of your light jacket.

“And why would I do that when you’re the only reason I’m alive?” you asked him in return, a breathy reply to his statement.

“Don’t say that,” he growled, trying to sound intimidating, but deep in there you could hear the wounded wolf in that growl. “The only reason—”

“You and I both know that what you’re about to say isn’t true,” you interrupted. “Do you remember what you said to me when we first met? You couldn’t have forgotten, it wasn’t that long ago,” you continued, finding the flat of your feet again but that didn’t stop the way your gaze trailed down his chest where you were already drawing inane lines and shapes, remembering exactly what he said to you.

He scoffed, almost feeling mocked, and you could feel him shut off from you a little bit. “My apologies, a lot of things have happened in the days since I met you. Forgive me for not remembering,” he told you, but his politeness was more patronizing than anything, and it was intended to be that way.

Despite that, a small smile tugged at your lips as your gaze got lost in the dark cotton of his tee-shirt. “You introduced yourself to me, and said it was very nice to have saved my life. And ever since that day, you’ve continued to save my life, even when you think you’re not.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did, and then you put your jacket over my shoulders, took me home, asked for my phone number, and kissed the back of my hand.” You could see the tendons in his neck tense as he clenched his jaw before swallowing hard. “My guess is that something happened, which gave you this nick and damaged your hand, and then your whole demeanor changed because even though you’ve dealt with this for a long time, you understand that there’s someone else in the middle now, and for some reason, you think it’s all your fault.”

“Stop,” he pleaded again, the wound on his hand suddenly stinging like a fresh burn.

“But none of it is your fault. You didn’t do anything, so why beat yourself up about it? If I even remotely thought it was your fault, I wouldn’t keep coming back—”

“I’m going to kiss you if you don’t stop,” he interrupted, and suddenly his breathing was a little erratic, his grip turned into wide palms tugging you into him again, instead of trying to pull you away from him.

“But I do keep coming back, because something about you is so captivating, and speaks to the deepest parts of my soul, and I just can’t stay away from you,” you breathed, feeling his feet shift forward, right hand leaving your back to press against the wall to imprint another hand against his work. He pulled your arch deep into him, warm mouth slanting against yours to silence you for at least a moment so he could attempt to collect his thoughts. The way your arms draped back around his neck, relishing the kiss, drew a sigh against your mouth, a warm exhale from his nose against your face.

He was the first to break the kiss, but obviously wasn’t done. He readjusted, switching sides of your nose to recollect your lips in a kiss that was more ardent, definitely not as reserved as the first sweet lip-lock, a culmination of all the times he told himself it was a bad idea compounded into one. His hand pinned against the wall slipped away enough to turn you to a bare adjacent wall, but the second you hit it, he was pulling away again. The kiss broke quietly, but not without a quick protest of your gentle nip against his bottom lip that he swiped his tongue against a second later. He begged to touch your cheek with that paint stained hand, and so vainly attempted to wipe it away on the back of his jeans.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his firm chest first before looking up into his glittering gaze that looked down at you like the most fragile and beautiful piece of art he’d ever seen. His jaw was clenching, and he looked somewhat displeased.

“How can you just… break me down like that?” he asked softly, hardly a whisper. And the hand he’d tried so hard not to touch you with came up to put a paint streak against your cheek. You didn’t mind, you just looked up at him with a soft smile, eyes a little fluttery and all you could think about for a moment was the burn of his mouth against yours. One of your hands cupped the side of his neck, your gaze shifting between his eyes and his mouth and eventually guided him back down to you so you could collect his lips again.

This time, he pushed you into the wall with little reservations. Your warm tongue danced with his, and his hands took such a possessive grip of your hips to pull you against him that it almost made your head spin. His mouth was aggressive against yours, trying to collect more that there wasn’t to collect, heavy exhales through his nose a good indicator of his pent-up desires, but before he got too far, he broke the kiss again.

“You’re dangerous,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against yours while his eyes struggled to open.

“That’s funny, because you’ve been spending every day since I met you telling me how dangerous you are; I think your concept of dangerous is a little skewed,” you told him. The events that had happened leading up to this moment were gone from your immediate memory; all you knew was Jaehyun—his kiss and his warm body against yours.

“I think your concept of dangerous is skewed,” he told you with the quirk of his brow after pulling away from your forehead. “Why are you out looking for me, anyway, especially this late?” he asked you, gaze turning serious as the haze began to lift. He still had you pinned against the wall, a possessive grip around you as he looked down at you. There was a tenseness in his brow that you couldn’t quite place.

“You ignored me all day,” you reminded him.

His jaw tightened in frustration. He still hadn’t completely got through everything he should have been thinking about only to be interrupted to have to see you much too soon—not that he didn’t want to see you. A chain of events pushed those thoughts to the back because his primary focus became you in the face of danger once again because of him.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I’ve had a lot going on, thinking about you—the best way to protect you, the best way to make it easier on both of us…”

His explanation died a little bit with the way you placed a chaste kiss against his bottom lip. His shoulders slumped a little bit, but not in relaxation, more in defeat. The fire against his lips was a feeling he craved, now, and without much more to say, he cupped your jaw and kissed you once more.

“Duchess…,” he growled, frustrated with the way that every time he tried to build back up, you could push his blocks down so easily all over again. His hands took your hips, pushing you firmly against the brick of the building behind your back, putting you back up on your toes. His eyes looked over every detail of your face from your chin up to your eyes where he almost glared. It was the roughest gaze he’d ever given you, and it still wasn’t that rough. It was meant to be a warning, and you took it as such even knowing there wasn’t much, if anything, behind it.

“I’m serious,” he tried to remind you, but it was an attempt next to vain, “You’re in danger because of me.”

“I’d argue you are in danger because of me,” you replied, the quietness of your voice matching his as he tried to steer the conversation in a more serious direction, which is probably where it needed to be.

“I’ve always been in danger,” he said.

“But you arguably have to put yourself in situations now where you would otherwise avoid,” you said.

“And how do you know that for sure?”

“Because I’m going to bet that these injuries,” you started, taking the wrist of his damaged hand to remind the both of you of the injury that tainted it, “came on your way home from dropping me off, which is why your replies were delayed and spotty and why your attitude has changed so drastically.”

Jaehyun’s jaw clenched tightly; how was it that you could just look into his eyes for a moment too long and seem to know so much, or at least enough to keep him on his toes, to keep him guessing about you. You were still on your toes, pressed into that wall with Jaehyun’s feet shuffled in between yours and he looked at you like he had something to say, like he wanted to ask you how you knew about it or had enough to guess.

“Maybe it’s the way you said you’ve been thinking about the best way to protect me,” you added, as if to read his mind which was trying to figure out how you had made such an astute guess in the first place. Truth be told, he was coming to the realization of just how much you paid attention and how closely you did. Most things he has said to you, you probably remembered; the things you’ve seen, with and about him, were probably in permanent memory.

Somehow, the shiver that ripped through your body put all of that aside from his mind. His instincts were to protect you, even if that meant from the elements, and so he stepped away and shrugged his jacket off to whip around you before noting the time, noting the sleep in your eyes.

“It seems like no matter how I try to delay this talk, you’re insistent on having it; but if you don’t mind, let’s talk about it at your place, so at least I know you’re home safely,” he finally said to you after a few moments of looking over your features, especially noticing the way you sunk into his jacket, relishing the familiar warmth and scent of oakwood fire and a teakwood musk exclusive to Jaehyun. “And I’m not about to stand out here and watch you shiver,” he reminded you, and reached for your hand to gently bring it up to his lips to kiss against your knuckles as he looked deep into your eyes.

You conceded, at least for that. You wouldn’t stand for him shivering in placement of you, only guarded by the short sleeves of his black shirt and you could already see the goosebumps pricking at his skin; so, you nodded, and let his long fingers lace with yours to begin tugging you in the direction of your apartment building. In the back of your mind, you took solace in the fact that he would be safe inside the confines of your apartment for what you presumed might be the night as you sorted things out—although you weren’t sure too much about what there was to sort out.

It wasn’t a long walk to your place, but you still noticed the caution he used while navigating the streets, a caution he didn’t have before. You were starting to piece together the territory that surrounded this area—that it didn’t belong to Jaehyun and his boys, that he was on the wrong side of town taking you home. He walked as quickly as your legs would take you without breaking into a light jog, and you could feel the relief wash through the aura hanging over the two of you as you pushed through the doors of your complex and made it over to the elevator where he was quick to press the chrome polished circle to bring the carriage to the ground floor.

You looked up at the side of his face, noting the obvious millions of things going through his mind, all trying to find their spot at one time as he stared as his distorted reflection in the polished doors of the carriage, not even noting what floor you had pressed on the array of buttons before the arrival bell was signaling that it was time to come back to life. He followed you mindlessly down the hallway before coming across a door and he couldn’t be bothered to consciously remember the number that adorned it, as you were reaching into the inner pocket of your light jacket to produce your key to turn the lock and open the door.

Immediately, he was met by a rush of incense, a scent familiar to him which had woven in your hair and clothes and swirled in his airways now a handful of times. The couch-side lamp was on to greet you when you returned home, along with a number of unscented candles. He was slow to make his way into your home, feeling like he was entering another universe without permission, before you were finally able to get the door closed behind him and courteously retrieve him a glass of water and offered him a place to sit.

Your voice was merely a blur in his consciousness, so he opted to stand with that cool glass in his hand before he drank it all down. His quick scan hardly took in the dainty and simplistic features of your apartment which surrounded a plush living room set up.

“Jaehyun…” you finally said, as if triggering him to return to this dimension once more.

“He could have killed you,” he reminded you, his voice far weaker than it was before. “He could have killed you, and it would have gotten me.” For a moment, you thought you saw tears build in his eyes, watched the crop up against his water line as he stared into the abyss at some obscure corner of your apartment. He clenched his eyes closed tightly, and his jaw, as he staved off those emotions for a moment before he could feel your warm hands on his cheeks.

You finessed the glass out of his hand to place on the kitchen table, which you were standing all too close to just inside the doorway of your apartment, before your hands collected his cheeks again to make him look at you. His eyes were glassy, there was no mistaking it. Perhaps finally being within four walls that presumably protected the two of you without him having to be on high alert allowed him to really process one full thought—it was the thought at the forefront of his mind, that had been since Yuta had discovered you in danger in the open street.

He looked down at you, still donned in his jacket, before he couldn’t help but gather you in his arms, wrapping you tightly up at the waist to tug you into his firm body enough for him to slide his face into the crook of your neck—half hiding his face from you so that you couldn’t see, at least, his shattering resolve, and half just enjoying the very fact that warm blood was still pumping through your veins at a lively rate, that you stood in his arms drawing breath knowing that you could have easily been gone just an hour or so prior. The complexity of your situation now was beyond repair. There was an indescribable yet undeniable tug you had for each other; as it were, you were stuck between a rock (continuing the path you were on) and a hard place (splitting up knowing it wouldn’t solve anything). The way in which Jaehyun’s hands furled against you, pulling you impossibly closer, was perhaps a good indicator of his feelings, too. Not only that, but declaring that he had been trying to think of a situation that made it easier on the both of you… it seemed out of the question at this point—there was no easier option which was probably a reality he was also coming to the realization of.

“Why don’t we sit down?” you suggested, stroking through the toasted honey hair on the back of his head by which to soothe him, at least to the best of your ability. It took a moment, but he eventually rose from the crook of your neck only to nestle you against his chest and rest his chin atop your head, at least for another moment before he let you guide him over to your couch. He took a seat first while you stayed standing, wanting to really observe him. He was breathing deeply, trying to control anything that he could about the situation, but mostly himself, as he stared past you.

“I don’t get attached,” he reminded you, “much less like this, with you… I don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or whatever; but how can’t I when I’ve been thrown into such a decisive situation? I’ve been going over all the ways to try to make it easier, but nothing about leaving you, about going our separate ways, is going to help anything,” he said, reaching out for your hand to play with your fingers only to meet your eyes at the tail end of his thoughts. “How stupid, honestly, that you’d get trapped with me like this.”

That last sentence panged your insides, gave a sinking feeling in your stomach; he had always talked as if all he’s ever done is plague your very existence.

“You know I don’t think that,” you told him, voice tender as to not disturb him too much.

“No disrespect, but you’re a fool. I was a fool to ask to see you again, knowing the risks. But you were fool to not run when I said. You were a fool to try to see the best in me despite the situation I’ve now put us both in—”

“A situation you didn’t decide. You and Yejun can, in fact, exist on your own without each other. And if you don’t recall, they were after me before I even knew you, so what difference does it make now?”

“It makes a difference now because he has a personal vendetta against me which previously had nothing to do with you, and now, because of me, has everything to do with you, and only makes the situation now far more difficult because you…” he trailed off, making his way back to his feet to take both of your cheek in his warm hands to step you back just a tad. “You’re like my own personal grade of addiction,” he almost growled through his teeth as his eyes looked over your face, scanning it a couple of times. The paint that had dried against your cheek was peeling away the more he stroked against it with his thumb. “He can get to me with you… and that’s something I’m still trying to wrap my head around, so forgive me for not answering you as I should have.”

It was funny, the way the two of you pushed past all the events of the last two days, just left with each other, both on the verge of black eyes—yours which probably could have benefitted from a bag of frozen peas, because you were sure his already had—even ignoring the scrape of the gauze around his hand against your cheek. It was almost as if you had resigned yourself already to this being the norm with Jaehyun, without him having remind you a hundred times. You knew eventually it would be addressed; but a lot of confessions were going on beyond the fact that it was very early in the morning and the both of you needed sleep and probably a shower.

Jaehyun’s intense, yet affectionate, gaze was broken up by the incessant vibrating in his pocket. He took a deep breath, hard pressed to break away from you, but did so to finesse that phone out of his pocket to look at the caller ID as well as the time—nearly two thirty.

“Hello?” he answered hesitantly and stepped away from you, leaving you to stand in the middle of your living room with his only warmth being that of his jacket still slung across your shoulders. You tried not to listen too close to the conversation, but there wasn’t much else to focus on.

“Yes, we’re safe. No, I don’t need you to come get me. No. No, I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re staying,” you interjected, leaving no room for ifs, ands, or buts. Jaehyun peered over at you, a lull in the conversation. “I’m not asking. I’ll not let you go,” you reaffirmed. All he could do was nod hesitantly at your demand.

“It’s figured out. I’m good. No. No. Taeyong, no. It’s that or I leave now—”

“I just said—” Jaehyun leaned over to press a kiss against your cheek, covering the receiver, giving you a settling look that he wasn’t truly negotiating.

“Yes; I’ll be back early. Yes. I’m fine; I’ve survived worse on my own. Yes. Okay bye.” The range of emotions that crossed Jaehyun’s face incorporated the emotions of entire novel in that one phone conversation. He discarded his phone on the couch side table, knowing full well he’d be crashing on the couch for the night, or at least what was left of it. His words weren’t settling, at least not at the end.

“I don’t mean to intrude any more than I already have, but would you allow me to use your shower?” he asked hesitantly, nervously avoiding your gaze before you were softly taking his arm to take him through your apartment, through your room to the bathroom and rummaged through the linen closet for a fresh towel, fresh washcloth, and fresh bar of soap.

“Take all the time you need,” you told him, watching to overwhelmed expression on his face with just how accommodating you were being for him. You shut the door to the bathroom, leaving him to look around for a second. It was brightly lit, tidy as could be even with a countertop full of products of all arrays. Your shower looked easy enough to use after he opened the door shielded with opaque glass panes, so he got to it quickly. He would only take long enough to fog up the mirror with distinct purpose: he couldn’t stand to see himself in his own mirror, much less in yours—someone who should be putting distance between the two of you; it was still a severe reminder of the rift in his mindset over what he thought you deserved, which was better than him.

He returned to the living room still toweling his hair, concerned about a cover for his hand which he tried his best to keep out of the water, and cleared his throat to interrupt your determined making of the pullout couch for him to stay on. You startled in surprise and turned to him—tousled wet hair in his face, a shy smile on his lips, avoidant of your gaze before you were quick to take the towels from him, but immediately dropped them to the floor at the sight of his hand which you tugged into yours. It was red, angry, a tad bit bloody and not even touching the beginning stages of healing in your opinion. He wanted so desperately to pull it away from you, but didn’t want to cause a stink, either.

“It’s nothing,” he tried, “I just need a cover, if you have anything.”

“It’s not nothing! It’s deep… did you see a doctor?” you asked him, only for him to unceremoniously scoff in your face before apologizing.

“Dr. Yuta,” he joked. “It’s fine. It’s cleaned out and closed well I just…” he trailed off. It didn’t matter what he said, it wasn’t going to stave the concern knitting your brow together as you kept looking it over, again and again from a different angle as if it was going to change the fact. Once you’d gone through it with his hand, you were reminded of the cut on his face and looked up to him—that one was much more shallow, but still scabbed. “I’m fine,” he reiterated softly, gingerly taking your hand away from his face.

He towered over you, but it was comforting, especially as you looked up into his eyes to note the glitter of the night sky that shimmered in them. He looked at you tenderly, still holding onto your hand as he guided it back down to your sides. His damp hair still produced droplets of water that threatened to race down his face, but you couldn’t help to look past that, focused entirely on him, his warmth, his protection.

“Do you have a big bandaid I can put over it?” he asked you, almost jolting you back to life, frozen in time just looking up at him—a truly ethereal being with such complicated history you wanted to know so much about. You took a deep breath and turned to the kitchen without a word to find your stash of bandaids, finding the largest one you had which would suffice. For some reason, when he went to take it from your hands, you pulled it away from him.

“I’ll do it,” you said to him, hardly louder than a whisper as your eyes traveled from his cut and back up to his face. His expression was surprised, probably shocked that you had tugged it away from him. He opened his mouth, prompting for words to come out.

“Okay,” he barely breathed back, and observed as you opened the packaging and slipped the large bandaid out only to take his hand and turn it so the injured side was turned upwards. You flipped back the paper protectors and lined the pad as evenly over the cut as you could, skillfully pulling the protectors away to apply the bandaid squarely, rubbing the adhesive with your thumbs.

He couldn’t help but notice how soft your fingers where against his palm, how diligently you rubbed at the adhesive to make sure it wouldn’t come off, the caring way you looked down at your work, and somewhere in the depths of his very existence, he was convinced, for once, that you truly wouldn’t care about his past. That you would, as you claimed, appreciate it because it made him who he was, especially considering the circumstances of the past couple of days. Any sane person would be jarred by the experience, would be running to get away from it but you—you had to be insane.

“Has anyone ever told you how soothing and reassuring you are?” he asked you, seemingly out of the blue. You were zoning again, appreciating the warmth of his hand against yours, hardly noting his intense gaze as he looked down at you. You caught his gaze again, the question in your eyes so you didn’t even have to ask. “Your aura is just very collected, it’s refreshing.”

“I think you’re delusional,” you laughed, trying to push the blush that was pricking the nerves in your cheeks; you could feel it rising, and your hands finally fell from his. “Or, you just need some sleep,” you reminded him, turning to snatch the cup he drank out of from your dining room table to fill it back up with water from the filtered pitcher in your fridge just to pass him to set it next to his phone on the end table of your couch. “But, I think we both could use some sleep—it’s been an interesting couple of days,” you added with a laugh, trying to keep it a bit light.

He conceded with a laugh in return and moseyed over to where you were standing, almost gesturing him to the done-up couch. He looked it over for a moment; the first time he’d be sleeping on a ‘bed’ bigger than a twin since he could remember with more than one pillow that wasn’t flat as a board and a comforter with actual body to it. He looked over to you, zoning out again, and reached for your hand to bring it up against his lips to kiss against it several times between thinking of things to say and ultimately giving up.

“Rest easy,” he finally said, dropping your hand back to your side just to tuck some hair behind your ear affectionately.

“You, too,” you replied, looking seemingly right through him. He could see it was taking a toll, now, the more tired you became. That hand cupped your jaw, bringing your eyes up to his before they traveled down to your mouth—yet another decision to make—before finally letting you go, and watched you turn to disappear into your room.

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