#which are old and the colours faded and not outside trousers

[homunculus-argument]

Things I saw today on my visit to Helsinki:

Three rabbits in broad daylight in the middle of an open field as the bus drove by. Two of them were beating the shit out of each other.

It looks like those 90s style crop tops with short cap sleeves are back in fashion, countless of girls wearing them.

A laughing woman trying to pull a large dog into a vet's office. The dog wasn't having it.

An idiot needlessly crossing the same road twice in an attempt to find a path with more shade (me).

A 90s style goth wielding a black umbrella as a parasol to shield herself from the sunny day.

A tourist bus with japanese writing on the sign plate.

A child outside a fast food place screaming as if in pain, due to being forced to endure the torture of having sauce wiped off his face. Nobody involved in this situation seemed to be enjoying it.

Rainbow flags everywhere, in shop windows and on one person's balcony, in pins and clothing, even a whole staircase painted with the colours.

A woman walking a tiny mexican hairless, that looked like a really bulky, broad and tan bald chihuahua. Imagine if The Rock was a really small dog.

A very dapper older gentleman in flowing pinstripe trousers and a floral pattern shirt, walking and talking with a buff early 20s dude in a pastel polo shirt, who looked far too clean-cut and tidy to be sporting the elbow spiderweb tattoo that he had.

The flag of Ukraine flowing over the central train station.

A man with a convenience store hot dog running to escape a particularly persistent and aggressive seagull (also me).

A comic book store with real oldies like Star Trek and classic Donald Duck comics on display at the window, which had been there for so long that the colours had faded into nothing but the shades of blue and pale pink.

A spandex biker halting an electric scooter by attempting to dodge the faster vehicle by halting in the middle of the bikepath sideways, therefore physically blocking the entire road.

An old hearse, painted dark brown and decorated with fur dice.

[itsmarlboro]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ Gardenia ”

Based on the flower shop au I mentioned before. Really silly because I just want them to be happy.

Wednesday. He wasn't able to remember the number but he was sure it was between 25 or 27. It didn't matter, either way.

Maybe the old man would nag him for being so forgetful and not taking proper notes in the huge red, and already worn out, book he had in the desk but that was something he would take care of by the end of the week. As of now, the issue was different.

Xue Yang started working at this vintage flower shop about two mo the ago, or so —because yes, he wasn't sure either which day was the first—, and it was good so far. Yes, leaving school was probably not the best idea if he was aiming for a brilliant future full of money and success but, honestly? too many useless information he was not having it, at all. Maths? as long as he could sumn up all the numbers when eating outside and being able to rest the amount he needed to pay daily bills it was fine. He didn't need to know about finding the X in some weird and complicated equations. He wasn't going to be an architect or an engineer. Same with the rest of the subjects, too much information.

He could just take five minutes to read articles on Internet and he would probably learn more than staying for eight hours straight sitting on a chair and listening to those old gags. Besides his attention span was too short.

To make it simple, he found the store the very same day he quit school and decided to give it a go. The location was perfect as well, the corner was well hidden and the neighbourhood was there since the past centuries probably, the building and houses had a victorian style, bricks exposed, wooden double doors at the entrances, the small gardens giving the feeling he was outside the city; like little and cozy cottages.

The flower shop was the same. The wooden floor would creak every now and then depending on the pressure, the wall at the left was just exposed bricks of an already faded red, some landscapes paintings were hang alongside floating shelves with a few pots with cactuses. The rest, which was the front and right wall that faced the street, were of complete glass, like windows. It was perfect to give all the flowers the good exposure to the people passing by.

And Xue Yang thought it was actually cozy on winter. The weak sunlight would warm up the place just about right, he felt himself like a plant during the photosynthesis. It was laughable, indeed.

It was summer, anyway. And no, it wasn't hot. It was never past the 30 degrees and the light breezes were quite fresh. It was a really good Wednesday, in fact. He knew it was about to get slightly better. His grey eyes surveyed the coffee shop that was right in front of the store, and just like every Friday and Sunday, there he was.

The young man sat at the same table, facing the window so he could look through it and watch the few pedestrian crossing, the stray cats and dogs passing by and getting pat while, sometimes, looking down to the usual black notebook, scribbling something Xue Yang wished he could take a peak at. Today, he was dressed casually, a white loosen shirt — v-shaped neck, three buttons just for the decoration and poet sleeves—, light brown high-waisted trousers and, as weird it looked like, he was wearing urban sneakers of a white colour as well. His black hair was tied up in a ponytail and a few lock of hairs framing his delicate face.

Xue Yang was losing it. He noticed that absolute beauty a couple of weeks ago when he was getting bored of some women trying to hit him up. He was spacing out when his eyes caught up a slim figure dressed in a similar style, moving so gracefully Xue Yang thought he was daydreaming. And then he started to pint point the days that man would stop by that coffee shop. Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. But that's all he could do, truthfully speaking. And it was enough, yeah, a bit sad because he wished he could just cross the street, say hi to that man and maybe, with a tiny bit of luck, he could get those romances like in movies. However, it was real life.

The store was running out of red roses and purple hydrangeas, he needed to take quick note before forgetting about it or the old man would get really pissed off, even more when he usually forgets to put the correct date. The door opened and, as soon as he finished writing, his grey eyes saw him. The beauty.

The young boy was surveying every single flower, as if unsure of what to pick, a bit lost probably due to the amount of options he had in front. Xue Yang thought it was the best chance, the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to go and talk to him, to start the conversation and what's better than flowers. He fucking learnt the language too, so he could help some clients with perfect bouquets, yes, it was now or never.

Breath in and out. Xue Yang closed the distance between them and the third breath got stuck midway. His pale skin, a pair of moles hidden on his collarbone, the long and thick eyelashes protecting those big black eyes. Inadvertently, he let out a sigh, he was completely at loss of words, his mind wandered off, daydreaming about silly things. He thought of gardenias, because after seeing him up close, Xue Yang was sure that he was out of league, so keep his crush as secret was, maybe not so, the best idea.

ㅤㅤㅤ “Excuse me,” the man said, his voice was so soothing, like floating on the sky covered in cotton candy. “I was hoping you could help me with a bouquet.”

And smiled. Xue Yang was hissing, internally obviously.

ㅤㅤㅤ “Sure,” he replied, it sounded so dried but it just his brain was probably fried. “Just tell me what you want to say and I will show you the perfect flowers.”

He thought of gardenias, again.

— - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - x x x x - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - —

ps: it's bad, and too long, but since it's highly possible no one's gonna find this, I'm giggling with this because I love it and I love them.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Little Bones 2

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series); harassment, general creepiness, unwanted touches

This is dark! (biker) Thor x chubby!reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: You’re a city girl stuck in a small town, but Birch isn’t as sleepy as it seems.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown and When the Weight Comes Down

Note: We got another part and I hope you love biker!Thor as much as I do. It’s lots of fun.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 2: Better butter your cue finger up

The bottle of wine sat on your counter and you hid away the vodka in your freezer as you resisted the temptation of both. The library made hangovers even worse with its bright lights and tedious nothingness. So you tried to ignore the tapping at your shoulder, the persistent tug of your paranoia, and pretended that nothing had changed. In Birch, nothing did change, right?

The click of your mouse and the loud tapping of keys filled the silence of the library. Colin snored with eyes wide open. It was hard to tell when the old man was awake or sleeping. You weren’t sure there was a line left between the two for him. He spent most of his working hours in the back on the other side of the windowed wall although what exactly he did there remained a mystery.

There wasn’t very much to do there outside the occasional school visits in which students walked down to complete some research project or the teacher’s held a crafting circle. You liked those days as often you could join in and help wrangle in the pupils as they explored the sterile shelves.

Melissa stood and her chair rolled back with a grumble. She stretched and bent to grab her purse from under the desk.

“I’m going down to Bab’s. You want anything?”

“Hmm,” you tapped your chin as you leaned back. “I wouldn’t mind a latte. Oh, and I think they have the banana loaf today. A slice of that too.”

You peeked under the desk and sat forward to grab your bag from the cubby beside your PC tower. “Nope,” Mel stopped you, “it’s on me today. I need a breath of fresh air anyway. Even if it is cold as hell.”

“Oh, thanks, Mel,” you smiled and grabbed a pen to click in your monotony. “We should dig out the Christmas decorations soon. It might actually give us something to do.”

“Maybe for an hour or two,” she pulled her jacket from the rack that stood against the wall between the front counter and the back room, “We could try something new this year. I saw these lights online, you can program them with your phone.”

“You think Colin could handle that?”

“Like he would even notice.” She laughed and pulled on her coat and grabbed her purse. “Latte, banana bread.” She recited. “I’ll be back.”

You watched her go then stretched your legs out as you arched in the chair. You fell back limp and closed your eyes. You could fall asleep right there. You really couldn’t blame Colin for his waking trance. This place made your ears buzz and your head spin.

You heard the whoosh of the automatic doors and sat up. You were surprised at your visitor but not disappointed. Melissa’s daughter approached the desk as she swung her bag in her hand. You could tell by the little wrinkle between her eyebrows that she wasn’t happy.

“Your mom’s just gone to Bab’s,” you rolled closer to the desk. “You must’ve seen her.”

“I saw her.” She said tersely. She stilled her fidgeting and planted her dangling purse on the desk. She sighed and crossed her arms. “I’m here to talk to you.”

“Is something the matter?”

You were nervous. You knew her as well as her mother and you got along. You shared an interest in old Hollywood and a taste for dry history and humour. You liked her, envied her even for having a mother like Melissa.

“I hate doing this. I hate when he makes me do this.” She dropped her arms and instead gripped her hips. “You want to come down to the Asp tonight? For a drink?”

You chuckled and clicked the pen. “It’s Wednesday. I have to open tomorrow and--”

“Hrgh,” she huffed. “I’m sorry but it’s… not a question.”

You put the pen down and clamped your lips together. She shook her head and looked away.

“It’s an order. From Bucky.” She tapped her toe on the carpet. “I tried to tell him that you wouldn’t want to come so late. That you know, you work. He just doesn’t listen and--” She heaved and threw up her hands in exasperation, “I tried.”

“But… me? I don’t even know any of those… people. It’s not really my scene.” You swallowed and dug your nail into your thumb. 

“I’ll be there. Same with Steve’s girl from the bakery. She’s nice. And…” her eyes were dull but irritated, “look, if you don’t show up, Bucky will go and find you. Everyone in town reports to him. You don’t have to be in his club, he owns Birch.” She grabbed the thin strap of her small purse and drew it from the desk, “you don’t want to learn that the hard way like I did.”

You knew it wasn’t Bucky who wanted you there, you suspected that big blond brute who had chased you down the street. Her anxiety fed yours and made you uneasy. If she were that afraid, how scared should you be?

“I think you know my answer considering I’ve been given little choice.” You said firmly. “What time?”

“Seven. I got him to budge on at least that. You won’t be out too late.” She gave a weak smile and twisted the strap of her bag. “Stay close to me and I’ll do what I can. You know, with Steve’s girl, I really tried…” She looked away and rolled her as they turned glossy. “Sometimes, Bucky listens to me and I’m figuring out how to make him.”

“Why are you with him?” You whispered. “Why--”

“You think it’s a choice I made.” She blinked and sniffed. “No, it was made for me when I was born in this god forsaken pit.” She thrust her purse over her shoulder and shrugged. “I don’t know why anyone would make up their mind to come here.”

“I can’t say I’m happy with the decision.” You returned.

She sent you a pitying look before she spun away. She marched back to the doors as her mother nearly collided with her. They spoke for a few minutes before the younger left and Melissa came over to plop her goodies on the desk.

“New latte flavour, candy cane. I figured we might get a bit festive.” She announced.

💀

You stood outside the Asp and stared up at the snow-covered marquee. The powder began to fall just after noon and collected along the small ledge below the image of Cleopatra.  You wore a bright pink toque with an oversized pom-pom and tucked your chin down against the matching scarf tucked down the front of your cherry-coloured coat. You stuck out among the grey of Birch.

You didn’t put much effort into getting ready. You kept on the same polka-dot blouse from work and traded your trousers for faded jeans and a pair of knee-high boots. You took a breath and stepped through the doors, barely avoided the rush of snow that fell down behind you.

The bar smelled of beer and a stale but pungent dinginess. You looked around in the low din. The bartender, a woman named Lucy, dried several glasses and stacked them on a shelf and every man in the place wore leather. 

You found Melissa’s daughter next to Bucky as he squinted at his closest accomplice, Steve. The shy girl from the bakery was tucked under his arm as she picked at the hem of her short skirt. You cleared your throat as you pondered leaving.

A figure on Bucky’s other side stood and you frowned as that man, Thor, smiled at you like a puppy. You fixed your mouth into a straight line as Bucky’s girl rose and waved you over.

“Hey, you made it,” she said. You didn’t miss the way Bucky’s hand slid up her thigh.

“Yeah,” you said flatly as you rounded the table.

“Kitten,” Thor greeted as he pulled out the chair next to him in a flourish. “I’ve a seat just for you.”

You looked from the chair to his face. You made no move to sit.

“If that’s not to your tastes, you can sit in my lap.” He taunted.

Your lips parted in disgust and you grabbed the back of the chair. You wrenched it away from him and backed up steadily as you dragged it around the table. You stopped it next to Steve’s girl and unzipped your jacket. You sat and shrugged out of the coat then crossed your arms. You tore your eyes from the large man and smiled at the baker girl.

“The banana loaf was good,” you said. “Sorry I didn’t make it down.”

“Oh, it’s ugly out there,” she turned in Steve’s hold and his arm slipped down around her waist. 

You could feel Thor’s constant gaze as you humoured the girl about the weather and listened to her story about how Mrs. Deeton sent back a blueberry scone for not having any blackberries. You did your best to blot out the rest of the bar.

“Kitten, you want a drink?” He interrupted and you peered over at him. You glanced from him to Lucy as she stood and awaited an order.

“Do you have ginger ale?” You asked her directly.

“We have club soda or iced tea right now.” She said with venom.

“Iced tea, thank you.” You fished through your purse for a fiver.

“Put it on my tab,” Thor insisted.

“No, it’s fine, I--”

You held out the bill and he reached across to snatch it from your hand. “On my tab.” He repeated and the barmaid stomped away. He tossed the five back to you and smirked. “Keep it, kitten.”

You swiped it up and turned back to Steve’s girl. She looked frightened as she stared at the blonde man and slowly returned her attention to you.

“Um, so, I was going to tell you the secret ingredient to Bab’s banana bread but you have to promise not to tell.”

“Sure,” you leaned in and she whispered it in your ear and giggled. 

“I’m not supposed to tell.” She uttered as she touched her cheeks guiltily.

“I’ve been telling her she don’t need to worry about rules,” Steve intoned as his fingers danced on her hip.

“My mother made the best banana cream pie,” Thor interrupted. “She handed the recipe down to me. My sister was never much into sweets.”

“Oh?” Steve’s girl turned to Thor. “We don’t serve that at Bab’s but we have lemon meringue.”

“Mother made that too. She showed me the trick to perfect peaks. I could show you.”

Steve growled and pulled his girl closer. She looked at him as he sent a heated glare at Thor. She touched his chest and cooed at him to relax. Lucy returned with your iced tea and you took it eagerly as the tension burned at your face.

“So, kitten,” Thor scooted his chair around the table as you set your glass down, “what trouble did you get into today?”

“I work at a library.” You uttered dryly.

“And did you enjoy your wine last night? I always heard it’s better with company.”

You jutted out your jaw in annoyance and looked at him. He was painfully persistent.

“Excuse me.” You stood and nearly gave him a face full of your chest. You looked to Bucky’s girl as she listened to his incessant grumbles. “Where’s the restroom?”

“Just down there,” she pointed along the far side of the bar.

“I could show you,” Thor offered and you waved him off.

“I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“Yes, you are,” he purred and you backed up as his eyes grazed your hips.

You were all too eager to hide in the bathroom and closed yourself in a stall as you tried not to scream. You had dealt with perverts before. Often you were the butt of some joke. The wingman settled for the chubby girl so his pal could get laid. Those types thought you were desperate and had no qualms with getting handsy on the dance floor. But college was long ago and Birch wasn’t known for its nightlife.

After a moment, you were able to steady yourself and you left the stall. You stood by the grungy sink and stared at the mirror. Why you? Why was this idiot bugging you?

You went back out with reluctant steps. You passed a drunk man at the bar talking about some feat of machismo in his foregone youth. As you neared the table, you froze in the spot as you listened.

“...she’s fat anyway.” Steve snarled and laughed meanly.

His chortle was curtailed as a chair scraped on the floor and the baker girl cried out. Thor forced Steve to his feet but the front of his tee shirt. He pulled him past his girl and brought him close as he growled down at him through flaring nostrils.

“I like you, Rogers, but your mouth makes it real hard.” Thor sneered.

“What the fuck?” Steve struggled against him, “let me go.”

“I’m not sitting here shit-talking your woman, eh. You might have little respect for them, but I do.”

“Jesus Christ!” Steve was on tip-toes as he was held up by the other man.

“Apologize.” Thor demanded.

“Wha--”

“Dammit, Steve, say sorry.” Bucky snapped.

“S-sorry, dude.” Steve stuttered.

“Not to me,” Thor turned and to your surprise, he thrust Steve around to face you. “To her.”

You stared in shock as Steve straightened his shirt. He was like a petulant child as he looked you in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

“For…” Thor prodded.

“I’m sorry I called you fat.” Steve looked away.

“I…” you didn’t know what to do or say as you glanced past him to the other girls. “Well, I am so it’s fine.”

Thor shoved Steve back and his thick brows drew together. “Don’t listen to him,” he said. “I like a little extra.”

“Hey,” Bucky’s girl interrupted as she stood suddenly, “the table’s free. How about I get Wanda and we can play some doubles, just us girls.” She touched Bucky’s shoulders, “leave the men to their business.”

Thor’s shoulders fell and he shook his head. He grinned at you even as his disappointment shone through.

“Sure,” you answered as you stepped around him. “Sounds fun.”

💀

You focused on the felt. It didn’t help block out the blazing heat of Thor’s leer. You refused to look over at him and instead pretended to be enthralled with the game of solids and stripes. 

When you were a kid, you went to the youth centre and played with the rest of the kids desperate for a distraction. In uni, you enjoyed your plastic cups of cheap sambuca and coke at the campus bar and chalked up the cues. You were no expert but you could hit a good shot now and again. Your mother used to recount tales of her hustler father. Maybe it was his blood that kept your hand steady.

The other girls played as a pair as you handed off to Wanda. She wore the cut of the Birch’s club and her dark lipstick was the same shade as the leather. You saw her now and again with the men. She smoked her cigarettes out front and watched the town with indifference.

Wanda took her shot and clicked her tongue as she scratched. You shook your head as Steve’s girl scrunched her nose at the table. You were even; three stripes and three solids. She went around the far corner and awkwardly positioned herself over the side. She reached back to tug down her short skirt, she was clearly uncomfortable in the revealing outfit.

She sunk her mark but her next stopped short of the pocket. She shook her head and apologized to Steve’s girl who assured her with a pat on the shoulder. You took the cue from Wanda and walked around the table. You walked back and wondered if you could sink two in one. It was a possible angle but could you hit it?

You tilted your head and sighed. You bent and brought your foot back as you squinted and carefully positioned the cue. You couldn’t decide whether you should try to spin it to the right or hit it straight on. You knew the power you needed but you couldn’t afford to hit a stripe.

You almost tapped the cue ball as you felt a warmth over you and suddenly a hard torso was against your back. You went rigid as Thor bent over you and put his hands over your as he adjusted your aim. His hot breath wrapped around your neck.

“Almost, kitten,” he pushed his crotch against your ass.

You pulled the cue back so that it hit his ribs and he grunted as his hands fell to the edge of the table. You took the shot and pushed out of his grasp. His hand dragged over your ass as he stood straight and touched his side with a wince. 

“I got it.” You said as both balls rolled and dropped into opposite pockets.

He chuckled and bit his lip. It was almost a snarl as he watched you across the table and you sensed the bated breaths of the other women.

“I like a woman with a firm grip,” he winked, “And confidence.”

You looked back to the table as he loomed on the other side. You sunk the last solid and lined up for the eight ball. A straight, easy shot that even the most amateur could get. You ended the game and Wanda clapped as the other girls grumbled their congratulations.

“Best out of three?” Steve’s girl asked.

“I’m sorry to disappoint but I have to work early.” You leaned the cue on the table. “I showed up and now I’m done. It was fun, girls, but I’m gonna turn in.”

You smiled at each of them and your face fell as you passed them and went to grab your coat from the chair where it still hung. Thor was less than subtle as he followed you to the table and watched you zip up your coat over your chest. You slung your purse over your arm and pulled your hat on as you braced for the chill that awaited you.

“You shouldn’t walk alone.” Thor intoned.

“It’s a small town. I’m fine.” You spun away and again, he followed.

At the door, you turned back and crossed your arms. “Look, I can handle myself, buddy. Now leave me alone.”

“I’m just being nice.”

“You’re being a pest.”

“You love it.”

You huffed and closed your eyes to keep them from rolling back into your skull. You looked at him again and bit down on your words. “Do you ever give up?”

“On you, never.” He grinned.

“Well, be a good dog and stay.” You jabbed your finger in the air. “Stay!” You repeated as if he was a hyper dog. “Good.”

You quickly slipped through the door and booked it across the street. The door didn’t hit the frame but was instead caught as his boots scuffed out behind you. You peered back as you reached the other side and kept up your steady jog. He watched you but did not give chase.

“I’ll sniff you out one day, kitten,” he called out. “Pussy, pussy, pussy.”

[kyunisixx]

chiaroscuro

artist!Robert Plant AU one shot.

a/n: this really started out as a song I wanted to write. But I knew I had to turn it into a longer writing!!

themes: fluff, mild implications of nsfw and tw: childhood trauma.

summary: in which Y/N becomes a muse for Robert, a landscape artist in more ways than one. (Man, that summary is so shit but let's roll with it)

pairing: artist!Robert Plant x fem!reader

chi·a·ro·scu·ro

the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting.

an effect of contrasted light and shadow created by light falling unevenly or from a particular direction on something.

"Lean back for me a bit more, darling. That's right, relax."

As she moves, the old sofa creaks beneath her. Chilled air gusts through a partially opened window, making her shiver and sending miniscule bumps all over her bare skin. Her eyes drift over the fixtures inside the cozy cabin, illuminated by an outmoded oil lamp situated on the man's table. Several tiny moths were floating around it as the flame wavered ever so slightly from the breeze.

Scattered were all paintbrushes and smudges of paint were messily smeared all over the table. A round board was placed so close at the edge (one she heard him call before —a palette). In the middle is a rustic cup with half-empty, now cold tea. But a paint-smudged hand grasped on its handle and swiftly brought it over to a mouth. 

Then her eyes met his.

His frizzled, curly blond locks are pulled into a disheveled bun. One he pinned up so carelessly with a thin, unused paintbrush as to prevent it from obstructing his view but a few ringlets managed to escape and are now framing his face.

Ivory-colored shirt, a few buttons undone to reveal smooth skin of his collarbones which were also marked with a few shades of paint. Some scattered across his jawline to his cheek. 

Lips are pursed and eyes are pulled into deep concentration, they are set into a particular part of her. As if to capture the exact curvature of the crease on her waist.

Salient was the cleft on his chin and the sharp edge of his cheekbones by the incandescent light lent by the lamp, making him look like a contrast between sinister and elegance.

He dipped a brush and carefully made short strokes on the canvas, pausing every now and then to look at her.

The sun was setting and the sky was shaded a dull gray, providing so little of brightness which seemed to have darkened even more being situated in a lush forest.

Many months ago at this time of the day, she would have just been getting up from her sleep. Wake up and get ready for a long shift. It was a routine she had gotten so used to every day.

Take a bath. Eat. Pick out an outfit. Put on makeup. Be into the persona.

She would become a completely different person as soon as she stepped into the establishment she knew for as long as she moved into the town a few months ago.

From having to move into different cities and using different names to hide her identity. All of it to escape the filthy and haunted ghost of her past. 

Screaming. Glass breaking. Bruises. Slamming doors.  All of the things a child shouldn't have to go through. She took a risk and ran away from it.

And here is where she ended up thirteen years later.

Lacklustre eyes unmoving as they steadily stared back at her in a blurry mirror inside the changing room. All the girls' chattering seemed to have been muted and faded in the background as she gazed at her reflection. She picked up the small item in her hand, before taking the cap off and swiped the crimson lipstick across her chapped lips, creating a thick shade.

"Y/N, you ready to go?"

She turned her head back to Don, the club manager. She smiled and moved her head in a single nod.

“Sure, Don. Just give me a short moment”. She adjusted the strap of her black velvet dress and walked on the familiar, dimly lit hallway. Her stilettos clapped quietly on the floor as she padded and stopped in front of a red curtain covering the doorway from the side to the stage. 

"How's it going, folks? Alright, alright. I'd get right into it. This is the moment you've all been waiting for. The crowd favourite, slithers like a python, mistress of the night; Marilyn"

Then, she waited as the main lights switched off and took her cue to enter as smoke filled the platform. Coloured lights gleamed right through. She situated herself right in the middle then circled her hand on the pole as the first note of the song started to hum quietly. Like a distant patter of rain—calm before the storm. Her hips moved into the rhythm and fluidly sneaked around the pole as the cloud of smoke started to clear out. Gazing into the crowd of men, her blood-red lips quirk into a smirk.

It was the only time she knew she had complete power and control. And she relished it, savoring the potency. 

Her hands smoothed all over her now slightly perspired skin as men clamored and hooted for her. Bills were haphazardly thrown into the dancefloor. Something that she wasn't used to when she first started, it made her feel cheap. Dirty. But her routine carried on almost every night, she eventually got used to it and had even grown to like it.

Then she spotted him. 

Big ball of golden hair illuminated by stage lights. He was situated amongst the sea of predators, his eyes followed the fluidity of her movements. But what struck her the most was the way he was watching her. It wasn't shadowed by lust, but more of an intense wonder and curiosity. It was as if he was memorizing each part of her curves, but for another purpose.

Her gaze somewhat mirrored his. He definitely wasn't strange-looking. Hell, he might have been the most beautiful man she has ever seen. He didn't belong to a place where no good men wander around. Both his beguiling beauty and aura was completely out of place for such a place like this.

The song then came to a stop. Her number was over but her eyes remained locked with his. It was only then she came back to consciousness as Don's voice boomed into the large speakers, signalling the end of her performance. She collected the bills scattered on the floor and walked off the stage, throwing a last glance into the crowd as she took her exit.

He was gone.

He wouldn't show up for a couple of days. She was sure, of course. The moment she steps out, her eyes would already be skimming through the lounge, and would sigh in disappointment if she didn't spot any sign of him.

"Have you seen your mysterious man yet?"

One of the girls she was closest to, Hershey, asked as she counted the thick block of bills on her hand.

"He wasn't out there tonight"

"You could have been hallucinating. Anyway, you told me he was 'like an angel'"

Hershey laughed, mimicking the way she had said the last part with a breathy tone and added, "Or could have been disappointed in your dance number, ran away and swore to not step a foot into this place again"

She stopped momentarily, chuckled lightly and sighed, "You may not be far from the truth but we'll see."

Then he would be there the next night, positioned right at a table at the back. His curly locks gave his identity right away, with his elbows propped up and fingers poised against his chin, bearing the same gaze. 

Later that night, he'd be waiting right outside of the club.

"The show was spectacular."

She tilted her head to him, nodded and smiled.

"Thank you."

She wasn't sure how it ended up with her sitting on a stool inside a cozy 24-hour operating diner so late at night, chatting with her "mysterious man" late at night, who introduced himself as Robert. He was apparently a landscape artist and has traveled the world where he finds inspirations for his works.

"The best place I have ever been to? Hm. I'd say Machu Picchu, set in the high mountains of Andes in Peru, above a river called Urubamba. I had to hike all the way up, and you could see the breathtaking view when you reach the top."

"That does sound very lovely." She sighed wistfully.

"Have you ever traveled anywhere outside the country?"

"Oh no, I have not. I move to different places a lot but I've never gone out, never had the chance to."

"Ah, you should! It's wonderful."

She nodded, "Do you only do landscaping?"

"Well, no. I do a little bit of abstract art but I focus mainly on landscaping. I was thinking of expanding more, though. Maybe portrait, or nude art."

"That's a good idea. An artist has to come out of his comfort zone and be able to become great."

"Yeah…", he trailed off, as if lost in thought. "I hope this doesn't come off as strange or I as a creep. But may I ask you to be my muse? Don't worry! We'll only do portrait." He added the last sentence quickly.

She tilted her head to the side and looked at him, her brows furrowed deep in thought.

"You don't have to s—"

"I'll do it."

A few days later, she was again popped up on a stool inside his flat just a few blocks away from the club. His place was spacious, but had a very rustic feel to the interior design. A few souvenirs from different countries were neatly placed on a shelf and most of his paintings were hung stylistically on the walls (in which she stared at in complete awe for what she could tell an hour each painting until he had to drag her away to his studio)

Her fingers fiddled as she tried to stay still under his calculating gaze. She never had much problem with how she looked and never had insecurities. Perhaps she just didn't care enough to be insecure. But at that moment, she thought of how she must've appeared to him and if she was good-looking enough to be an inspiration for his art.

"Are you alright there?"

"Yes! Yes, I… Yeah I'm alright."

His hand stopped and placed the paintbrush on the table. "Are you sure? If you're not comfortable or if you need a break, we could stop for a bit."

She shook her head vigorously, "No, it's okay. Don't worry."

"If you say so."

She let her eyes travel from his bare foot, to his khaki trousers, to his satin shirt with top three buttons undone, to his face. Oh, his gorgeous face. It was pulled into a deep concentration as he stared at his work, giving her some time to study his majestic features.

His eyes flickered to hers as if sensing her stare and playfully frowned, a small smile curled on the side of his lips.

"What?"

"What?"

He laughed, "You were staring."

"I was. Is it a crime?"

"No, I wouldn't say it is." He said with a teasing edge to his voice. 

It was their arrangement which they stick to a few times a week. On her day off, after work if she wasn't feeling too exhausted. There was an obvious attraction lingering inside the room of his small studio but none of them acted upon it other than just casual flirtations thrown around. He was a perfect gentleman and had always been accommodating. A couple of times he would insist on paying her in which she would always refuse to accept. 

"The tea you make for me is enough for a payment." She had jokingly said. "Do not worry about it, Robert. Really, it's okay. I'm making enough from my job."

One night, after their sessions, they had too many drinks and bottles were littered over the table along with his paint brushes which had long dried of paint. 

"Tell me about you, Marilyn. Mistress of the night, who apparently, slithers like a python." He mused, mentioning her alias. His glossy eyes filled with mirth.

She snorted, took a long swig of beer and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. 

"Marilyn is… Nobody. I'm nobody. I came from somewhere that in my mind, ceased to exist." She stared ahead. "I ran away from home. Who calls it a home anyway?" She laughed humorlessly.

"My parents fought a lot. They spent so much time fighting, they didn't even have time for me. Looking back at it now, I could have just preferred that. But then, they turned their anger towards me." She sniffed and quickly wiped the salty tears before they even slid down to her flushed cheeks.

"I went to my grandparents. They loved me so much and I loved them so dearly. But they were not my parents. Eventually, both of them passed away and I was left on my own. But I was eighteen. I didn't have to go back to my parents. So I went to different cities, finding places where I could feel like I could fit in. Looked for jobs, and then I ended up here. I made friends and I have my own place, but it still never felt like home."

He was quietly staring at her, and the silence was deafening. Then he lifted his free hand to her face and ran the back of his index finger to dry her cheeks. Her hand caught his and brought it to her lips and placed a soft kiss. 

"But with you, it feels… different. I like hanging out with you. I like being with you. You feel like home to me, Robert."

Her voice echoed softly as he took his time to reply. But he didn't, instead, he leaned down and sealed his lips against hers. 

He layed limply on top of her body as he shuddered from his release. Both tried to desperately catch for their breath as her hand smoothed down his back and the other combed through his damp locks. He slid out of her and dropped beside her, not too long before he enclosed his arms over her and pulled closer. He catches her lips on his in a lazy kiss and smiled.

"You feel like home to me too, Y/N."

Her heart soared and nuzzled her nose against his.

"I want to paint you like this. May I? You are so beautiful. In light and in shadow."

She blushed, "Yes, but right now? I'm tired."

"No, no. We'll do it tomorrow. I'll take you somewhere." His warm breath hit her skin as he whispered.

"Where?" She whispered back.

"Well, I'm not telling you that. But it was what I helped my Father build when I was younger. It's somewhat like a special place for me, and I want you to see it."

He gazed at her as he waited for her to respond.

"Okay."

Under the light of the lamp, she peers at him under her lashes.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Mm? I have no idea what you are talking about."

"You know what it is. Cut it out or I'll never get to finish this."

She huffs. "You're no fun"

"I can prove you otherwise in a few minutes."

He continued to do his finishing touches and leaned back to admire his work.

"That isn't too bad. But nothing compares to the real art."

"And what might that be?"

"You, my love." He stood up, walked over to where she was, placed his hand at the back of her neck and pulled her to him.

"I've been waiting for this for hours."

"I've been giving you hints and you insist on finishing your art."

He chuckled. "Of course I had to."

His fingers danced their way from her sides to her hips, rubbing along the marks littered across her skin.

"Are you ready to see it?" He murmured against her neck. She shudders as she nodded, giving their playful banter a break. 

He bit her earlobe softly, "Okay."

He walked over to his canvas and carefully turned it around to face her.

She gasps.

.

⭐ writings list ⭐

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taglist: @jonesyjonesyjonesy , @princesspagey , @ritacaroline , @jimmys-zeppelin , @rebel-without-a-zeppelin , @reincarnated70sbaby (if you wanted to be added in, let me know 🤘🏻🤗)

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 5

A/N  Know what this fic needs?  More Geillis.  No really, I think you guys are going to like where I’m going with this.   Just bear with me.   Only one more chapter to go after this one, plus an epilogue.   Thanks for coming on the journey with me!  With due credit to Sia, this chapter’s title is Fire, Meet Gasoline.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my AO3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

Geillis Duncan drove much the way she approached life, which was to say without much regard for rules and at white-knuckle speed.  I gripped her Range Rover’s leather cushion and swallowed any exclamations of dismay as we ricocheted through Edinburgh’s late afternoon traffic.  When we finally slid into an underground parking spot and emerged into the bustling festivity of the Princes Street Christmas Market, I felt the tension of imminent disaster abandon my shoulders.

“Where to first, then?” Geillis asked, looking far too animated by the prospect of accompanying someone while they did their Christmas shopping.

Geillis and I had kept in touch and met for coffee a few times over the past months.  When I explained that I wouldn’t be taking any more cooking classes at Ginger Snap because Jamie was giving me at-home lessons, her reaction was a moonbeam grin.

“Look at ye, wee vixen!  I ne’er wouldha thought ye had it in ya, Claire.  Tho I canna say as I blame ye.”

No matter how much I protested that I was together with Frank and that my relationship with Jamie was purely professional, she refused to believe me.  The ongoing absence of a ring from my left hand didn’t help.

“Now,” Geillis exclaimed once we’d taken in the sights and sounds of the market, “let’s have a keek at yer list.  Where should we start?”

I pulled out my phone and opened the Notes app.  As she read, my friend’s nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Trouser socks, shoe stays, Moleskine notebook, Rive Gauche...  who are ye shopping for, yer grandparents?”

“No,” I protested.  “The first three are for Frank.  The perfume is for me.”

When I explained that Frank had made a list of the items he would like to give me for Christmas, Geillis grew incensed.

“Ye mean he has ye doin’ his gift buying fer him?  Tha’s the least romantic thing I’ve e’er heard.  Do ye even like Rive Gauche, Claire?  And dinna lie tae me, fer I can read yer feelings all o’er yer face.”

Truthfully, I didn’t much care for the flowery scent.  My personal taste ran more towards woodsy or herbaceous aromas.  But it was Frank’s favourite, and it pleased me to please him.  Or it had.  I was beginning to wonder when it would be my turn to please myself.

“Right,” Geillis interrupted my thoughts.  “Marks and Sparks will do jes fine for yer wee granny list.   And then you and I are going shopping fer yer real gift.”

Geillis was a force to be reckoned with in a retail environment.  She navigated like a guided missile from one department to the next.   Twenty minutes later, we were back on the pavement, which glistened with the colourful reflections of decorations strung above.

“Your car is the other way,” I explained as Geillis turned left.

“Aye, tis, but our destination is right o’er here.  House of Fraser.  See?  Tis practically calling yer name, Claire.”

Inside the venerable old building was an astonishing multi-tiered arcade reaching over five stories to a massive skylit ceiling.  The central space was dominated by a fifteen metre-high Christmas tree (a Fraser fir, of course) and every archway of every arcade was dripping with lights.  The impression was like stepping into a Fabergé egg.

Geillis dragged me, slack-jawed, towards the ladies’ wear section.  Circling the racks like a hawk on the wind, she eyed my body, sizing me up quite literally, then thrust several pieces into my hands.

“Geillis,” I hissed, wary of the sales staff hovering nearby, no doubt smelling an excessive commission in the offing.  “I don’t need a new outfit.  And I certainly don’t need,” I shook the garments in question, “something like this.  Wherever would I wear it?”

“Well, fer starters, ye’d wear it tae dinner t’night.  I dinna wish tae offend ye, Claire, but I canna in good conscience allow ye tae set foot in the Timberyard dressed fer a job interview as a primary school teacher.”

With that she shoved me in the direction of the changing rooms.  Deciding to humour her, I was unbuttoning my top when two lacy bits of nothing came flying over the door.

“Start wi’ these.  And dinna think I willna notice if ye’re no’ wearing them!”

I stripped down to my panties, bemusedly wondering how she knew my exact bra size. 

Upon seeing me exit the dressing room in her choice of clothing, Geillis let out a squeal of delight.   She insisted I rip out the tags and leave the store wearing my new outfit, declaring it was her Christmas gift to me.  

I felt tremendously self-conscious as we walked towards the restaurant.  The aubergine velvet jeans clung to my legs in an unfamiliar way and the black turtleneck, while technically not revealing, hinted at kink with its many heavy zippers and fastenings.  Together with my unruly hair, unstraightened for once, I felt like another woman entirely.  I didn’t recognize her, but I felt like she might be someone I’d like to get to know.

The Timberyard was a modern restaurant in a rugged old warehouse, not far from the farmer’s market I’d visited with Jamie.  We were joined there by several of Geillis’ friends, and we ate, drank and laughed until my sides were sore. 

As I wobbled to the loo, I noticed the bartender following me with an appreciative gaze.  It had been a long time since a man had looked at me that way, and it gave me a guilty thrill.

We left the restaurant just before midnight. I pulled Geillis into an impulsive hug.

“Wha’ was that for, hen?” she asked.

“Nothing.  Everything.  Just, thank you for being you, Geil.”

“Och, tis my pleasure, lass.  I only want tae see ye happy.  Now, what do ye say to a digestif?”

After only a slight protest on my part, the two of us piled into an Uber.  Our destination was another restaurant, this time in a converted whisky warehouse by the harbour in Leith.  It was well past last sitting, but when I mentioned this to Geillis she explained away my concern. 

“I ken the owner, who’s also the chef.  Tis a popular spot fer locals in the restaurant scene tae meet after they close up fer a few drinks afore heading home tae their beds.”

Inside, the walls were rough stone, supported in places by industrial metal beams.  The kitchen was open to the main dining area, and I grinned as I thought of Frank’s strong opinion on the matter.  Near the back of the room, lit by dim naked bulbs and the glow from several open fireplaces, was a huge square table surrounded by nearly twenty chairs upholstered in bright yellow plaid.  Around the table was gathered a motley assortment of men and women, all talking and laughing and sipping on a variety of drinks.  And in their midst, his copper hair shining in the firelight, sat Jamie.

A shout went up from the table as Geillis approached.  I hung back, tugging at the hem of my new turtleneck as though I could stretch it to cover my arse.  Besides Jamie, I recognized Jenny, Angus and Murtagh, but I only had eyes for the big ginger chef.  He sat at one corner, probably in deference to his long legs which were stretched out before him, wrapped in black denim.  A black leather jacket hung over the chair behind him.  He looked dangerous.  It was a very good look for him.

Dragging me by the elbow, Geillis nudged and bumped Angus to one side despite his vulgar protests, then practically pushed me down into the chair directly next to the chef.  With a smug smile of satisfaction, she then retired to the opposite side of the table.

I looked anywhere but directly at Jamie, but I could feel his butane eyes on me.  I was certain he would scorch right through my outer layers and down to where Geillis’ choice in lingerie burned against my tender skin.  The noise from the rest of the table faded away.

“Ye look bonnie t’night, Arsonist.”  His voice was low and gruff and it sent a quickening through my veins.

“Thank you, Jamie. It was Geillis’ Christmas gift to me, and I feel, well... let’s just say it isn’t my usual look.”

“It suits ye, I think.”  He reached out and lightly touched the silver tab of a zipper that ended near my wrist, setting it swinging.  I swallowed and looked frantically around.  Several open bottles of liquor stood nearby. Grabbing the nearest one, I poured myself a generous serving and knocked it back, all in one go.  I tried to steady my breathing.

“Look, Jamie...”

Just then a blond man in chef’s whites called to Jamie from across the table.  An exchange involving a lot of Scottish cursing and an off-colour reference to someone’s lobster pot ensued.  I tried to convince myself I needed to leave.  It was late, I was half-drunk, and whatever I intended to say to Jamie should definitely wait for another moment.  Maybe never.

A hand on my thigh broke my preoccupation.

“Sorry, Arsonist, ye were sayin’ something?”

I wet my lips, frantically trying to recall anything but the feeling of Jamie’s strong fingers, stroking me through the velvet of my jeans.

“I...”

At that moment, the woman on Jamie’s far side broke into song.  The rest of the table cheered and clapped along, and it was impossible to hear anything except the concussive pounding of my heart against my eardrums.

Jamie grabbed my clammy hand.

“Come wi’ me,” he instructed, grabbing our outerwear and pulling me towards the door.  Geillis watched our departure with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

Outside the air was dense and cold, a briny slap after the stuffy warmth of the restaurant.  Jamie obviously had a destination in mind, and we walked hand-in-hand along the cobbled streets for several minutes before finally emerging at the port.  A jetty struck out into the inky sea, and it was there that we ended up.  Besides a few gulls and the winking of a nearby lighthouse, we were all alone.  The sodium street lights caught Jamie’s curls and made them burn.

“Forgive me, Arsonist.  I couldna hear myself think in there.  Tho, come tae think of it, tis no’ much better now.”  Rather than release me, as he spoke Jamie stroked my hand, running calloused fingers over each vein and every knuckle.  I don’t think he even realized he was doing it, but it stole every thought from my head.

“No ring,” he remarked, stroking the finger in question.

“No,” I whispered in response.  

And then it burst out of me, like a tidal wave of feeling that I never saw coming.  I told him everything.  My childhood roaming the globe with my uncle, pre-occupied and rootless, dreaming of stability.  Meeting Frank at Harvard, and realizing that he represented all the things that my life to date had lacked: structure, security, a solid foundation, a home.  And how it took moving to Scotland and coming into contact with a group of near-strangers to make me realize that the price I had paid for that stability was higher than I’d ever imagined.  I’d given up my dream of becoming a doctor. I’d become so lost in Frank’s vision of who I should be that I’d almost lost sight of who I actually was.

By the time the flood of words left me, I was in Jamie’s arms, crying into his leather jacket.  He hushed me with quiet murmurs and languorous stroking of my hair, as one would a child who has woken from a nightmare.

I stepped out of his embrace and rubbed my sleeve across my face.  I must have looked an absolute mess, but he still watched me with those earnest, patient eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I began, “I don’t know what...”

“Claire,” he interrupted.  I’d never before realized just how many consonants were in my given name.  “Ye dinna need tae apologize tae me.  But ye may want tae consider an apology tae yerself.”  At my raised eyebrow, he continued.

“I’m no’ the kind of man tae tell another what they should and shouldna do.  But ye strike me as someone who’s made decisions fer the right reasons, yet ended up in the wrong place.”  Here he paused, as though carefully weighing his words.  “There’s no sin in changin’ yer mind, Arsonist.  Tis very well tae be hungry, so long as ye ken what ye hunger for.”

“And what do you hunger for, James Fraser?”  The provocative words had left my lips before I had the chance to censor them.  His answer came in the form of a blistering look that left no doubt as to its meaning.  Then he gathered himself, banking the fire I’d unconsciously ignited.

“Many things.  Regular, ordinary things, mostly.  My family’s health and happiness.  A faster bike.  My own restaurant.”

“Like Tom’s there?” I asked, gesturing towards the harbour.

“Och, Tom is a braw chef, and worthy o’ every accolade tha’s been showered upon him.  But the hospitality scene in Edinburgh is cut-throat, an’ suitable locations cost a fortune.  Nah, Jenny and I want tae buy back our childhood home in the Highlands.  Tis called Lallybroch, and when our Da passed, our Mam sold it tae her brother.  We’d turn it inta a country inn, wi’ Jenny running the lodging side o’ things and I the dining.  Tha’s the dream anyway,” he ended with a shrug.

I rested my hand on his forearm.  “That sounds like a wonderful plan, Jamie.”

Before he could reply, an enormous yawn burst from my lungs.

“Time tae get ye home tae yer bed, Arsonist,” Jamie grinned.   “Come, I’ll give ye a ride.”

“Wait, haven’t you been drinking?” I inquired as we walked back down the jetty.

“Three years sober,” he explained with no hint of embarrassment.  “I went somewhere pretty dark after my Mam died, an’ it took a near-fatal crash tae scare me straight.”  His eyes squinted in a poor approximation of a wink as he added, “Besides, there are better ways tae chase a rush than in the bottom of a bottle.”

“Such as?” I asked brazenly.

Which was how I found myself on the back on a black motorcycle, my arms twined around Jamie’s waist.  Rather than take me directly home, he steered us north, following the coast.  It was very late, with hardly another vehicle about.  We merged onto the motorway, and Jamie picked up speed.  My thighs tightened around his lean hips, the vibration of the motor beneath us shivering up my spine.  As we emerged beneath the hastate lights of the Queensferry Bridge, I stretched my arms wide, icy air ripping against the sleeves of my jacket.  I laughed, although no-one could hear me.  I yelled, and only the wind yelled back.  I was flying.

***

It was nearly dawn when Jamie pulled up in front of my flat.  My legs thrummed, my eyes were dry with fatigue, and my heart ached, but I felt better than I could ever remember.  I handed Jamie back his spare helmet and shook out my curls.  He watched me in that half-sleepy, half-vigilant way of his that I now recognized as desire.

“I don’t know what I could ever say to thank you, Jamie.”

“Ye needn’t say anything at all, Arsonist.  Nae matter what ye decide, it has been my very great honour tae get tae know you.”

Without another word, he kick-started the engine and drove off into the early morning mist.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to his vanishing shadow.

***

The lamp above the couch was lit, and Frank lay still beneath its glow.  I realized he had fallen asleep waiting for me to come home.  Instead of regret, what I felt in that moment was pity.

The sound of my jacket being unzipped woke him.  He blinked in confusion and then in shock.

“I’m very sorry if you were worried,” I began.

“Worried?  Do you have any idea what time it is?  My God, Claire, I don’t know what to make of you these days.  You’ve never behaved irresponsibly before, and now you’re out at all hours and you’re wearing,” he gestured wildly with his hand at my new outfit which I had, quite honestly, forgotten I was wearing.  “And your hair, Claire!” he finished, as though the manic state of my curls was definitive evidence of my fall from grace.  Despite my exhaustion, I stood tall.

“Frank, we need to talk.”

[waatermelon-sugaar]

Cold

Pairing = Santiago x reader

Summary = You get too cold on a mission and there’s only one bed in the building where you have to camp out for a couple of days...

Warnings = Fluff, mutual pining, near death situation (??kinda - I mean there’s danger), partial nudity (non-sexual but with sexy pining), huddling for warmth, only one bed, many many compromising positions

Word count = 6458

A/N - so this is my first fic i’ve ever finished! Eeee!!! I’m quite pleased with it, but please let me know what you all think! Also it combines two of my favourite fic tropes ever because of course it does haha. 

Edit = Now cross-posted to AO3!

Masterlist

You were in trouble. Feeling the chill setting in your bones, it was harder and harder to lift your legs. Your teeth were now only occasionally chattering, and it was only the shivers running up and down your body which reassured you that you didn’t have hypothermia. Yet. 

The path you and Pope had found wound through the trees as you walked towards the setting sun. Despite the ferocious cold, you couldn’t help but admire the landscape you were in, the dark contrast of the tree bark offsetting the brillant, deadly white. Snow hung from every available surface, causing branches to hang low with the weight. 

You were more used to the warm - it was weird completing a bust in Canada of all places. But it had been going so well, all the drugs and money accounted for, no surprises, all packed up to fly out when the surrounding forest became alive. The timing had been misjudged or miscounted, you had no idea, all you knew was that the 6 of you had to get out of the building as fast as possible. 

You’d instinctively found Pope to your left when the first shot had rang out, and amid all the chaos and shouting the two of you were running outside, taking down anyone in your way, not stopping to see if the others had followed you.

Gradually the popping sounds of gunfire and hand grenades had become muffled as it began to snow. You waited as long and as close to the house as you dared, but hadn’t seen the others. Restraining Pope from running back inside to find Catfish and the others had broken your heart, all you’d wanted was to run back in with Pope and find them, but the logical side of your brain knew that you shouldn’t.

“Pope! No!” Your shouts were hushed as you pushed at Pope, you didn’t dare grab someone’s attention, but Pope needed to listen to you, he had a wild look in his eyes that you’d only seen once before. “If you go back you’re as good as dead and no use to anyone!”

You’d fought with Pope before, you’d fought against all the boys in training sessions and knew their moves almost as well as they did. You’d yet to fight against one of them in real life, and it shocked you that although Pope’s moves wouldn’t seriously hurt you, he still wasn’t listening.

You knocked behind his right knee, conscious that the left one had only just healed from the previous mission, causing Pope to fall to the floor. He was still struggling against you, all lithe hard muscle and intent. Holding one arm around his neck to gently constrict his airways, you pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him to remain kneeling on the ground, your body blocking his view of the house as he glared at your stomach.

“Listen!” He stopped struggling against you but his shoulders still held all his tension as you put your mouth next to his ear. “They’re good at what they do, they might have got out. We need to reach the rendezvous position - they’ll meet us there. They don’t need us killing ourselves when they might be fine.”

Deciding to risk letting go of you, you relaxed your hold, kneeling in front of him as you grasp his shoulders, Pope sinking back onto his heels, his eyes finally focusing on you, still agitated. “You think they’ve got out?”

“They’re good agents, I trust them. You have to as well.” Pope knew you were talking sense. He also knew that you were good at pushing emotion down on a mission, not feeling things until afterwards. The number of times he’d comforted you back home, the way you looked before you were about to cry, how you dealt with guilt, fingers picking at your nail beds… he shook his head, not wanting to think of that now.

Instead he focused on your face now, your mouth set in a line, eyes gazing into his, waiting for him to confirm the exit route. When he nodded, you exhaled, and the two of you stood, setting off to the east.

As the day had continued it had begun to snow, harder and harder, until you realised that you were lost. Ditching your heavier packs and only taking the bare minimum had made it easier to walk however the temperature continued to drop, and worry chewed in your mind as you kept going, unsure of where you were heading until Pope had spotted the small cabin across the way.

As the sun set further and further beyond the horizon, turning the sky a deep purple, making it harder and harder to see, although it had thankfully stopped snowing. “Pope,” God your voice was hoarse. Had it always been so hard to open your mouth? The air that hit the back of your throat was painful, but you tried again. “Santiago!” A couple of steps in front of you, Santi turned.

The bottom half of his face was covered by a balaclava, which only served to make his eyes more intense as they looked you over. He was cold too; you could see it in the way he held himself, shoulders lifted and bent knees. The little skin you could see had lost a lot of its warmth, and now you’d caught up to him you could see that ice crystals clung to his eyebrows and eyelashes.

“Santi, w-wh-where - how far is th-this house?” Your mouth was stiff and the effort it took to move your tongue had never been so immense. Your voice was quiet, and as the two of you continued moving, you missed the concerned look Pope shot at you, instead concentrating on one foot in front of the other, despite how fuzzy your brain felt. “It shouldn’t be long now. May-maybe half an hour?” Pope was trying as hard as you were to push down his shivers, but you merely nodded in reply, not trusting your voice.

You shifted the small pack on your back as something dug into you, and the lapse in concentration on where you were going caused you to stumble. Pope was talking to you again, warm words washing over you but not going in. You were too cold to concentrate, your steps becoming heavier, and you felt like you might fall forward into the snow and never get up again.

You’re glad the two of you had made the decision to ditch your heavier packs once it had started snowing, the weight would probably cause you to topple over. Both you and Pope had pulled the hood up of your dark jackets, but it didn’t help alleviate the fogginess that was growing in your mind.

A dull pressure from the cold had begun at the base of your head, sending a throbbing through your skull. You became aware that Santi was holding onto your elbow, supporting you, though when he had begun, you couldn’t have said. And then you were standing in front of a building as your teeth continued to chatter and violent shivers tore their way up and down your body. More like a shack, the building was small and made entirely of wood, a warm brown, that looked so inviting.

You didn’t notice much else as Pope led you inside, sitting you down on the bed before disappearing. You were sure you saw his lips move, but you couldn’t remember. Everything was such a big effort and if you lay down on this bed with its cool inviting sheets, everything would fade away. You knew it would. All you could think about was the thin, needle-like points of pain shooting through your head, eradicating anything else.

When Pope returned, he was carrying neatly chopped wood, which he dropped to one side as he began to clean up the fireplace, clearing out old ash, charcoal and dust, before placing the wood down and neatly arranging the twigs so that the whole thing would light. Careful not to disturb the small pile of ash he’d made on the hearth, Pope set light to the fire. Watching carefully for a minute to ensure it had caught, he turned back to you.

You were still sitting in the same place Pope had put you, and he couldn’t help the pang of worry over your core temperature. You had easily bypassed the mild stage of hypothermia, he knew that much, if your confusion and lack of motor control was anything to go by, but beyond that, he wasn’t sure of the symptoms.

Making his way over to you, he began to unwrap you from your coat, pulling down your hood and untucking your plaits, and if his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary on your cold hair, you didn’t notice. Hanging your coat on the hook by the door, hoping it would dry by the time you needed it tomorrow, he picked his own coat from the floor and placed it next to yours.

Santi removed your boots, and outer trousers, deciding to leave you in your thermal underwear, as the fire had not yet fully warmed the room. He scooped snow outside into a pan, placing it on the stove above the fire and not trusting the rusty looking tap in the corner. Returning back to you, he wrapped the blanket that had been at the foot of the bed around your shoulders, tucking you in before leading you to the fire.

Pope could still see that your lips had lost their colour and the skin on your face was cool to the touch. Leaving you there, Pope busied himself making soup for the two of you, using the water created from the snow and stirring in soup from a packet. The water began to bubble, and gradually Pope found himself relaxing as the room began to warm up.

Dishing the soup into two bowls, he sat down in front of you noted with happiness that a bit of colour had come back into your cheeks. You were still shivering, but not so much, and your eyes seemed a fraction more alert. “Careful, it’s hot” he warns you, and is gratified to see a small smile, causing his heart to stutter in his chest. “Thanks Santi.” It’s easier to speak now, though your voice is still quiet from a lack of energy.

The pressure at the base of your neck had lifted slightly, but the headache was still present. As you sipped at the soup, you could feel it inside you, almost burning down your throat and gently warming your stomach. The fire was getting hotter, and almost burning your skin, yet you didn’t feel any warmer inside and kept shivering. Moving away slightly, the cool air in the rest of the room soothed you slightly, and you concentrated on not spilling any more of your soup.  

Eventually you’d finished eating and it was all you could do to keep your eyes open. Pope tugged the bowl from your hands and helped you into the bed, tucking the duvet under you, reminiscent of how your parents had done to you as a child. You blearily watched through tired eyes as he loaded the fire with enough wood to last the night and turned the stove off. Before you knew it, the bed was dipping on the other side and Pope was taking his outer layer of jumpers off, leaving him in the same style thermals that you were wearing.

Closing your eyes, you tried to go to sleep, but it seems your body did not want to. Your feet felt like blocks of ice, and you tried to rub them together without annoying Pope. Placing your cool hands under your armpits you try to warm them that way but to little success. Maybe you should have some more soup...

“Hey,” you turn, opening your eyes to see Pope looking at you, and you shiver, unable to keep eye contact. Your legs are still cold, and you once again try and rub them together to warm them up. “Take your clothes off” he commands quietly. The words hang in the space between you, only interrupted by the occasional crack from the fire still burning behind you. You laugh lightly to try and dispel the tension. “You know, I thought you were a sw-sweet t-t-talker when-n it comes to the ladies” You’re desperately trying to ignore the chattering of your teeth as you talk, and in the dim orange lighting you merely see Pope raise a singular, very sexy, eyebrow.

And then he’s moving, sitting up as he pulls his top off and drops it somewhere behind him, causing you to swallow when he starts to remove his thermal trousers. And when he’s done, he turns to you and “Your turn. You’ll warm up faster. I’ll be a massive hot water bottle for you.”

And you nod, because there’s nothing else to do, and because of course that was why he wanted you to take your clothes off, and you sit up, trying to ignore the tiny pang of disappointment in your chest. As you’re pulling your top above your head you suddenly feel a little embarrassed about the sports bra you’re wearing, and although it would be uncomfortable, you kind of wish you had something a little nicer on.

You copy his previous movements as you take your leggings off, your movements as fast as you can as the air in the room is still cold, sending more shivers through you and causing your hands to tremble. And again, you try to ignore the feeling of disappointment as he resolutely doesn’t look at you until you’re safely under the covers again. You try to tell yourself that it’s good that he respects you enough to not take advantage of you while you're vulnerable, that it’s unfeminist of you to want him to, because he should respect you as a person, he should respect your privacy.  

And by wanting him to look at you in a sexual way, despite this being a distinctly non-sexual situation, are you playing into rape culture? Or lad culture? Your brain hurts just thinking about it, and you try to push it out of your mind when Pope speaks again.

“Is this ok?” His words are only a little louder than a breath when the two of you face each other again. And again you can only nod as he opens his arms, and you move forward, trying to take a deep breath to calm yourself as your heart feels as though it will burst out of your chest.

You gently put your head in the space between his neck and the pillow, trying not to put too much weight on the arm underneath you. And you can smell his aftershave that he uses, still clinging to his skin, a pleasant contrast to the smoke from the fire. Your nose is buried in the crook of his neck, your lips nearly touching his skin and if you leaned forward just a centimetre more… But there’s more than that primal urge, his skin is so warm on your face, you can feel the heat transferred from his skin to your cool cheeks, relaxing you as you intermittently shake from the cold.

And then he brings his other arm around you, pulling you closer and closer, and all you can feel is Santi. His rough fingers curling into your back as he holds you as close as he can, and you can feel the muscle under his soft warm chest. You can feel how his heart beats, the steady thump calming you.

You bring your legs in, and nearly jump when they touch Santi’s, the hair tickling you a little. And your arm is over his side, and your fingers are dancing softly up and down his back, occasionally catching a scar as you stroke him. And if you apply a little more pressure, just so, he hums, low at the base of his throat, and you think you’d almost miss the sound if your ears weren’t so close to his vocal cords.

And he’s so warm, and so comfy, and god he smells so good, despite not having had a shower for 24 hours. And your breath begins to even out and your eyes start to droop, and Santi rests his chin delicately on the top of your head as your hand starts to slow. You’re both exhausted, the day has been longer than you’d anticipated and the two of you fall asleep curled together.

When you wake early in the morning, you realise that during the night the two of you had moved so that you were spooning, but you weren’t as close anymore. When you realised this, you began to carefully scoot backwards, not wanting to wake Santi, but wanting to feel his warmth again. As your back touches his chest he automatically moves, reaching his arm over so his hand is on the little pouch at the bottom of your stomach. The movement brings a small smile to your face, especially when you realise that you’re no longer shivering, and you feel warm again.

And you never want to move anywhere ever again. If this was how you died, you’d be happy. Lying in Santi’s arms after he’d warmed you up the night before, still too groggy to worry about the day ahead, you fell back asleep.

When you wake the second time, the sun has fully risen and is beaming through the gaps in the shutters which cover the small dusty windows. The light illuminates more dust notes floating in the air and for the first time you take note of your surroundings. You’ve clearly stumbled across a hunter’s cabin, if the numerous antlers and deer heads on the wall are anything to go by, and you’re surprised that you didn’t notice them last night. You can see the pile of blankets by the still-smouldering fire where you sat last night, the soup bowls abandoned haphazardly to one side.

The fireplace was split in two, one side for an open fire, and the other for a stove, where you could see Pope’s back as he busied himself and a rich smell of porridge filled the room. He hadn’t put his clothes back on, and your eyes unwillingly drop to admire his bum, encased in his boxers. Ripping your eyes away, you look instead at how the room itself was split into two, with the bed at the back, creating the illusion of a bedroom, while a kitchen style was created by the combination of the fire, stove, and table. The deer theme continued here, antlers extending from the tops of the chairs, creating what looked like many poor attempts to recreate the iron throne.

There’s a slight bite to the air, a kind of crisp chill that you only feel after it’s freshly snowed, and when you sit to get out of bed, you hiss sharply when your bare feet touch the cold floor. At the noise, Pope turns around, his hair still a little mussed from sleep. “Sleep alright?” He asks, and you suddenly feel exposed as his eyes look at you and then resolutely focus on a spot above your shoulder. “Yeah so much better. You’re the best hot water bottle I’ve ever had, can I take you home with me?” You’re only teasing and yet when Pope replies “I don’t go home with just anyone, you know,” you lean down as heat rushes through your body and you pull yesterday’s clothes on, trying not to show how hot under the collar Pope can make you. Especially when he’s basically naked.

Once your socks are on, you can just about bear to walk over the cold wooden floor and join Pope at the stove, watching him divide the porridge into two portions. On one he pours an extremely generous amount of honey, while the other he leaves plain. Giving you the one with the honey, he sits at the table. “Is there any reason you gave me more honey than porridge?” You ask as you stir it in, sitting opposite him, and trying not to think about his hands, clasped around his bowl, and how nice those hands felt on you last night.

He scoffs before he replies, “Because you need the sugar.” There’s a pregnant pause before he elaborates. “You were too cold last night. You need to get your energy back up.” And despite the excessive amounts of honey, the porridge is nice, warming you, and Pope’s right, you do feel better and more alert once you’ve finished it. 

Not that you’d tell him as such. Although… “I actually wanted to say thanks for yesterday.” Pushing the bowl away, you lean on your elbows on the table and look at Santi, admiring the way his salt and pepper curls are in more disarray than usual. “You saved my life, thank you.” He looks back, his gaze steady. “You know I’ve got your six, however that might be.” You stand, collecting the breakfast bowls and leaning for the soup bowls too. “Well. Thanks anyway. And you know I’ve got yours too, right?”

He smiled in thanks, and you moved on. “What’s the plan? Do we know where we are?” Pope shook his head, “There’s a map next to the door, but it’s too old to see where we are.” He put his feet up onto the chair opposite him. “I’ve sent out a rescue signal on our trackers though so hopefully someone will come get us.”

You nod, and a sudden wave of tiredness over takes you, so instead of washing the bowls, you place them in the sink and sit back on the bed. You closed your eyes, only meaning to rest them for a minute, when you heard Santi begin to make a lot of noise. Frowning, you watch him as he puts his jacket, trousers and boots back on. “Where are you going?” You gesture out the window “It’s snowing again - I don’t think you’ll see much.”

“I know but I want to check the area. There must be a road or something nearby.” And with that he’s gone, shutting the door behind you and leaving you alone in a warm, if slightly creepy, house. Letting yourself have another second of rest, you forced yourself to get up and poke around. You knew it could easily be 2 hours until you were picked up but it could be 2 days or longer and you needed to know the food situation.

The cupboards were dusty but packed full of canned foods which didn’t go out of date for another year, causing your heart to relax a little and the ball of worry in your stomach to unknot a little. You made yourself a mug of watery hot chocolate to keep you going, adding a little powdered milk to create the illusion of decadence.

You knew it freaked Santi out, not knowing where you were or what to expect, so you didn’t worry too much while he took his time outside, knowing his need for control wouldn’t let him rest until he was 100% happy. That didn’t stop you from worrying about Santi though. He hadn’t been as bad as you yesterday but that didn’t mean he was invincible. When he came back, you’d make him a hot chocolate.

Before you knew it, slight shivers were running up and down your body again, and when you glanced at the fire you realised that it had gone out, so you set to work cleaning out the ash, and replacing the charcoaled wood. Your gloves were grey by the time you finished, but you kept them on. You’d need them when you went outside for more wood. The wood had been neatly chopped and piled into an outdoor shed, which involved pulling on your boots. Groaning at the thought of the effort involved ahead, you shut your eyes for the briefest second.

____________________

By the time the fire was built, you were sweating, but pleased. It had caught well, and although it wasn’t neat, you were proud of yourself. Dropping your gloves to the floor, you got to work on lunch, a stew with an assortment of vegetables from tins which hadn’t looked very appetising but once you’d added some spices the tomato base had started to smell better.

Stirring in water you left it to bubble a little while longer, picking up your gloves and stomping outside. Your breath came out shaky, considering you’d long taken your jacket off and were just wearing your thermals. Beating your gloves against the wall, you attempted to shake the ash off them. “What did those gloves do to you?”

You turned to see Santi approaching, his eyes crinkled from his grin, and glittering as he tried not to laugh. “Well if you must know, they didn’t keep my hands warm today. Or yesterday” you added as an afterthought, trying not to let it show how relieved you were to see him again. You were pouting as you grumbled, though the effect was ruined by a laugh that bubbled out of you after a second. Examining your gloves, you gave up, admitting defeat that they’ll have ash on them until you could get them in a washing machine.

“Did you find anything?” You were only brave enough to ask once the two of you were seated and eating. “Not really. A dirt track leading to a road leading to nowhere. The only signs were to places I’d never heard of.” You snorted, “As if you’ve heard of any towns in Canada.”

“I could name places in Canada.” He protested, but you shook your head. “Not a chance! Name one?” He was smirking now, leaning forwards slightly. “Vancouver.”

You shook your head. “Doesn’t count. That’s a city.” You could see the flicker of panic as he struggled to think of a town not a city. Finally he let out a growl, tugging on his hair in frustration, both of which sent a flood of heat to your stomach as you imagined your fingers in his salt and pepper curls, pulling that noise from him. “Fine! I can only think of Quebec, happy?” He took another spoonful of stew. “This is good by the way, what’s in it?” You opened your mouth to reply when he cut you off. “And anyway, I bet you can’t name a Canadian town.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Want to bet?”

Santi narrowed his eyes as he pointed his spoon at you. “What are we betting?” You grinned as you jumped up, opening the door to one of the cupboards where’d you found a delicious looking bag of marshmallows. His eyes widened greedily at the sight. “No way! We’re not betting those, you clearly know at least one town.”

“Ok let’s say we split these - what will you give me if I know a town?” His eyes flicked up and down you as he appraised you, giving you a pleasant thrill, liking the way he looked at you. “You don’t know a town.” He was drawing his words out slightly, elongating them to exaggerate, playing at sounding confident, trying to see if you were bluffing. “Ok, if I don’t know a town, you can have all these marshmallows. If I do, I get to have the bed to myself tonight.”

You weren’t quite sure why you said that, but the knowledge that Santi would be in the same bed as you again tonight, except this time you wouldn’t be able to touch him was looking to be more than you could bear. “And where will I sleep?” Santi was holding your gaze now, and you knew he was interested. “By the fire,” you shrugged, “Put a few blankets down…” Trailing off, you didn’t dare break eye contact, until Santi finally stuck his hand out. You grasped it, smirking, until he said “Three towns. And if I find out you made one up, 10,000 push ups.”

“You underestimate me Garcia.” Racking your brains for the best names, you began. “Number 1 - Witless Bay - maybe you should visit,” you teased as he scowled slightly. “Number 2 - Big Beaver and number 3 - Spuzzum!”

“No way are they real!” The two of you continued to lightly bicker, Santi swearing he was going to look them up the first chance he got as the afternoon continued and the fire once again beginning to burn itself out.

When you peer out the window, you can’t see further than 20 meters and deciding you didn’t fancy venturing outside, you asked Santi to go out for more wood, promising that you wouldn’t open the packet until he was in the room, that you would save the marshmallows for after dinner.  

You had said that, but surely one marshmallow wouldn’t hurt? You had self control, you could stop after eating one. You were resolutely not looking at the packet at this point, as if turning your nose up wouldn’t make you want to break your promise.

Luckily at that moment Pope walked in, jacket bundled tight under his neck and stamping his boots in the doorway. “Ooh shut the door, all the warm air’s going out.” you hissed as a draft hit you and you crossed your arms. “Aww sorry, darling,” Santi teased you, “is it a waste of energy?” He laughed as you scowled slightly.

“Well actually, yes” you shivered, “and it’s making me cold Pope.” That last sentence was nearly a whine, and you gave him your best puppy dog eyes as you looked up at him. He was still smirking as he took his time piling up the wood and taking his jacket off before closing the door. The cheek of this man!

Huffing in indignation, you grabbed the packet of marshmallows and began to speak “Well if I’m going to get cold again, I may as well just eat all these marshmallows by myself. I don’t sha-” You shrieked as Pope whirled around at your words and began to chase towards you.

Scrabbling to get to your feet in time, you made a dash for the bed and yelped as Pope grabbed at the back of your shirt, struggling to get a hold. You tripped on one of your boots, stubbing your toe, causing you to curse and drop the bag on the floor. Pope was too fast for you, scooping to get a hold before you could react. He took a step backwards, holding the bag tauntingly below his face. “You” you growled, as Santi smirked, sure that he had the upper hand, “give them back now!” And with that you launched yourself at Pope, who definitely hadn’t been expecting that and stumbled back, falling atop the bed.

Straddling Pope’s waist, you leaned forward and grabbed the marshmallows easily, even as Santi attempted to hold the bag out of your reach. Grinning down at him, and holding the bag aloft, you suddenly realised the position the two of you were in, especially when Pope attempted to grab the bag back, and, failing that, rested his hand on your waist.

And, oh, how easy would it be to just move your hips down and grind a little. How easy would it be to lean forwards and kiss Santi on his plump lips. His dark eyes were watching you closely, and you swallowed at the sudden pressure of the situation. But if Pope could treat you with respect, then you could definitely respect him and the friendship the two of you had.

So you pushed yourself off him, looking at the fire as you awkwardly flicked your plaits away from your face. You bustle over to the stove, missing the disappointed look that flashes across his face. Pulling out a can of chopped tomatoes, you fiddle with the opener as you turn back around. “Should we eat dinner first?” Santi nods, sighing as he supposes that actual adults would eat dinner first. He has a strange look in his eyes as he watches you pour the tomatoes into a frying pan, switching the hob on and rooting through the cupboards as you try and think of a recipe with what’s available.

“What are you making?” Santi still hasn’t moved from the bed, propping himself up with his elbows as you pull out varying cans, each with their own unappetising label. “Dunno. Another stew type thing I guess. There’s some sweetcorn here, and some canned sausages, aanndd… ahaha! ‘New chopped and peeled potatoes in water’ Urgh” Placing the numerous tins on the floor next to you, you continue nosing around. “Doesn’t that sound disgusting?” Your voice is muffled somewhat when you put your head into the cupboard to look at products in the back but Pope wholeheartedly agrees.

After dinner, which had tasted better than it both sounded and looked, you’d toasted your marshmallows. You felt a bit cruel as you snuggled nicely into the big bed, starfishing as much as you could, while Santi lay out a small pile of blankets on the floor next to the fire.

Sleep would have come easily to you, exhausted as you were, but it seemed Santi couldn’t get comfortable, tossing and turning and huffing as he did so. “Santi, if you’re going to keep me awake on the floor I think I’d rather if you slept in the bed.” You rolled to the side of the bed, watching as Santi sat up so fast, you were worried he’d snap something. “Really?” His voice sounded so pathetic, you felt horribly mean for making him sleep on the floor.

Until he stood up and you saw that he wasn’t wearing any thermals. Again. And this time he was turned towards you and you could see the outline of everything, causing you to swallow heavily and look away, face feeling so hot you could have been burned. Just friends, you remind yourself, we’re just friends.

And when Santi got into bed next to you, you could feel him shift and relax into the mattress as it dipped under his weight. And why was this so much more awkward than it was last night? Maybe, a snide voice began, it’s because last night, you were on the brink of death. And tonight, you’re a sad, sad girl who has a crush on her best friend.

“Baby, come here.” Santiago’s husky voice seems like it comes out of nowhere, and you blink at the ceiling. Baby? Turning to face him again, you’re kind of surprised to see his arms open again like they were last night. He wants to cuddle? Again? Even though he doesn’t have to? Baby? And it’s so silent, the only sound the fire crackling behind you.

But you move forwards anyway because this is Santiago, who are you to say no? Maybe he’ll call me Baby again. Santi tugs you towards him, wrapping his arms around you, and you press your face into the crook of his neck again, clenching your eyes tightly shut, praying that this isn’t a dream. And then you lift your head because “How do you still smell so nice?” And you realise your mistake too late, because although the movement puts more space between you, you’re now  because now your face is level with his, and far too little space between the two of you.

But then his eyes drop to your lips and suddenly everything falls neatly into place. Why you and Santi had been in so many compromising positions over the last couple of days. All those lingering touches and glances. How Santi would do anything for you. How he always told you the truth, even when you didn’t want to hear it. How he remembered details about you. How you made him laugh. How he made you laugh.

And so you leaned forwards and kissed him.

It’s a peck of a kiss, you’re not brave enough to do anything else, maybe lasting for a second before you’re pushing off from him, putting distance between your bodies, the voice in your head screaming ‘Idiot!’ at you over and over.

Until one of Santi’s hands are on the back of your head, pulling you back towards him and you let him, leaning forwards and you’re kissing again.

But properly this time. This isn’t some PG-rated, playground kiss that 12 year olds gave each other during a game of spin the bottle. This was a real kiss, your eyes are closed and your mouth is moving against Santi’s like it’s found its home.

Your mouths are open and his hands move to rest on your waist and yours are in his hair. And it’s too much. But not enough. Distantly a helicopter whirs overhead and you hook one leg over his waist, your foot pressing into his bum, pulling him closer to you. And you can feel him. All of him. He’s clearly just as into this as you are and the two of you keep kissing as you tug on his hair. He groans into your mouth before moving down your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin until he finds the spot which causes you to gasp out his name.

You keep moving against each other and it’s so good and the helicopter whirs overhead once more. You gasp as it clicks in your mind and you push at Santi’s shoulders as he keeps kissing your shoulders, “You’re so beautiful,” Santi groans and you want him to continue so badly, but if that helicopter is here for you, which it must be after two days of silence, you don’t want to found in this position.

“Santi, stop, we have to stop!” Santi immediately pulls away from you, his brow furrowing as he looks at your face. “What is it?”

You’re sure that the grin on your face is a dopey one but you can’t help it, he’s so cute. “There’s a chopper outside.” Santi sits up just as the door opens to reveal a grinning Frankie. “They’re in here!” he hollers behind him. “Cuddling and -” his gaze lands on you and his eyes drop a couple of inches below yours and he laughs a little, “Ironhead and Redfly, you owe me 15 big ones!”

Santi’s head snaps to look at you as well, and your hand flys up to touch the area he’d been kissing, which has the beginnings of a soreness that only comes from a hickey. You groan and let yourself fall back onto the pillows. The ride back was going to be hell.

Fin x

God this started as a comfort fic when the heating went out in my house - I didn’t think it’d get this far but I’m so pleased to have finished my first fic, please give me feedback good or bad I want to know! I know the ending was weak but didn’t know how to make it better so any tips would be appreciated! Also if anyone knows how to think of titles please please please help me

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[sir-adamus]

so, after making some changes, struggling to find character allusions and having to rename one of the team members so i’d have an initial i can fit into a reasonable-ish team name, i have the concept descriptions of this RWBY fan-team down, below the cut, i give you Team HRTS - i am open to any feedback on these:

Team HRTS are a “technically-graduated” Huntress team operating out of Vale; they had rushed back to the school from a mission as the attack began, arriving at the city far too late to do anything but help pick up the pieces.

After a hasty, informal graduation from Acting Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch, they’re taking to their roles as Huntresses in a world now fumbling in the dark, no matter how futile it seems right now.

Alice Heddwyn – Leader, based on Alice in Wonderland. Rabbit Faunus. 21 years old.

Weapon: “Vorpal Blade” – Sword – fitted with grooves that slot different combinations of Dust types in depending on the mode, mode is selected by twisting the handle in combinations only Alice knows. Examples: “Snicker-Snack” mode – Default, no Dust. “Frumious” mode – Fire and Rock Dust. “Slithy” mode – Water and Gravity Dust. “Tulgey” mode – Plant and Wind Dust. “Mimsy” mode – Electricity Dust. Alice utilises a fast series of swings, dealing physical and elemental damage to wear down her opponents defenses.

Semblance: “Wonderland” – by expending Aura, Alice can summon an “imaginary friend” (similar to Weiss’s summons) that acts as an autonomous entity on the battlefield. Only one friend can be summoned at a time, cannot split into multiple entities, and as Alice is not directly in control of the friends, she must be careful who she picks as they may prove to be more a hindrance than a help. Risk factor: if she gets too carried away with her imagination, her Aura drains faster. Optimal usage is in small bursts rather than a continuous battlefield presence.

Personality: Charismatic, friendly and airy (in general, weird girl energy), able to balance the personalities within her team and respond to feedback from her teammates. Has a notable childish streak (she sometimes talks to her imaginary friends, so she seems weird to other people but – understandably – the line where she ends and the imaginary friends her Semblance manifests, and how sapient they are on their own, is blurry), and can be quite stubborn, especially towards authority figures when she believes she knows better. Quite talkative and blunt.

Appearance: Long, white rabbit ears. Short, platinum blonde hair – “punky” hairstyle? Blue eyes. Freckles and a tan due to outdoorsy nature. Shortest member of her team at 5’4’’. Outfit: Azure blue hairband. Blue combat skort (with pockets). White belt – pocket-watch hanging from it (gift/memento from a parent referencing the White Rabbit?) and Pumpkin Pete keychain. Wears black knee and wrist support braces and blue fingerless gloves. Black combat boots with blue lining/laces and cute white bows on the back. White tank top, black high collar crop puffer jacket (blue interior lining, stripes down the arms and accents), sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

Aura Colour: White

Emblem: Keyhole shape - splashed on the back of her jacket in white.

Background: Alice is the daughter of a Faunus and a human – her human parent is from the wealthier side of Vale (befitting the crown imagery and also alluding to original Alice being kind of upper class), she grew up in a large home in Vale, filled with extended family (some of whom she’s not entirely sure she’s actually related to), full of eccentricity and play; encouraging her wild imagination. She wanted to be a Huntress due to her imaginative spirit and romantic ideals about adventures and heroism. Initially she was quite a socially awkward, isolated loner outside of her home as she was often singled out as the weird kid (if she wasn’t being targeted for being a Faunus), while she studied at Pharos Academy, so initially it took a while for her to open up and rely on her team, at which point her more extroverted tendencies became apparent.

Rowena Argentum – based on Treasure Island. Human. 21 years old.

Weapon: “Flint and Bones” - Twin pistols that can combine and extend into an anti-material rifle (“The Captain”) – this mode has a lot of recoil, so Rowena’s prosthetic leg can double as a mount for it for long range shots.

Semblance: None – her Semblance was stolen not long after it unlocked when she was young, as collateral following a hit job by the assassin Marcus Black.

Personality: Cheerful and perhaps overly friendly, Rowena maintains a humble and optimistic outlook, sharing Alice’s eagerness for adventure. Unlike Alice, however, Rowena masks a hard edge, brought on by a life living unprotected by the Kingdoms; she’s an impressive liar, excellent at gathering information and pickpocketing. She has a vengeful streak and her impulsiveness often gets her into trouble, though it has tempered over the years.

Appearance: Long, loose green hair and coal-black irises. 5’8’’. She has a few scars on her arms and face from a rough life outside the Kingdoms, one notable one being a scar extending from the left edge of her mouth in a jagged “smile”. Rowena lost her left leg in the same incident she lost her Semblance; it has since been replaced with a simple prosthesis that she has modified to double as a mount for The Captain. She has a pirate aesthetic, wearing a loose blouse under a long double-breasted coat-jacket. Under her jacket she wears suspenders, which have the holsters for Flint and Bones attached. She wears several belts around her waist, loose-fitting trousers tucked into knee-high buckle boots. Colour scheme primarily green and silver.

Aura Colour: Silver

Emblem: A stylised Hawk from a top-down view, with its wings spread; worn on her belt buckle and tattooed on her right wrist.

Background: Rowena grew up outside the protection of the Kingdoms, hailing from a small seaside town. She saw numerous bandits and pirates coming through town on a daily basis, and would often be regaled with stories of swashbuckling adventure by the friendlier visitors. Until the day came that a notorious pirate made port in the town, and the place was set ablaze after his subsequent assassination by Marcus Black. Rowena’s Semblance was unlocked in the panic, only to be immediately stolen by Marcus on his way through, endangering the child’s life as her home burned around her, and the Grimm set in. She lost her leg as a result. Determined to never let this happen anywhere else, she dedicated her life to becoming a Huntress, traveling all over (including some time spent in Kuchinashi) and fighting to survive, learning whatever skills she had to until she was old enough to take the exam at Beacon Academy – and keeping an ear to the ground in case a certain assassin ever showed his face again.

Titania Ianthe – based on the Fairy Queen. Human. 21 years old.

Weapon: “Graviton Reign” – Glaive weapon, reach for crowd control. Contains a mechanism which uses Gravity Dust inside the blade, furthering crowd control ability, either with repulsing strikes or anchoring opponents as they are swept away.

Semblance: “Attraction” – Titania emits a low-level psychic field that makes everyone and everything pay attention to her. Effect is passive and subtle most of the time, but she can use her Aura to concentrate the effect as a pulse in battle (extending the radius of her Area of Effect to 15 meters); drawing aggro from people and Grimm alike.

Personality: Aloof, confident and proud, Titania didn’t come to Beacon to make friends, but there she found a family. Titania has a lot of walls up, and is often frustrated that her teammates seem determined to clamber over every single one. Despite her exasperation though, she loves her team and would do anything for them, even if it means administering some tough love once in a while. She has difficulty in social situations, and has a tendency to try and shoulder too much responsibility at once. She is also sometimes insecure, due to the nature of her Semblance, whether anyone truly likes her.

Appearance: Wavy, shoulder length dark brown hair, pinned back so it won’t get in her eyes. Dark purple eyes. She has light brown skin, a toned, athletic physique and is noted as the most beautiful of her team. Tallest member of the team at 6’2’’. Outfit: Wears a purple and black sleeveless, hooded top (hood is usually kept up). Black, segmented armoured bracers with silver accents over black gloves. A loose, knee-length faded purple skirt over biker shorts. Heeled black boots with purple laces and zippers.

Aura Colour: Purple

Emblem: A tiara with a large central peak – shaped with interwoven lines and swirls

Background: Titania hails from Vacuo, originally from a small community near the edge of the Kingdom. She grew up hearing old stories about famous Huntsmen and Huntresses, especially enamoured with legendary Huntresses like Opal or the Grimm Reaper. Eager to see the world beyond the sands, and assured in herself that she would one day be talked about in stories too, she trained to fight, traveling to Vale where she could begin her legend. She quickly found recognition and popularity at Beacon; she just wishes people would stop asking her out on dates.

Sable Dunscaith – based on Scáthach. Human. 21 years old.

Weapon: “Nightfall Breach” – a spear with multiple configurations. Its compact form can fire crossbow bolts (charged with explosive Dust) out of the spear tip. The default form functions as a regular spear weapon and can be thrown as a javelin – the spearhead has a hidden function, releasing explosive barbs for additional damage after making contact. The pole-vault form is exactly what it says on the tin, extending out and allowing Sable to pole-vault over or across obstacles, retracting rapidly to allow for aerial manoeuvres whilst she’s in the air. She can also throw Nightfall Breach as a javelin, and relies on martial arts training until she can retrieve it.

Semblance: “Phantom” – able to utilise any shadow within a 40-foot radius as a portal as long as she is stood within the shadow (and it isn’t her own) – she can then appear from any shadow of her choosing (the further away, the higher the cost on her Aura). She can also utilise portals at a distance by throwing objects, such as Nightfall Breach, giving her an advantage in combat by making her hard to predict. Her Semblance’s effectiveness is drastically increased at night, but incredibly diminished in wide open areas, especially during the day when there’s little to cast shadows.

Personality: In contrast to her gloomy appearance, Sable is as much of an excitable nerd as her leader, as well as the de facto team mom. Sable is often on the side-lines in conversations, which suits her just fine, but she’s always watching out for everyone and there to lend a supportive hand when it’s needed. In spite of her quiet appearance, she’s also a bit of a prankster and can be very competitive, especially when her twin is involved. Her calm, warm demeanour however masks a fiery and brutal warrior with a number of tricks up her sleeve that let her control the flow of battle while maintaining a sharp degree of unpredictability.

Appearance: Red hair kept in a short ponytail. Vivid crimson eyes. Pale complexion. In general, she has a very Gothic aesthetic. 5’11’’. Outfit: Sable dresses in mainly black with some silver accents. She wears a long, fishtail coat with a fur-lined collar, long trousers and fur-lined heeled boots.

Aura Colour: Black

Emblem: A Castle – embroidered in silver on the back of her coat.

Background: Sable grew up on the island of Patch off the coast of Vale, and like many, attended Signal Academy in hopes of one day being accepted into Beacon – being a Huntress like her mother and grandmother was the dream. Sable’s twin, Astrid, determined to outshine her, followed her on this path, becoming a rival that pushes Sable to become ever stronger. When initiation put them each on different teams, this rivalry grew even fiercer; now in their fourth year and on the cusp of becoming fully licensed Huntresses, tensions between the twins are edging towards a fever pitch.

[marvel-m-lee]

Sunrise?... •Part 3- M-Verse•

Fandom: Marvel

●○●This is a Tickle Fic Story●○●

-This story may also include Gore in some chapters-

(This chapter doesn't include tickling but Is advised if your reading the story)

-

It was late, very late, the young girl, whom had still been unconscious was left to lay in her hospital bed until she awoke. Steve stayed at her side, even though Tony and Bruce tried to convince him other wise.

Everyone in the compound seemed to be asleep, it was extremely early in the morning so it was expected.

You hesitantly opened your eyes, a bright light causing you to pull your head away and stir. Once your eyes became accustomed to the lights you looked around, you were in a hospital like room on a single bed with cream white sheets in a white hospital gown.

You sat up and saw next to your bed was a man, he made your eyes wide and afraid yet warm. Had soft blond hair, he wore a blue shirt with some

Grey tracksuit bottoms on. He was sleeping soundly on the chair, cute little snores coming from him. It made you smile, but quickly hide the smile once you realise you actually were smiling. Though it was cute. You began to have an arguement in your head about it.

"Hey" You snapped out of your thoughts to look at the person speaking with wide eyes. They were small, they had brown fluffy/curly hair and a pair of thin rectangular glasses on the bridge if their nose.

"Hello, I'm sorry if I awoke you or scared you" it seemed like a man, he stepped in the room whispering to make sure he didnt wake anyone. He seemed more nervous than even you were, and you couldn't remember anything so you were pretty shook.

"I- um.." You stuttered, you felt a warmth with his words.

"It's alright, would you like to come with me for a bit? I'm going on a morning walk, I came in to check on you both" The man seemed gentle, he wore a purple button up tucked into some light brown trousers.

You felt like you had nothing to do here, so you reluctantly agreed. You recognised it to a degree, and your gut told you he was safe so you believed it. His warm smile convinced you he was safe once you had agreed to join him. He wasn't pushy or persuasive, just warm and quiet. Something you needed.

"Oh yeah- your clothes, follow me" He whispered, mentioning you out of the room to follow him. You stepped out of the room and could see the outside world. The sky blackish blue, colours starting to fade with one another. Little lights covering the sky.

You followed the man, you were around just above his elbows in height, and you stayed behind him so he did look over his shoulder a few times.

"In here" he mentioned as he opened a door in a corridor full of them. You followed him inside, it was very clean and organized, the room were a moss green, the bed sheets were white while the pillows were purple- the same shade as his shirt. He had bookshelves and little plants at his window, a desk right below the plants that had a computer on and a pencil holder next to it. At the back of the room was a large closet and some draws next to it with a full length mirror and another door in which you believed to be the bathroom from the tiny gap you could see through the open door.

The room really was quite beautiful, the man went over to his wardrobs and pulled out a shirt and belt, the shirt was the same mess green as the walls, flannel that was seemingly one of the largest he had, the belt was a plan old black one but still seemed to match. He then grabbed some shoes, just trainers which may have been a little too big.

He then handed you these items and asked if it were easier if he left or you changed in the bathroom. Surprised of the affection and kindness you nodded with a slight smile- unable to hold back- and went into the bathroom and closed the door.

"See, so what you do is you put on the shirt, putting it up and it should reach down to your knees maybe? Then put the belt around your waist, do it up and it should hopefully look like a dress?" The kind man instructed from outside of the door. You followed the instructions and put the shoes on.

You looked in the mirror and seemed much different already. The shirt did look like a dress, and the belt matched perfectly. The slaves were left rolled down as it was quite cold and you had noticed bruising.

Exiting the bathroom you became a different person, by looks anyway. The man raised his eyebrows in surprise but smiled rising from his- as you assumed- bed. "You look wonderful"

A smile crept along your face, along with a light blush at the complement, unable to hold eye contact.

You both silently- but surprisingly not awkwardly- left and wondered outside. He brought you along a narrow pathway full of green bushes and plants. You both then came to a stop as he showed you the place he came to relax. It seemed to be the edge of the compound, it was beautiful though... surrounded by bushes and a little double garden swing painted in white and covered with little flowers crawling up the sides.

As you looked around you noticed a gap within the bushes, an archway that looked to be on a cliff or hill of some sort. Looking across the sea horizon.

The man went to go sit down on the swing, smiling to himself. He motioned for you to sit down as well, as you did he continued to watch through the bushes to the sea line for your vision to soon follow.

You then noticed something. The sky horizon it was- changing? The black turned to a dark blue turning lighter and inti more and more colours of oranges and pinks and reds. A large ball soon drifting over waking up the world from its darkened sleep.

Your eyes shone witb the colours. Locked in, unable to look away from the beautiful sight.

You hadn't noticed but the man sitting next to you had been watching you, as your eyes lit up and became engrossed in the colours, your pupils decreasing and letting the (y/e/c) colour stream out showing their beauty. You were so enchanted by these colours that came from a seemingly so dark place it was as though the man could feel the warmth seeping out of you.

He then too returned to the beautiful sight in which the sun evolved. After a couple of minutes the beauty ended and you drifted your view to the man. Wonder and colour in your eyes.

"What was that" you asked, pure childlike wonder through your words.

"A sunrise" The man replied, smiling at you. His smile seemed warm, but broken. Like he had been hurt before. You couldn't really explain it but the way your eyes connected for a split second told you everything about his pain and happiness.

"Thank you" you whispered, lightly under your breath but just enough so he could hear the wonder and greatness in the words. It made him smile and look away, nervous of what to say next.

"You're welcome"

You both sat there as you watched the sun float further and further into the sky. It felt so peaceful, and you were so grateful to have experienced it.

"Thank you" you whispered again unconsciously. It was just so beautiful. So wonderful.

The man chuckled slightly and turned to you with his warm smile. "I'm Bruce Banner" he remarked.

You turned away from the sky and looked at him, his figure, his name, "Bruce Banner?.." you questioned, thinking it though but ultimately deciding it was a lovely name. You grinned at him, "it's lovely. I'm... um" your smile died down for a moment as you tried to think. Your name? Your name? What was it?

"Y/n y/l/n, I know. We spoke yesterday. It's okay if you cant remember much more" Bruce reassured you. Grateful, you repeated yourself.

"Y/n y/l/n" you grinned glad to know it. And it also made sense to why you recognised him slightly, you had both already spoken.

"I really loved the sunrise thing. It's so beautiful. Does it happen often?" You asked, integeed by the colours and beauty.

The kind man laughed, "every morning, I'd be more than happy for you to join me. Only don't tell the others where this place is?" He asked politely, he seemed to really love this place. You didnt know who the others where, you soon would though. But you agreed. This would be your place.

After a while you both decided to head back. It turned out you had both been there for an hour and it would move be training time for everyone. Bruce began explaining who everyone was.

"So basically we're called the Avengers, it's off a plane Danvers used to fly I believe, though I'm unsure. We have Thor, he's a god, then theres Nat, she used to be a spy, theres Clint, he has perfect shot. Then theres me, Tony and Steve. We're the 'OG 6' as the press says" Bruce seemed quite intrigued telling you who everyone was. He explained most people to a degree, they're powers and what not.

You smiled at him, taking in the information. He opened the door for you and you both entered the building. Your new relationship didn't seem awkward, just warm.

"Ah so there they were" Another man said as he made himself a cup of coffee. He had a goaty, thin and cut like an oval, he had a strong build and his cheekbones stood out. He was wearing the sane colour shirt you had on- green moss with a V neckline and some usual black trousers. He walked over to you and was a few inches taller than Bruce and walked over to introduce himself.

"You're the kid from the mission ain't ya? Well Bruce really did something" he chuckled out stretching his hand. You shook it anxiously.

"I wont bite, Sam Wilson"

You nodded,unsure if you should introduce yourself so when you let go if his hand you looked down and mumbled your name.

"Shy?" Sam smirked. He then turned to bruce to offer him a coffee, in which he declined to which sam insisted he tell him why if he were just about to make himself one.

"You- just.." Bruce was in a sticky situation until a woman showed up and answered for him.

"You suck at making Coffee Sam" Sam gasped in offence, taking a step back into Bruce.

"I do not!"

The lady rolled her eyes and begun making the coffee instead. "Thanks Nat" Bruce exhaled relief and sat on a stool and you followed like a lost sheep.

"This the kid?" She asked. She was really quite beautiful in your opinion, red hair with white faded at the bottoms from where dye had been used but grown out. She wore a black suit with some type of belt over her cleavage, her hair tyed up into a messy plait.

You couldn't really keep your eyes off her, this place was incredible. The people were fascinating and kind in their own ways.

"Thank you" you whispered to Bruce, he turned his head and furrowed his brows.

"Hmm? What for?"

You stumbled on your words, you were so grateful and warm and you had this feeling inside you that made you feel all floaty and bubbly.

Instead of answering the question you just hugged him, hiding your face in his body.

You couldn't see the look on his face but the others would never forget it, pure love and happiness radiating off of the two of you. He hugged you back, fighting the tears in his eyes.

"You're welcome Y/n"

You sat down on a stool as Nat handed Bruce the coffee and handed you a cup of coloured liquid that you just stared at in confusion.

"Coffee for the Dr. And Juice for the kid" she smiled at you both with a laugh. Sam had noticed your face though and watched you in shock walking over to you.

"Uh, you're meant to drink it?-" he didnt really know what to say. He had never known someone to not know what juice was.

"Um.. sorry.. i- um. What is this?" You asked looking around at everyone after inspecting it. You were welcome with confused looks which made you feel a little bad.

"I can't believe you've never had juice?! Its delicious, if it gave me my energy I'd be drinking it" Sam boasted. You hesitantly picked it up and took a sip, it tasted delicious?

Your eyebrows raised in surprise which told everyone you were enjoying it as you took a few more sips.

"See! Delicious" Sam remarked confidently witch a hand on his hip. Just then you all heard someone bust in the room yelling-

"GUYS?! WHERE'S THE KID?!"

[moonlights-inkwell]

Oh, Can’t You Hear The Scratching?

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 4747

Summary: A serious injury leads to you being forced to leave your travelling days behind you and try to reintergrate yourself into a life you left behind. But it seems something from travelling has decided not to leave you

A/N: So. Um. This was meant to be some post Mountain smut, but turned into some semi-angst and is probably gonna turn into a series (and kinda (?) a companion piece to my Oxenfurt Series) where Jaskier and the Reader just sorta embrace some domestic bliss. So yeah. Title taken from That Unwanted Animal.

The first chill of Autumn is enough to wake you from a dead slumber. The cold nips at the tip of your nose, leaving it almost painful and chaffed, and you curse internally at the windows of your small home, which lately has done little to keep out either rain or cold. Pushing yourself up from the warmth of your fur-lined bed, you sit up and wince when the chill hits your chest, causing you to heave out a sigh as if you had been punched, blinking bleary-eyed before turning to gaze out of your window. It’s still dark, but no longer pitch. The sky is the colour of the violets that grow along the path that leads to your cottage but paling slowly, no sight of sun or moon, cloud or stars. Soon the horizon will be warmed by the orange glow of the sun, but right now you find yourself in this blissful timelessness, caught between dusk and dawn, sleep and awake. Moments like this feel rare, special, and you dedicate them to memory, to remind yourself of the mundane beauty of the world when you feel lonely and upset. These moments are wonderful, and your lips turn up in a tired smile. 

Sleep is trying desperately to overtake you once more, begging you sweetly to rest as long as humanly possible- after hard nights working in the tavern, you deserve rest and respite, but you fight against it. Swinging your legs out of bed and standing up, you groan in annoyance.  

“Melitele’s tits.” You curse, slurring with sleep. Padding barefoot to the window, you lean against the wall and rub your eyes, toying with the thin fabric that hangs to the side of the windows. It’s much too early in the day, and much too early for you to be feeling this way. This feeling only normally comes with Winter but reminds you all too much of the day you met Jaskier. It was as if fate had insisted you to be ready for him. Your heart sinks at the thought of him.  

You left the Witcher and your Bard behind in the spring. It wasn’t an easy choice, or even really a choice that you made, but it was the only one that was given to you. It came as a result of fighting a Wyvern. You hate Wyverns, always have and always will, but the fight against this one had cemented that in your mind, seeing as it sunk its claws into the left side of your face, and nearly blinded you. You didn’t even really know what damage it had caused until you sunk, faint, to your knees and Jaskier screeched in horror at the sight of you. I'm not that ugly, am I? You thought to yourself and chuckled slightly before falling unconscious.  

You woke in a healer’s tent, barely able to comprehend spoken language as the medic told Geralt you were lucky to be alive, never mind retaining the vision in both eyes.  Something in the back of your mind told you that you should be in pain, excruciating pain, but you can’t feel a thing. Your face would likely keep the marks of the beast forever though, he told the Witcher, voice as emotionless as possible. The hand holding your own tightens its grip. Jaskier. You smiled and cracked open the uninjured eye, but the smile faded at the sight of his red, tearstained face. He looked like he had been sobbing, and he probably had. He fretted about you when you got splinters, so the idea that you could have died was too much for him. He glanced down at you, and upon seeing your open eyes cupped your face gently and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. It’s like no kiss he’d given before, it’s full of something you haven’t felt from him, sadness. Regret. It feels like goodbye. When he pulls back his lips and chin are stained with your blood.  

“I’ll find you in winter.” He muttered and your eyes narrowed in confusion. Tears overtook him once more, and he dragged you into his lap to sob onto your bloodied blouse- he'd never been squeamish about blood before, but in that moment, it was as if he was trying to get as much of your blood on him as possible, to mar and mark himself with proof that he was yours. Your fingers threaded through his hair, but whatever the Healer had given you meant that you couldn’t feel the softness of the chestnut locks, smell the musk and lavender scent that you know permeates from him over the coppery blood. It's hollow. You can’t feel him at all and would have taken the agonising pain of the wound if it meant that you could feel the touch of his skin on yours.

“Till winter.”

It was goodbye. At least for the time being.

Geralt took you home on Roach the next day, and insisted you remain. Retune yourself back to the life in your village, rather than a life that will kill you at any and every turn. He said it so firmly you couldn’t force out an argument, and so you’ve remained since that day; remaining in the old home you resided in just outside of the village, returning to your job in the tavern, and trying in vain to pretend that you aren’t in pain, not spending your days missing your bard, counting down until the seasons change and Geralt will return to Kaer Morhen and you can feel a dandelion on your skin once more.  

Absent-mindedly, you drag the tips of your fingers over the fading scar over your eye, it’s no longer garishly red and surrounded by mottled green, yellow and blueing bruised skin, instead almost white, with a strange shining quality about it. You don’t hate it, but you hate what it represents. Weakness. You found scars wonderful as a child, proof of how adventures had marked you, even on the road with Geralt it had been something of note, proof of how no monster had felled you yet. This one has felled you, left you more than just marked. It’s a conversation starter with patrons at the pub though, it sees you regaling people with your tales of traveling with a Witcher, and sees the pockets of your pinny grow heavy with coin as the nights draw to days, but the song starts up and you feel your throat begin to swell closed, lips suddenly wordless and eyes swelling with tears. Toss a Coin to Your Witcher is capable of reducing you to tears, your Dandelion would be proud were it under different circumstances. You miss him like a lost limb. After so long around him, always touching, always grinning, always talking, the absence makes you uncomfortable, especially at night.

Jaskier had always been there at night, oh what the luxury of your travelling partner being your lover had been during nights on the road. The sound of him singing in the darkness, illuminated only by the firelight and framed by the canopy of the trees, as if on a stage and performing for an audience of only you, how it felt when he dragged you, often kicking and squealing in laughter, towards your shared bedroll. While you are glad of a permanent bed, you miss sleeping beside him. It feels childish to admit that you find it hard to sleep without him, even if you are only admitting to yourself, but it is difficult without him; you miss the feeling of his arms around your waist, head between your shoulders and breath fanning against your skin, lulling you to sleep. Not only that, but you miss the sweetness that comes before sleep, tiredly resting on his chest and listening to him talk- usually utter nonsense you care little for, but enamoured by his passion and way of speaking- or singing, ringed fingers burying themselves in your hair while your fingers thread through the Shag Rug of chest hair.  

The shadow that passes by the window doesn’t catch your eye, distracted too much by memory, and you turn tiredly back toward bed but stop. Bed will do nothing but remind you of the chill behind you, lack of arms about your waist and head resting in the hollow between your shoulder blades. That won’t do. Instead, you find yourself padding to the small room that keeps the hearth, lip trapped between gnawing teeth as you begin a search for a means to light the fire and warm yourself a serving of last night’s stew but stop. Scratching. Scratching. Something is scratching at the front door. That’s not normal. All your life there has never been scratching at the door, even in spite of its close proximity to the woods no creature normally drags their claws along the wood, save for once, when a wolf had found itself lost and confused, but even that had been a pup. Just Imagining things, you try in vain to convince yourself, hand falling onto the matches and drawing a sigh of relief from you. It takes a second or so for your hands to stop shaking, but when the scratching dies you manage to strike a match and start a fire beneath the hanging pot of stew. Warmth, at long last, and light too.  

You sit on the floor to warm yourself in front of the hearth, humming softly along with the phantom of a song you hear in your dreams. It’s not one you know too well, you don’t even know if the song has lyrics, but it's one of Jaskier's and that means it’s your favourite. Tears that threaten to fall blur your vision and in the glowing flames you almost swear you can see him, sat across from you.  

It’s familiar, hauntingly so. You can all but feel the hard stone beneath your feet turn to prickly, drying grass, your sleep shirt turning to almost threadbare chemise and trousers. You can even feel the bruising ribs from an especially rough incident with a werewolf that saw the Witcher walking to a nearby village for food to help you feel better. The flames in front of you ripple and roar, causing the wood to pop and crackle, and with each noise you jump slightly and flinch in pain. Jaskier sits across from you, staring at you intensely and strumming at his lute. He’s beautiful in the light of the fire, lashes dark and his eyes focused, taking in every flinch and jostle.

“Try not to move so, Little Miss. You'll only hurt yourself. Well. Hurt yourself more.” He's trying to sound unaffected, but the intensity of his gaze betrays him. You worried him; a skill you’ve been honing in your time with Geralt and him, and you know how he worries. He's more of a mother-hen than a fighter in the first place, flapping about and acting as if you’re some delicate flower in polite society rather than someone who enjoys being combative, but combined with your human fragility? He frets. Overwhelmingly so. His eyes, the colour of the sea after a storm, moves from your eyes to where he knows your injury to be and then back to your eyes once more. You can’t quite meet his eyes, distracting yourself by looking over the intricate ivory embroidery that decorates his doublet.

You hate worrying him. He’s been so kind to you, always so giving: making sure you have enough stew to eat, warm enough when autumn comes about, threatening any man who looks at you with anything less than respect. He knows how you revel in fighting, but each and every injury you get sees the bard fretting even more so than normal. Though you can't meet his gaze you can feel his eyes on you, and hear the soft melody he's plucking, which makes you shift on the spot, letting out a pained moan as you do. Focused on the searing pain in your ribs, you don’t quite hear the bard gasp out your name and rush to your side, only knowing he's even there when you feel a warm palm rest on your thigh and turn to see him on his knees in front of you.  

“Fucking hell, Little Miss, are you alright? Do you need something? Shit... I- I can try and fetch Geralt, he won’t be too far-" The brunet rambles, eyes wide and grip on your thigh tightening, which serves to make your breath hitch- but not from the pain. Jaskier is always touching you, you’re quite certain he was not given sufficient human contact as a child, but never has he touched somewhere as... intimate as your thigh. The heat of his hand seeps through your trousers, and goes straight to your core and face- cheeks bright pink. He's still rambling, you realise, and reach out gently to cup his cheek, silencing him immediately. Stubble you can’t see on his boyish face prickles your palm, and you meet his eyes once more, noticing how wide the pitch of his eyes had grown.  

“I’m fine, Dandelion. Truly. Just moved too fast... bruises, and such.” You laugh weakly, tilting your head. “It will pass. Just need to distract myself.”  

He laughs with you, hand squeezing the meat of your thigh and so close you can feel his breath fanning against your skin.

“I can distract you if you like?” He offers, voice lower than normal. You smile in return and nod, expecting a song or joke but what you get instead is his lips pressed against yours. Warm, wind chapped, perfect-

A log pops and you come from your memory, blinking and sniffing as the smell of the soup makes you smile. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Before you can reach up for a spoon to mix it, you hear it again. The scratching. It's back, and worrying. You miss Geralt, not for the first time that night, missing how his acute hearing would be able to tell you if it was an animal or human- specifically if it was a wolf as you suspected. Scratching, scratching and scratching. It worries you, but not enough for you to become fearful; instead making you smirk, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits and shifting towards the sword you've kept beside the door. Less than a second later you dart toward the door, and grip the cold hilt of the blade in one hand, body pressed against the wall beside the door. The scratching stops when you move which only makes you hold your breath, eyes slipping shut as you try to relax once more. Calm doesn’t come, and instead you heave out a sigh and call out,  

“...Hello? Kacsper? Is that you?” It wouldn’t be the first time your employer had come by in the night to ensure a young woman alone would be safe at night, which you thought to be immensely invasive but, in this moment, you cannot stop yourself from hoping it was him.  

“...Dear Heart?” A voice you didn’t expect at all replies, weak and choked. Jaskier. Only Jaskier has ever called you anything like Dear Heart, the only person to ever even think to call you by pet names, but not in that voice. Pained, like he was injured. Something logical in the back of your mind tries to remind you of Dopplers or any number of creatures that can change their voices, but the sound of your lover’s voice is enough to see you throw caution to the wind. You drop the blade to rip the door open, completely unfazed by the ear-splitting clatter of steel on wood. The door is open before you realise how forcefully you pull and there, shivering in the autumnal cold, is your bard.  

It’s hard to tell in the minimal light of your cooking fire, but he looks a mess. Chestnut hair splayed across his forehead in wet clumps, from rain or sweat you have no idea, deep red doublet and trousers stained with something that could be either mud or blood, and eyes sunken and darkened from a lack of sleep and something else. A sort of... hunger, longing that you know, but not in this intensity- he would look at you like this before kissing you, or bedding you, like you were ephemeral and easily gone without his touch. His frame lurches, holding to the door frame for stability.  

“Jask?” You whisper, and it’s enough for him to surge forward and crash his mouth to yours. The look in his eyes mirrors how he kisses you, hungry and rough, cracked lips moving against your own in such a way that you almost fear the blood you can taste is your own, but it’s definitely not. You feel like you ought push him away, chide him for coming so late and frightening you, but instead your arms wind around his neck to pull him closer still, lips moving gently against his, trying to slow the kiss. It’s been so long, too long, without his lips on yours, months without his touch when you would seldom live an hour without his touch. He takes the hint and the kiss instead turns sweet though still desperate, his hands resting on your hips even after you pull back and stare up at him like he’s a phantom or dream. “Jaskier, what are you doing here?”  

“...I missed you.” He says simply, voice cracking and breaking your heart at just how sad he sounds. “I. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, Little Miss. I should-"  

“Shut the door, Buttercup.” You interrupt him, hands sliding from his throat to hold his cheek. “And sit down. You look dead on your feet. Where's Ger?”  

Jaskier flinches at the mention of the white-haired man but does turn to close your front door. As soon as it’s closed, keeping the cold somewhat at bay, his arms are around you once more and face buried into your hair, drawing a contented sigh from you while your own arms work their way around his back. It’s been far too long. He feels like he always has, soft but with a firm layer of muscle just beneath, not obvious by looking at him, but there none the less. Hugs have always felt restrictive, like being caged but his have always felt like safety. It’s the same now, just more tight, and you cannot tell if he knows how tightly he’s holding you. Honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care. He could leave a Jaskier shaped bruise on your flesh so long as he robs you of the Jaskier shaped hole in your heart. He doesn’t smell as usual though, lavender and musk replaced with sweat and sulphur, telling you just how long it must have been since last he bathed.  

Deft fingers wind into the wispy hair at your nape at the same time that lips press to the crown of your head, followed by a deep inhale, you aren’t the only one to have missed the simple things like this. So much is hidden away in touch and smell, especially when not too long ago the two of you spent near every moment joined at the hip.  

“You smell like posies.” He mumbles into your hair, and you smile weakly at the observation.  

“You smell like death, Darling.” You reply before you really consider how mean the words are, though you hope your voice is playful. “I'll draw you a bath-"  

“No, no, no. Don’t... don't move, Muse. Let me... Let me cherish this moment. Reunions are supposed to be a happy time.” He doesn’t sound happy; he sounds as if he's choking back tears. “Gods, how I’ve missed you, Dear Heart.”  

“I missed you too, Buttercup. Like a lost limb.” It should seem a melodramatic turn of phrase, but it truly isn’t. It was like losing half of yourself to be away from him. Having him wrapped around you now is the closest to normal you’ve felt since leaving his side. “...Why are you here though, Love? Oughtn't you be with Ger-"  

“Don’t say his name.” The usually sweet voice of your bard comes out venomous, and his grip only tightens, “I’m not travelling with the prick.”  

The Prick. That’s new. So many of Jaskier’s songs are about the Witcher, but now he's the prick. You can’t help but blink in confusion, head tilting to look at your man but he instead swoops his head down to kiss you gently. He's trying to distract you, of that you're certain, but you decide it best to indulge him, kissing him sweetly and pulling back before he can deepen it.  

“...Stew.”  

It’s his turn to look confused, head tilted to one side to stare at you while you pull away.  

“Stew?”  

“Do you want some?” Gesturing blindly to the pot behind you, you begrudgingly break free of his hold on you. “You look hungry. Stew, a bath and then bed. I think it would do you the world of good.”  

“When did you become a domestic goddess, Little Miss?” He asks incredulously, lips turning up in a smile. He’s taunting you, but you don’t care as long as he stays smiling. “My Little Miss would sooner skin a deer with her teeth than cook.”  

“You can thank my mother for that. Old habits die hard, even if they are ones to make me a perfect wife.”  

“You’re a perfect wife already.” He says with a degree of finality in his statement, sitting by the fire. He makes it sound like you are his wife, and the thought brings a blush to your cheeks. “Are you going to join me?”  

“I need to get bowls for the stew.”  

“I mean in the bath.” He shoots a wink in your direction that you suppose is meant to be flirty, but on this defeated looking Jaskier it comes across more pathetic than anything else. Had you been asked an hour before, you would have moved heaven and hell for a chance to be in your miniscule bath with the Bard, using bathing as a preamble to ride him until your brain and legs turn to jelly and there's more water out of the bath than in it, but this Jaskier needs a gentle hand, and a helping hand to remove the layer of grime and melancholy that is covering his entire being. “You... You don’t have to. I. I'm being presumptuous, aren’t I?”  

“How?” You ask weakly, descending to your knees at the bard's side. “It's hardly the first time you've asked to see me unclothed.”

“It’s been months. You probably have a new lover. I mean, look at you, how could you not?” He asks, gesturing to your body as if it was supposed to mean something to you. “You look like a gift from on high, and I... I left you here. To grow soft, and gentle and domestic.” His hand rests on your thigh but there’s nothing romantic in the touch, just longing. Like, despite his hand on your bard flesh, you're in fact a thousand miles away or he's lamenting to the spectre of a lost love. “Someone else has snapped you up, and I’ve lost you, and come here, and you’re too polite to say no.”  

“We both know I would never be made to do anything I don’t want.” You smile, and lean in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. He chuckles softly, and watches you as you ladle some stew into a bowl and hand it to him. “And I don’t. Have anyone else.”  

“You said a man's name when I was at the door.”  

“My employer. He’s... odd. Constantly sniffing about.” You reassure him, watching him spoon up some of the both and sip it before sighing, from the taste or reassured that you love him still. “If I didn’t want you, I’d have stabbed you.”  

“You. You waited.” It’s a statement, and you nod simply in agreement.  

“You said you'd come in winter.” His eyes focus on you once more, drinking you in like it is both the first and last time he shall see you.

“You look like you did the night we first met.” He says conversationally, and you smile, remembering how he had winked at you mid song. It feels a hundred years ago, though you know it couldn’t be more than six years ago. “I thought you were the most sublime creature on the planet. There’s not an ounce of feral in you, just... beauty and softness, with something wild behind the eyes.” He says soft like it’s a thing to be admired, not disparaged. His eyes, stormy blue and sad look about your childhood home with nostalgia for a time that you don’t know. “You look like a life worth living, Dear Heart.”  

“...A life worth living?”

“Yes. This. This you, all gentle and half asleep, looking at me like you love me. A little home and a fire, Darling Love telling me to eat and bathe and sleep. Domestic. A life worth living.”  

“I do love you Jaskier.” You interrupt, letting the words fall off your tongue like they’re the easiest thing in the world to say. They feel that way.  

“You shouldn’t. I left you here.” The words come out hollow, and you take his hand from your thigh to your lips and kiss it. You can all but see the knotted weaves and threads of his mind, and hope the kiss will soothe them, even a little. His hand tugs free for a moment to ghost his fingers along the scar on your face, making you shiver.

“I was hurt.”  

“I should have stayed. Should have stayed by your side.”  

“You’re here now, Julian. That’s enough.” It shouldn’t be, but it is. He's here, not exactly as you’d like him to be, but having him beside you is more than enough. The comforting presence of warmth beside you is more than enough to wipe away the months of absence.

He sighs your name like a prayer, “I love you.”  

“As you should.” You tease, and he places the bowl beside him to take your hands in his, prompting you to give up all pretence of propriety to instead climb onto his lap, intertwined fingers bridging the gap between your bodies. “You’re upset.”  

“At the sight of the love of my life looking like a perfect little wife in an empty home.” Obtuse Jaskier might just be your least favourite form of the Bard, him trying to mask feelings he wears so openly, like he thinks you a fool. You’re unwilling to pry, though, so bite your tongue. “I’m half convinced I died on that mountain, and you’re just what my mind has created as a dying thought.”  

“Shush.” You coo, lips chastely brushing against his. “You're as alive as I am, keep the melancholies out of it. If I look like some... darling bride then be quiet, seeing as that would make you a very foolish husband to spend your night bemoaning your fears and not kissing me.”  

He chuckles at that, a small triumph, but enough to fill your heart to bursting point.  

“I’d be a fool for leaving you here alone.” He starts but a sharp noise of annoyance cuts him off.  

“Stay forever to make up for it, then.” You retort, “Sleep next to me until I can’t remember a single morning without you.”  

He blinks at that, enrapturing you in how the black of his eyes swells until you cannot see any of the blue.  

“You want me to stay?”  

“For always.”  

He grins, almost wide enough to distract from the tears that well in his eyes and you lean in to kiss him once more, his hands settling on your hips to pull you closer still. You've missed this, the stupidity that fills your head when his lips are on yours, tongue gently trailing along the seam of your mouth, never invasive, just inquisitive.  

“You truly do need a bath though.” You grumble against his mouth, Jaskier pulls back in mock indignation.

“I know you don’t actually mean that and just want to undress me.”  

“Oh, shut up, Dandelion.”  

His hands turn from cradling to tickling, sending you into reams of laughter that he echoes. All, for just a moment, feels right in the world, now that he's with you again.  

[babygirlgalitzine]

you’re in my head, you’re in my blood (ao3)

for @yasisworld​, who is absolutely incredible! you asked for a soulmate au, which is something i’ve never actually written before, so i hope you enjoy this!

The red string of fate. It's an old story, passed down between generations of Chinese folklore, all about an invisible red thread that connects two individuals. These two people are destined lovers, regardless of time, distance or circumstance. The string may twist and tangle, but it will never break. There is a direct link between the story of the red string of fate, and the more westernised soulmates. Soulmates can come into your life at any time, but you aren't made aware of them until you're both eighteen years old. In different ways, you know when you meet your soulmate. There's been stories told of sparks when they first met, or suddenly being able to see in colour. It's different for everyone, a unique connection between two individuals. 

---

It was an accident, it really truly was. But in hindsight, maybe fate actually did play a part in it after all.

Callum wasn't actually meant to be there, not at that time anyway. He was supposed to show up earlier, but as per usual with public transportation, it was unreliable and late. If everything had gone to plan, he wouldn't have been walking around the unfamiliar streets of Walford as the sky faded from a pale blue to a navy - he would have already been sitting down with a cocktail in his hand, enjoying his night. 

Ben wasn't meant to be there either. At least, not right there. He was lazy, and couldn't be at all bothered to go home and stand in the kitchen cooking - because who would really be bothered with that after a long day of working? He had only just got back into Walford, after being on the outskirts of London all day, picking up different parts for the insides of cars, and sorting out contracts, there was no way he would willingly cook. Instead, he chose to exploit his brother's business, haggling for a portion of free chips that he expertly knew he could get, because he knew exactly what buttons of Ian's to press, especially on a Friday night before the onslaught of the night goers. 

Callum checks his phone, the screen illuminating his face against the harshness of the dark that surrounds him. There's a text on there, from his date, telling him that he's already in the bar, but there's a queue to get in now. So much for a relaxing first date, he thinks. Callum sighs, and continues walking around unfamiliar territory, sending a text back as quickly as possible, but looking up every so often to make sure he isn't walking directly into a brick wall. Street lights guide his way, a fluorescent orange glow fading out into sheerness before it even hits the pavement. He presses send on a text, and waits for it to stop circling and turn into a tick before he pockets his phone. There's a calmness in the air, only a gentle breeze breaking up the warmth of the summer evening. It's remarkably quiet around him, especially for a Friday evening - there's no drunken people staggering about, falling over nothing - but it is only early. He rounds a corner, assuming that his destination is now only up the road, judging by the directions he looked at earlier today. He's not entirely focusing on where he's heading, or anyone who seems to be walking around him, because within a few seconds of turning the corner onto a new street, he's bumping into someone who was walking in the opposite direction to Callum. There's a crash, and a groan, and then a whine as the man drops his chips onto the ground at their feet. 

"I'm so sorry!" Callum gasps out, horrified. Of course this would happen, of course. "I can buy you some new ones, just show me where the nearest shop is." He's all flustered, a flush spreading out across his cheeks, the tips of his ears burning aflame. 

"I reckon I should be the one apologising mate." The stranger says, looking at Callum's chest that was now not a crisp white shirt, but a white shirt with ketchup stains now littering it. "Don't worry about those. My brother owns a chip shop, I can get them for free." 

Callum looks down at himself, and yeah. He can't show up to his date looking like this. He looks back up at the man and speaks again. "Still." He says. "I'd feel better if I bought you a new portion. I'm Callum, by the way."

"Ben." He responds, holding his hand out for Callum to shake. "I hope I haven't ruined your night." 

Callum lets out a low chuckle, and shakes his head. "I was actually heading on a date." He explains, following Ben's footsteps. They're both walking in time with one another, Callum more so following Ben considering Callum doesn't know his way around this area and the virtual stranger seems like he does. 

Ben looks at him, eyes wide. "Your soulmate?" And if this world was different, that may seem like a stupid question. It's a common thing, to ask another person about their soulmate, even at a young age when you don't know them yet. "Well now I feel even worse."

"I doubt it." Callum says. "I've met him once before, when we agreed to this date and nothing out of the ordinary happened, so I figured he can't be my soulmate. It's meant to just be a bit of fun really." 

Ben accepts that, because it's more common than people realise, going on dates and having fun with people who aren't necessarily your soulmate. He opens the door to the chip shop, a ringing of a bell sounding above them, notifying Ian that he's got a customer. He turns around with a smile on his face, until he sees Ben.

"What are you doing back?" Ian scowls. 

"Nice to see you too, bruv." Ben says sarcastically. "Two portions of chips."

Ian rolls his eyes, not caring that there was someone else in the shop that he's never seen before. "And what happened to the other portion I just made for you? For free, no less." 

"Ah." Ben says, looking at Callum's shirt, with stains of red almost imprinted onto it. "Funny you should say that, because it ended up all over this man, and then on the floor. So two portions of chips, coming up?"

Ian turns around, and shuffles chips into two separate polystyrene boxes, muttering something about an annoying family under his breath. Callum stifles a laugh, and Ben winks in his direction, teasing. When Ian faces them again, there's an aching smile on his face, instantly back in customer mode. "That'll be eight quid." He says, the chips laying on the counter. 

Ben reaches over, and grabs them both, quickly handing on to Callum. "Cheers Ian, put it on my tab and I'll pay you after."

They're halfway out of the door, laughter erupting out of them when Ian shouts back, clearly flustered. "I don't do tabs Ben!" He screams. "That's it! You're barred." 

Outside, it's relaxing. The moon is hanging high up in the sky, friends with the littering of stars, and there's a chill in the air, though it's still warm. Callum steps in time with Ben, his legs taking him wherever Ben's going, like there's some sort of magnetic force pulling them together. "Fancy eating these in the park?"

"Can do, yeah." Callum says, a mist of breath swirling from his lips into the abyss, an ache at the top of his spine like a tingle threatening to fall down his torso. "It's not like I can go to my date dressed like this." 

Ben winces as he turns to face Callum, a flush on his cheeks, though neither of them are willing to bring it up in conversation. "I am sorry about that." Ben reiterates. "I need to start looking where I'm going. I just assume I know where I'm going, and that people will move out of my way, but clearly not." He trails off into a soft chuckle.

Silence falls between them, and Ben's still guiding them to the park. Callum has no idea why he trusts Ben so much, for a complete stranger, but something tells him that this is a good idea. "Maybe it was fate." Callum puts out into the universe, and then mere seconds later he's regretting even suggesting it.

Ben raises an eyebrow, and there's the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. "What do you mean by that?" He asks, as if he doesn't already know. 

Callum shrugs. "I don't know." He says, as he tries to think of the right words to say. He throws a salty chip into his mouth, limp. "Just - I don't know - maybe you putting ketchup over my shirt and stopping me from going on my date was fate. People always talk about how sometimes things happen for a reason. Maybe this was one of those things." 

Ben nods, accepting. "It's as good a thought process as any, I suppose." He sits down at a table, swinging his legs around as he perches on the connected bench. Callum joins him soon after, sitting on the opposite connected bench, and puts his chips on the table. Above them, street lights illuminate the park, allowing them to have visibility of their surroundings even in the darkness that surrounds them. 

"Have you met your soulmate yet?" Callum asks. 

Shaking his head, Ben chuckles quietly. "I thought I did, a long time ago." He sighs, reminiscing. He pokes at his chips, nudging them around, before he puts a few of them in his mouth at the same time.

Callum mirrors his actions, and wipes his hands on his trousers lightly. "So what happened there then?" He inquires.

"Nosey, ain't ya?" Ben laughs, raising an eyebrow. "We grew up together. Everyone assumed we would end up soulmates, so I reckon that's why it hurt as much as it did in the end. We turned eighteen and nothing changed. We loved each other, but it wasn't meant to be. He died, just after his nineteenth."  

That shut Callum up. 

Ben looks him up and down, and notices how his face has gone from bubbly and light to empty and sad. He's got no idea why, because it's his life - not Callum's. Maybe he's just an empathic person, or maybe it's something more. No. Ben coughs to break the awkward silence, the tension between them thick in the air now. "Why was your date here anyway? I've not seen you around." 

Callum shrugs his shoulders, and eats the last of his chips, though there's still a few scraps that he leaves behind. "It was his idea. Apparently there's a decent gay bar here, and he wanted to go there." 

Ben chuckles, shaking his head as he too finishes his chips, poking holes in the now empty box. 

"What?" Callum inquires, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. 

"My mum owns it." Ben laughs. "The gay bar, I mean."

"Seriously?" Callum asks, because for some reason this is a shocking revelation - what are the odds of that? "Maybe it really was fate after all." 

Ben grins, a laugh tumbling out from him, and he feels free. This just feels so natural, like this was just meant to be. He looks up at the sky, and notices a faint cloud forming over the moon, casting a shadow as it hides the ever present moon. "Look, I need to be heading back home." Ben admits, though there's a huge part of him that's screaming out to stay here forever. "I should've been home hours ago." 

Callum nods, accepting, and stands up, grabbing his and Ben's boxes and putting them in the nearest public bin. It's so weird, because when he isn't next to Ben there's a pang within him that's just aching and itching to try and get to next to him. He turns, and watches Ben as he stands up too, picking his phone out of his pocket for just a few seconds before he puts it back in. He looks as if he's about to leave, and a wave of something floods through Callum like a tsunami. "Ben." He says out loud, a shake in his voice, and his fingertips are ice cold all of a sudden. 

Ben looks up at Callum, puppy dog eyes highlighting his face, anticipating Callum's next words. 

"Can I get your number?" He asks. 

Ben's face folds into a smile, shy at first, but then unrelenting. "Yeah." He says, and his voice is hoarse. He should really be more reluctant, because he comes with a lot of baggage, some of which he can't really talk about in the middle of the night, not long after meeting, but something is drawing him to Callum and he wants more. He takes his phone out of his pocket again, and Callum does the same. They both swap devices, and put their numbers in, before handing it back to the other. 

Callum rocks back and forth on the tips of his toes, and he adds an extra inch or so onto his height above Ben temporarily. His hands are in his pockets, hidden in an attempt to disguise the fact he's shaking with nerves and he doesn't know why. "Well, I'll be off then." He says. "Hopefully nobody on the tube thinks I've been stabbed." He looks down at his shirt, knowing that it's probably going to be thrown in the bin the second he gets home. 

"I am sorry about that." Ben apologises again, though there's a giggle threatening to fall from his lips. 

"It's fine." Callum confirms, in a soft tone of voice. He takes one hand from his pocket, and presses it to Ben's waist. He has no idea why, or even what possesses him to do it, but he leans forward, and presses his lips to Ben's cheek, inhaling for a split second. There's a tingle on his lips, and Ben audibly gasps as he feels the touch searing hot against his skin. 

They both know what it means. They both know what's happening to them. But neither of them mention it. 

It's been weeks since Ben and Callum met. Or rather, weeks since they physically bumped into one another in the street. Since then, Callum's ketchup covered shirt has been thrown away and subsequently replaced in a matter of days - and they haven't been able to stop texting each other constantly. They haven't seen each other since, not face to face, because they both have busy lives apparently, but something is growing deep inside of them and it's making the urge to see each other again ever present. Ben's rarely without his phone now, and Kathy has begun to notice that he just seems to have an aura of happiness glowing around him, especially when his phone vibrates and he reads whatever it is that's on screen. He's giddy, and everyone notices the positive change in him.  

He's sitting on the sofa, his legs curling up at the side of him. The television is playing in the background, providing a noise that fills the room. Nobody cares about it, it's only a gardening show, and it's only on for the background noise. Occasionally Ben looks up, just to see if it's still on. Kathy is at the table, with a folder in front of her as she flicks through the pages, cooing at whatever it is that she sees. Ben looks up over the top of his phone, and narrows his eyes. "What are you doing?" He asks, and puts his phone down on his lap as his mum turns in her seat, putting her arm onto the back of the chair as she twists to look at her son. 

"I found all these family photos the other day." She explains, holding up the folder. "I haven't seen some of these for years." 

Ben snorts. "The photos, or the people?" 

"Ben!" Kathy scalds, waving her hand dismissively at him, though a smile is growing on her face at her youngest son's cheeky nature. Some things never change. "There's some of you here."

Ben pockets his phone into his jeans, and pads over to his mum, towering over her as she sits down. He presses a hand to her shoulder, and looks over at the folder on the table, opened up on a page full of photos of himself as a child, including many he's never seen before. There's photos of Kathy holding Ben, kissing his chubby cheeks and Ben pulling away from her. There's photos of him playing on the beach, sitting in the sand with a bucket and spade next to him, with a blue hat atop his head. It's a childhood that seems a million miles away from the one he remembers. There's a lot of photos of him, surprisingly enough, but there's one photo that stands out to him in particular. He's sitting in a teacup ride, probably only around three or four, holding onto the wheel in front of him. Next to him, is another child, who looks just a little bit older, judging by his long legs nearly managing to reach the floor of the ride. They're both grinning into the camera, and the strange boy has his arm around Ben's shoulder. "Who's that?" Ben asks, pointing to the random boy. 

Kathy looks closer, and pushes her glasses on further up her nose, as if that will help her. "Oh, I've got no idea!" She says, furrowing her eyebrows as though she's trying to go back in time twenty odd years to work it out. "Probably just a random child I would suppose. You never used to like rides, you know. Why?"

Ben shrugs, but he can't take his eyes away from that one photo. "He just looks familiar, that's all." 

"Perhaps you've just got a stronger memory than you thought, love." Kathy smiles, and continues to flick through the pages once more. 

"Maybe." Ben says, walking back to sit on the sofa once more, unable to get the picture out of his mind. 

 ---

Ben's sitting at the bar in The Prince Albert. He's got a bottle of beer hanging loosely in his hand, and he's half leaning his body against the bar to hitch himself up. He's there early, grateful that he's not there on a day his mum's working, because that's the last thing he needs. He's listening to the music that plays in the background, though he's not really focusing on it. It's not loud anyway, and it wouldn't be until later on in the evening. Now, it's calm. It's not busy, not just yet. Ben's grateful for that too, because that means he's able to see when Callum walks in. He takes a sip of his beer, and closes his eyes as the liquid hits the back of his throat, refreshingly. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Callum walking over to him with a bright smile on his face. He's wearing tight jeans, and a navy shirt, and Ben's body tingles just looking at him. Just moments later, Callum's standing right next to Ben, towering over him. "Hey." Ben whispers out, and touches Callum's waist with his hand, fingers featherlight. 

"Hey." Callum grins, and leans his body down just slightly so he can press his lips to Ben's cheek. It's warm and inviting, and it's like there's this force from beyond their realm that ties them together perpetually. 

Callum sits down, copying Ben's stance, and their knees knock together. He orders a beer, and when it arrives, he gulps his first sip down. 

"Thirsty?" Ben inquires, raising an eyebrow. 

Callum chuckles, and his hand is resting on Ben's thigh. It's a calming touch, a calming presence. "I need to start saving for a car." He says. "Taking the tube everywhere is awful. Still, at least you haven't thrown food all over me yet." 

Ben rolls his eyes, but a laugh bubbles out of his lips nonetheless. Callum is infectious. "That's why you wanted to come here is it? We could've gone to a restaurant." 

"And have hot food everywhere?" Callum teases. "No thank you, I actually quite like this shirt."

"You do look good in it, if I'm honest." Ben says, and suddenly he's shy. 

Callum smiles, and squeezes Ben's thigh comfortingly. "You're not too bad yourself." He admits, and there's a flush of pink that he can feel making its way onto his cheeks. "Anyway, I wanted to come here because I missed out on it the first time." 

Ben's drink is nearly empty, only the last dregs remaining now. He finishes it off, and places the bottle on the table with a small clash of glass against the surface. "And the bloke."

Callum moves his head from side to side, as though he's weighing up his options. "I reckon I got the better end of the bargain. Met you, didn't I?" 

"Maybe it was fate." Ben teases, though part of him is starting to think that fate is playing a part in all of this. "I'm just glad we decided on coming here today. Mum's working here for the rest of the week." 

"And you don't want me to meet her?" Callum asks. 

Ben shakes his head. "She's the best parent to meet." He explains. "But probably not on the first date." 

Callum grins. "First date, eh? I would've thought the park was our first." 

"Well, first indoors date." Ben concludes. "First proper date. Knowing her for the last few weeks, she'd probably get out all the baby pictures to show you, and it'd end up you and her on the date, and me sorting out your drinks." 

Callum drains the rest of his pint, and his bottle soon follows where Ben's is - or once was, someone must have taken it away without interrupting them in their conversation, but neither of them saw it. "I reckon you were probably a cute kid." 

"Oh I don't know about that." Ben says. "I need glasses, but I used to have these thin wiry ones and I hated them. My hair wasn't much better either, and I was so scrawny. Freckles everywhere. I still get them now though, especially in the sun. My mum found a photo of me the other day, on a ride with some other boy. No idea who he was, but when I saw it I felt like I recognised him, it was really weird."

Ben looks at Callum, and he's smiling, until he sees the colour drain from Callum's face. He looks grey, almost ghostlike. "What's wrong?" Ben asks, worry evident in his voice. 

"Do you have it? The photo?" Callum asks, his throat dry and his words getting stuck in his throat, as though he's straining to get it out painlessly. 

Ben picks his phone out of his pocket, but there's confusion on his face. "I took a picture of it to send to my friend. Here." He hands Callum his phone and watches as his face twists and contorts with what seems like a million different emotions that run through his body. 

Callum grabs his phone from his own pocket, and scrolls for what seems like an age, until he turns both phones around so Ben can see the screens. On them, is the same photo. Ben, sitting next to a strange boy, both of them grinning wildly at the camera that takes the photo. "I woke up one morning, and this photo was on my phone. That's me. That little boy, is me." 

Ben looks up at Callum through his eyelashes, his mouth open in shock. Is this happening? "Does this mean…" Ben starts his sentence, racking his brain to try and find the words that make sense, but it's like he's forgotten half of the words in the dictionary. 

"You and me." Callum says, testing the waters. "We're soulmates." 

"Yeah." Ben breathes out, finally releasing the pressure from a breath he didn't even know he was holding in. He falls back into his chair, but he can't stop staring at the pictures in front of him. He's scared that if he looks away, this will all just have been a lie. "This is really happening." He whispers, voice shaky. 

It's rare, apparently. Normally, soulmates are together for life once they first meet, even if it's before their eighteenth birthday. It's so rare for them to disappear from one another, especially for so long, but it does happen, and Ben and Callum are proof of it. 

"I guess it actually was fate then." Callum teases, and he scoots closer to Ben than before. His hand is rubbing Ben's thigh, and his skin tingles at the touch. It all makes sense now, everything.

Ben scoffs out a laugh, and shakes his head incredulously. He leans forward, and his fingers thread through Callum's, resting in an embrace against his thigh. His face is close to Callum's when he speaks again, barely centimetres away. "Can I kiss you?" He asks in a whisper. He follows Callum's eyes, and notices just how blue they really are, as if everything in the world is brighter now he knows the truth. 

Callum nods, and his free hand touches Ben's face, holding them together in place. Ben's lips finally touch Callum's and it's electrifying. It's a perfect match, a perfect fit. They mould together, one and the same. Ben grins, feeling things he's never felt before. It takes his breath away, and Callum yearns for more, he needs more. He stands now, towering over Ben, though they don't pull apart. Both hands are on Ben's face, and Ben's straining his neck to deepen the kiss, His hands are on Callum's waist, holding them together, and his legs are half hooking around Callum's. Every touch is electric, every movement leaving searing tingles. It's perfect. For once, everything just seems right. 

They're soulmates, they belong together. 

[solohux]

Since we’re here may we get a thrilling conclusion to the Milo Saga pls ? Reunions, love, family, all that good stuff Thank you. Also you’re amazing keep up the good work 👍

Here it is! The third and final part of the Milo saga!

Part I & Part II

All three parts are also on AO3 as a full fic titled ‘searching through shadows and snow’

Read On AO3 ❤️

For the first time since his exile after Exegol, Ben has a dreamless night’s sleep. It’s strange to wake up without tears on his cheeks, without clutching his pillow like a lifeline as a dream of his beloved Hux burns itself onto the back of his eyelids. But there’s still an empty space beside him in his bed, inside of his heart, and Ben knows that nothing can ever fill those voids. He rolls over onto his side and faces the vacant side of the bed, running his hand over the cold sheets and trying to force himself to imagine that Hux has just risen early to make breakfast. Everything is fine, everything is fine—

Ben can’t repeat the mantra a third time. It hurts too much to tell such a lie.

Morning has broken on the little planetoid, illuminating Ben’s room in a familiar glow. It’s particularly cold this morning, making Ben wish he’d worn a long-sleeved shirt to bed instead of this short, white one.

“Dada!” Ben’s three year old son bounds into Ben’s bedroom and leaps onto the bed, scrambling to his father’s side. He looks as though he’s had a good night’s sleep, since his copper-coloured hair is messy and his blue pyjamas are twisted and wrinkled. As usual, Milo’s favourite vulptex plush is in his arms. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”

Ben smiles at Milo’s excitement, his brown eyes alight with childlike wonder. Their planet experiences snow a few times a year but the landscape of beautiful white never fails to make Milo want to rush out in it before Ben has had a chance to dress him properly.

“Snow!” Ben smiles, hiding his sadness from his beloved boy and sitting up in bed to take Milo into his arms. “And I guess you want to go outside to play?”

“Yeah, Dada! Now!”

“Breakfast first, sweetheart,” Ben stands up with the boy in his arms, carrying him around his bedroom as he opens the drapes and sees the white wonderland that covers the entirity of the fields that surround their solemn home. Even the beds of white poppies have disappeared underneath the inches of snowfall.

“Awwwwww. But ‘m not hungry, Dada.” Milo wriggles in Ben’s hold, tugging at his father’s dark hair as he tries to climb onto his shoulders, making Ben laugh. “Go outside now! Pwease!”

“Alright, Milo,” Ben says, never being able to deny his son once he gets a certain expression on his face—the very same one that Hux used to give Kylo whenever he wanted to get his own way. “We’ll get dressed and then go out, hm? Build a snow-droid?”

“Yeah! A BB!”

“A snow-BB. Let’s go, sweetheart.”

In less than five minutes, Ben and Milo are dressed for the snow in thick clothes and warm coats. Utilising the ways of mind manipulation, Ben has easily kept his existence a secret, wiping the minds of the market traders who operate in the small town almost fifty miles away from Ben’s quaint countryside cottage. And it also means that Ben can steal without being caught. Whilst he tries to remain in a neutral state of mind when it comes to the light and dark side of the Force, Ben struggles. Truly, Kylo Ren has never left his veins—possibly kept alive by his love for Hux.

As the pair stand on the porch in the morning sun, Milo is practically buzzing with excitement whilst Ben tries to calm him enough to put his woolly hat and gloves on but the boy is jumping up and down, stomping his little black boots on the wooden decking whilst giggling.

“Hold on, starbright,” Ben smiles, making sure Milo’s ginger hair is dry under his hat and his adorably large ears are tucked warmly away too. “We don’t want you to be too cold, do we?”

“Dadaaaa, I wanna play!”

Ben smiles, amused by Milo’s impatience.

“Come on,” and Ben takes his son’s hand as they jump off the porch together, the snow swallowing Milo up to his little knees but instead of being scared by it, the boy pulls free of Ben’s hold and trudges off as fast as he can through the thick snow as more begins to fall upon the pair in a light flurry.

Ben follows closely behind his son, watching him run and play and pick up snow to throw it above himself, only for it to cover his little head.

Milo laughs, tumbling over and landing on his bum in the snow. Ben would give anything for Hux to see how happy their beloved son is right now.

Ben. Ben! The Force calls out to Ben, piercing his mind like a cold needle. He stands up quickly, looking to the clouded skies for the source of the disturbance. It’s been a long time since he’s sensed something as monumental as this, something that is making his hands shake and his stomach twist with worry. It feels familiar, though, which is somewhat comforting but Ben’s maternal instincts run haywire as the Force won’t let him smile.

“Milo, sweetheart,” Ben says, his voice low, but his heart stops when he sees a figure in the distance, one that is staring at him and Milo, and one that has the boy frozen on the spot.

Ben’s fingers twitch, wishing he’d kept a lightsaber with him in his exile for moments such as this.

“Milo,” Ben says sternly, standing behind his son. “We’re going inside.”

But the boy doesn’t move. Ben’s knees tremble; it this the Shadow Man who has been haunting Milo’s dreams? Is it another Snoke come to turn the newest Solo against his family just as he did with Ben? No. Never. Ben would die before he allowed anything to ever hurt his son. He owes it to Hux to love and defend their precious boy with everything he has.

But the man in the distance is getting closer. Ben skids to his knees in the freezing snow in front of Milo, finding his face looking anything but afraid as one would expect a child to look when staring down the man of his nightmares.

“Milo? Milo, look at Daddy,” Ben says, putting his hands on the boy’s cold, blushing cheeks in a vain attempt to draw his gaze away from the approaching menace. “What is it? Starbright, talk to me.”

Milo blinks but his brown eyes don’t stray from their path. He raises his mitten-clad hand and tries to point at the figure, uttering one word that sends Ben’s heart into overdrive, “Papa.”

It can’t be. Ben frowns, turning around to look back over his shoulder, seeing the man that doesn’t look like a monster at all.

He looks like an angel, gliding across the snow-covered ground with a copper halo around his head, his skin so ethereally pale and familiar that Ben can’t find any words to describe the man’s beautiful presence.

“No…” Ben whispers, taking hold of Milo and standing up with the boy sitting on his hip, his feet walking forwards of their own accord towards the snow-angel.

It’s Hux. It’s his Armitage Hux, here and present and so very alive. Ben chokes on his words.

Even when they’re within arm’s reach of each other, Ben still can’t permit himself to believe it. He’s already been blessed with a second chance at life, bearing such a beautifully bright baby boy, for his lover to be back too.

“Daddy,” Milo says, patting Ben’s cheek. “It’s Papa?”

Ben can’t take his eyes from Hux. He still looks the same as he did almost four years to the day since they last saw one another, sharing a kiss goodbye as Kylo Ren departed for Kef Bir, both unaware of what would transpire once their hands left each other’s and their destines diverged. The Hux in front of Ben’s tear-filled eyes is still as handsome as ever, his pale eyes just as piercing and his body just as tall and lithe. Even without the greatcoat and uniform, he’s still the image of power to Ben’s eyes, he’s still the only constant that has ever blessed Ben’s messy and lonely life.

He’s saved.

“Yeah, Milo,” Ben sighs. “It’s Papa.”

Hux’s shoulders shake as the tears fall, no doubt hurting his cheeks as they fall from his eyes and onto his freezing cold skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He takes another step closer as Ben sets Milo down in the snow, the boy bringing his thumb up to nibble on the soft material of his mitten whilst his other hand is held in Ben’s.

“Milo,” Hux says, beaming as he utters his son’s name for the first time. Ben’s chest clenches, watching Hux kneel down to Milo’s level; Ben knew that their son looked most like Hux but seeing the two together now, Ben can’t believe just how much of Hux is in their son. “My clever, brave boy. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“When I’m asleep,” Milo nods. “You said you would be here soon.”

“And here I am, darling,” Hux says. He looks up to Ben, smiling. “Here I am.”

“Hux…” Ben sobs, but Hux is standing and leaping in to catch him in an embrace before his knees give way beneath the weight of shock and relief that have fallen upon his shoulders like a collapsing building. It’s immense, it’s overwhelming but it’s the happiest that Ben has ever felt.

“Ren,” Hux whispers Ben’s once-name into his ear as they hug so tightly that nothing can get between them, and Ben feels his soul soar; Kylo Ren was never truly dead anyway. “My darling. I love you, I love you so much.”

“I-I love you,” Ben—Ren—cries. “Y-you were killed.”

“Death would never keep us apart, my darling. I’ve travelled across the galaxy in search of you. And it’s because of our son’s power with the Force that I was able to find you.”

“Don’t cry, Dada,” Milo tugs at Ben’s trouser leg and makes them pull apart. “It’s happy!”

“I know, starbright,” Ben sniffles, picking his son up and holding him between his parents, embraced by them both for the first time in his life. “I’m so happy. So happy.”

“I want to know everything,” Hux says, wrapping his arms around Ben and hugging both his lover and their son at the same time. “Everything, Ren.”

“It’s…uh. Ben.”

“Ben,” Hux repeats, raising his eyebrows but the smile doesn’t fade from his face. “As you wish. I want to hear everything about you and our son, Ben.”

“Can Papa stay for breakfast, Daddy?” Milo asks excitedly.

Ben takes Hux’s hand, leading him back to his house, “Papa is going to stay forever.”

Home was never a place for Ben Solo or for Kylo Ren; it was always Armitage Hux.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 XI

Warnings: noncon/rape, forced oral, violence, mentions of pregnancy.

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re journey is perilous.

Note: Thanks everyone for being so enthused about this fic. I love Loki! And I’m glad to be back on it.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You weren’t certain when but you were taken from the cellar in the dead of night. You barely stood on your own as Magnus uncovered a cart of barrels reaking of ale and snarled for you to lay in the space between them. The prince, shrouded in a grey cloak, helped you up and tossed the same smelly blanket over you. You shivered as snowflakes gathered in the creases of the wool and your patchy tunic and loose trousers offered little shield from the cold.

You had missed the first snowfall. It brought back hazy memories. A girl you once knew, Gilla, and her hand-sewn boots kicking through the powder. You curled up on your side and held your stomach. You were still in disbelief and as it were, the men were undeterred by your change. That life you had before seemed further and further away.

“Keep quiet, pet,” Thor girded as he gripped your ankle through the blanket, “I’ve given my leave to keep you silent in any way necessary.” He squeezed until you looked at him through the bleak, moonless dark, “Think of the child.”

You uttered some instinctual acquiescence and dropped your head. Your teeth chattered and you were shrouded entirely as the wagon was covered once more. You heard their voices, hushed and hard to decipher as they moved around the cart.

“He knows…. cannot say…” the words swirled behind your closed eyes. It was the first you’d laid down in what they claimed was weeks. You were so very tired. “Short rests… old roads…”

You felt the cart shift under a sudden weight and a horse nickered as its heavy hoof stamped the snow. A slap on its hind and a final word from the prince, a grunt in return from the deceptive guard, and the wheels jolted into motion. You were lulled by the movement, the soft rumble of the wood beneath you. You drifted off in the eerie silence of the city as you were secreted between the kegs.

Your dreams were distant and dull, tinted by the sounds around you. The grind of the axle, the occasional grumble of your driver, the spitting of the trotting horse, the muffled slosh of ale beside you. When you woke, you were as cold as before and you rolled onto your back as the chain between your shackles stretched across your middle. The cover glowed with daylight and you heard the stirring of the winter time critters who had not retreated to a seasonal sleep.

You slipped in and out of consciousness. You were awoken once by your keeper, he tossed you a heel of bread and a stein of milk as he took his own meal at the foot of the cart. He didn’t share the cheese or dried meat from his pack. Your stomach growled greedily as you devoured your rations and laid back down.

The wagon bounced along the winding roads, you didn’t know where you were headed. You were rocked by the uneven ground and pondered slipping out from beneath the cover and absconding through the snow. You had no boots however, only cloth wrapped around your feet. And you were weak, so weak.

As it grew dark again, the cart slowed and stilled. You didn’t move as Magnus jumped down and caused the wagon to shake as he did. He rounded to the tail and noisily tapped one of the kegs and you heard the first droplet spill into the snow. He filled his skin with the pungent alcohol and you listened to his thirsty and thick gulps. He replaced the stopper and belched as he crawled up beneath the leather cover.

He nudged you over until there was space for him. He pushed the blanket away from your hips as you rolled onto your side. You reached, clumsily as the chain caught your wrist, and tried to pull the wool back over you. He smacked your hand and hooked his fingers under the top of your trousers.

“It’s fuckin’ cold,��� he growled as he pushed the trousers to your ankles with his toe. “Need to warm up, eh.”

You sniffed and squeezed your eyes shut. His scent surrounded you, his warmth too as he pressed against you from behind. He shoved his arm under you and wrapped it around your neck, the thick muscles forcing your head up against his shoulder. He opened his breeches impatiently and wiggled his cock free behind you.

He was rough as he felt around your ass, kneading you roughly as he lingered at your ring. He pushed his thumb against your asshole but snorted and slid his hand further between your thighs. He prodded blindly against your entrance, poking you painfully several times before sinking into you. You whined and his arm tightened around your neck.

“Shut up, bitch,” he moved his hips between his gristled breaths, “Stubborn… think you’d learned by now.”

His intrusion was painful and your body aided little as you were mostly dry. Your walls burned around his thick member and you arched against him to ease the fullness. He breathed into your scalp as he pleasured himself in your pain.

He stopped and trembled. He brought his other arm around your stomach and rolled onto his back, taking you with him as he lifted you atop him. You groaned in pain as your hips ached and he grabbed your knees, bending your legs as he planted his feet and angled himself beneath you.

The trousers fell away from your left angle as he splayed you and rutted into you from below. You clamped your lips shut as you tried not to cry out. You clutched your hand over your chest as he moved your body against his.

“A cunt. That’s all you are.” He hissed, “You think the king fucking cares about you or that pathetic whelp. He’ll find another whore; a prettier whore.”

You bit your lip as your chest swelled. You couldn’t deny his words and couldn’t say you ever thought Loki wanted you for anything besides his own whims, but it only made your circumstance more torturous. From one man to the next, you were a slab of flesh to be twisted and molded to their use.

His hand slipped from your leg and he pushed it against your cunt. He spread your folds as he hammered into you, holding in grunts that nestled in his chest. He lifted his hand and slapped your pussy so that it stung. The sound of the slap made you gasp and he did it again.

“That’s it, bitch,” he snarled, “Make me cum.”

You whimpered as he continued to slap you, your clit reverberating with each strike. His heart pounded as he finally held his hand between your legs and curled his fingers into your flesh, framing his cock as it slid in and out of you.

“You’ll be filled with me by the time we arrive,” he sneered and spasmed as his voice fizzled with his climax. “Shit!”

You felt his hot seed burst inside of you and he let himself down as his legs slid straight. He panted heavily and pinched your thigh gruffly. He pulled out of you and played with his cum as it dripped out of you. He spread it up your cunt and wiped his fingers on your tunic. He hummed and shoved you off of him.

“Clean me up,” he grabbed the back of your neck and forced you up. “I can’t sleep like this.”

Reluctantly, you moved down, keeping low under the leather shroud, and bent over him. You rested your shackled hands on his hip and gripped him tentatively. You took him in your mouth and held back a gag at the taste of him. You glided up and down his length a few times before you drew away. Content, he waved you off and tucked himself back into his breeches.

“Now lay the fuck down,” he pulled you down by the back of your tunic. “I’m fucking tired.”

🐍

You were once more roused by the motion of the wheels. The snow crunched beneath them and you were once more huddled and freezing beneath your meagre blanket. You listened to the horse and the silence of the white plains around you; at least you imagined they were plains. Perhaps there were trees, tall sentinels to witness your fate.

You sat up as far as you could and leaned against a keg. You felt sick again. The tunic rubbed uncomfortably against your tender breasts and you felt around for the oat biscuit you’d saved from your last meal. You chewed on it but nearly choked as the wagon suddenly lurched.

The cart veered and you listened. It was some time before the sound of hooves came clearer as they stamped across the snow. You heard the howl of hounds and the voices of men. Your driver swore and the cart halted all together.

You felt his weight leave the vehicle and heard the whisper of metal. Snap, snap, the leather broke easily against the blade. The horse whinnied in panic and Magnus demanded that it run. The horse obeyed and the wind whistled around the sword as you tried to imagine the scene. The crack of steel against steel and the cry of an unseen man.

Your captor’s flight was impeded but not entirely as you heard your accosters call for him to be caught. The hooves continued, fading into the puffs of powder. You braced yourself and buried your face in your hands. A party of thieves would find you and what worse could they do? A new prison, a new sentence.

You rocked back and forth. Perhaps they might kill you. That was the only swift escape. You listened as low orders were exchanged outside and footsteps neared the end of the cart. You didn’t look as the end of the cover was unstrapped and rolled up. Not even as the wood groaned beneath new weight. 

Gentle fingers touched your shoulder. A soft voice startled you. Your name was spoken with a care which felt unreal. “It’s me.” The boy said and you raised your head. His rosy cheeks glowed beneath a wool cap that let out wisps of his carrot-coloured hair, “It’s Hal.”

You blinked as him numbly and grasped his hand without thinking. You squeezed to make certain he was real. He winced but did not pull away.

“We found you,” he said, “Come on. I must take you back.”

“Back?” You uttered and your stomach sank. “To the king?”

“Yes,” he rubbed your shoulder, “King Loki.”

“No, no, no,” you shook your head, “He will… he will be angry. He will think I ran. He will hurt me. He does hurt me. As they have.”

“The king is not angry,” Hal assured you, “He has fretted for weeks over you. And when he has caught up to his treacherous guard, he will make certain he suffers for his crimes.”

“He… what do you mean?”

“The king is in pursuit of Magnus right now. He bid me find you so that he might catch his betrayer first and bring him to justice.” Hal trailed his hand down your arm and took yours from beneath the wool blanket, “Come. We must get you warm. You are freezing.”

You sniffed and let him guide you to the end of the cart. You kept the blanket around you and an armored man approached. You winced. Hal stopped you from stepping down into the snow. He bid the guard get another blanket and ordered another to stoke a fire. A pit was made close by as two of the guards attached their own horses in place of the one taken by their quarry.

“I will remain with you,” Hal said as a kettle was hung on a makeshift spit over the fire. “Once you’ve something warm in you, we are to move to Alfres Castle and the king shall find us their.”

Just a boy, you thought, but he was a comfort nonetheless. You’d never thought to meet him again but there he was. You nodded and accepted the second blanket. It was thicker and lined with lambskin. You hugged it to you and rested your chin against it. You were heartened to no longer be trapped in Magnus’ grasp but you feared your return to Loki’s.

🐍

The castle was only an hour’s ride from where the king’s party found you. Upon your arrival, you were ushered inside and more guards stood by the castle’s gate and doors in expectation. Hal guided you through the halls and to a chamber at the top of a winding staircase. He lit the hearth and brought you a basin and cloth to wash. He left a clean dress, this one with full length sleeves and skirts.

He returned, when you were clean and dressed, with a platter of food. You ate without hesitation and found yourself painfully full. You sat close to the fire, unable to shake the chill of your days spent in the cellar and then in the back of the wagon. You sat in silence but the boy didn’t seem to mind.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said, “I recall the king did not like me speaking with you.”

“The king told me to remain close until he has returned,” Hal shrugged. “If he takes issue, I will make certain it is with me.”

You watched him thoughtfully. “You are brave.” You said.

“Am I?” He wondered. “I don’t think so. I am obedient.”

You chewed your lip and looked away. “Well, I think so.” You muttered.

“You should lay down. I can bring a hot brick to warm your feet.” He offered. “The king might not be back until the morning.”

“What will he do… to-- to--” You quivered and hugged yourself to keep from shaking. Your thighs ached as you thought of the night before; of those which had marked the last month of torment.

“He will kill him.” Hal said coldly. “And better for it. I never did trust that brute.”

You stayed silent as you raised your head. The boy watched you and you saw the pity in his eyes.

“I followed him one night. I warned the king that Magnus was acting odd. He would be sent out to search for you and he’d returned with some lame excuse. So I went after him and found him sneaking beneath a butcher’s shop. I told his majesty but when he thought to look for himself, you were already gone.” Hal leaned forward and poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle you hadn’t touched. “Magnus didn’t return either. He gave himself away.”

He sat back and drank. He winced at the taste and frowned into the cup. “Huh, I always thought wine would be sweet.”

“What would you have done if he had caught you?”

“Well, I’d probably be dead,” he set aside the cup. “I didn’t think of it though I should have.”

“And the king… why did he want to find me? Was he not mad? Surely, he thought I had fled.” You urged.

“He did. At first. I did, too.” He stood and sighed, “I wouldn’t worry for what he thought before. You should sleep. I will have the warmer brought up and you will rest.”

“And will you?” You countered. “You’ve done much today.”

“For a short time, I think,” he smiled. “Your questions do make me rather sleepy.”

He laughed at his own quip and you let out a weak chuckle. His boyish humour amused you as it broke through the veneer he fought hard to keep up.

“Thank you, Hal.” You slowly stood from the chair.

He bowed his head and strode to the door. He left you to the crackling of the wire and the winter gales blowing against the shuttered windows. You went to the bed and hid beneath the covers. You never wanted to move from there. Ever.

🐍

Through your deep slumber, coaxed by the warmth of the fire and the blankets around you, you heard the door. Soft footsteps moved around the room, brighter than when you’d dozed off, and distant movements flitted with the shadows. A log clacked into the hearth and the flames lit the space as your lashes fluttered sleepily.

You felt a figure sit on the edge of the bed and a hand rubbed your arm through the layers of blankets. You murmured and rolled onto your back as you gazed up at your new visitor. Loki’s face was serious and sombre. There was a hint of pink at the tip of his nose and along his cheeks. He had just come in from the cold.

“I have failed. Both of us.” He said. “Magnus cannot be found.”

You pushed your arm from beneath the covers and grasped his wrist. “Magnus…” you said weakly, “And…”

“Shhh,” he hushed. “You are tired. I am too.”

He squeezed your shoulder and stood, your arm falling as he drew away from your touch. You watched him as he removed his tunic, then his breeches. He kept his undershorts on as he stretched before the fire and basked in its glow for only a moment. He retreated from the hearth and disappeared around the other side of the bed.

He pulled up the corner of the covers and slid beneath. He sidled closer to you. He seemed hesitant as he turned on his side and watched you. You closed your eyes as your uncertainty made your nerves wild.

“You didn’t run?” He asked at last.

You opened one eye and looked at him. You shook your head and closed your eye again. “Not from you,” you croaked.

“Yes, my brother and his games,” he said. “I will make certain he never plays one with you again.”

Your lips parted. Your nose crinkled. Did he not know? You wondered if you should say something. Surely, he must have caught on.

“Thor,” you said quietly.

“Yes, Thor,” He confirmed as if you were dull. “Such a pest but I must put up with it.”

He shifted closer and carefully pushed his arm over you. He let it down gently and went rigid as it settled across your stomach. He pulled back and spread his long fingers over your middle. He sucked in a sharp breath and retracted his hand as he pushed himself to sit up. He pulled the blanket away from your torso.

Your eyes snapped open. He stared at your stomach as you crossed your arms over it and tried to hide. He caught your arm and pulled it down to your side. His eyes flicked up to yours.

“You’re…” He looked down and you saw the calculation on his brow, “It must be…”

You nodded. “Yours.”

He went quiet and slowly lowered himself beside you once more. He nestled close and drew the blankets back up over your bodies. He hugged you to him as the heat of his flesh seeped into you.

“I will find Magnus and I will make him beg for death,” he said.

You gulped as his fingers swirled over your stomach. “You’re not angry with me?” You asked.

“Perhaps for not telling me when I did come in,” he said, “But for your condition, no.”

“I…” You began but could not figure what to say.

“Sleep,” he bid. “It is a concern for tomorrow.”

🐍

Loki stirred as a knock came at the door. A pounding that frightened you and had you sitting up in terror. The king waved you back down as he took a robe from a hook and wrapped himself in the dark fabric. He went to the door and opened it with a grumble, asking who it was.

“Brother,” Thor’s voice made your blood cold. You pulled up the covers as if to hide beneath them. “We looked all night. He is nowhere to be found.”

“Mmm,” Loki huffed, “Well, come in.”

He beckoned the prince inside and you only watched their shadows as you dared not move. You felt eyes upon you but didn’t look back. Loki went to the hearth and poked the embers with the long iron. He added a quarter log and stepped away.

“You haven’t an idea of his direction?” Loki asked.

“North.” Thor said plainly. “I can only assume he’s headed for a port. His only hope is to be away from the country.”

“As if I will not sniff him out,” Loki spat and a chair scraped on the stone floor. You heard his deep and angry breaths. “She is in condition. He endangered royal issue. He is a traitor.”

Thor cleared his throat and sat too. “And she is… far? You are certain--”

“A woman does not show after a month and she is growing.” Loki rebuffed.

“Only a bastard,” Thor remarked, “That is trouble itself.”

“A bastard. Illegitimate. My betrothed needn’t worry her precious royal cunt.” Loki slithered. “And you are not one to lecture me on marital loyalty. How are Lady Jane and your new daughter?”

“Healthy. She expects she might be ready to visit court in the spring.” Thor said.

“Ah, and ruin your fun?” Loki taunted. “The baker’s daughter isn’t very subtle.”

“Oh, but she is fun,” Thor chortled. “I give her a pretty bauble and she’s got me in her mouth as she wears it ‘round her throat.”

“Perhaps my bastard might have a friend of similar bearing,” Loki mused.

“She is cautious. She says her father would murder her.” Thor returned. “And if it came to it, how could I know it was mine? These peasants… you cannot say where they lay.”

“Mmhmm,” Loki tutted, “I suppose you are right.”

“Well, brother,” Thor stood, “Speaking of the wife, am I permitted to depart now?”

“My men will continue the search. I did promise you a respite.” Loki said, “I will see you back in the capital.”

“After Wintertide,” Thor affirmed, “Jane would have my balls if I was not home for the occasion. Not now with the little one.”

“Very well. Away before this snow has us all trapped.” Loki trilled.

The door opened and closed. The hinges made your blood boil and your spine rigid. You sat up and stared at the door. You were in a trance. Horror bubbled in your veins. 

“L-L-Loki,” you said the king’s name without thinking; no title, no courtesies, but pure fear as you gripped the covers in your fists. “He--He--- Your brother---”

“Does think me stupid.” Loki rose and came to you. He coaxed you back down and unknotted your hand from around the quilt. “He did not find Magnus because that little shit would tell it all in an instant if he thought it would save his own head.” Loki growled as he twined his fingers through yours. “I know everything, mouse, but one rat at a time.”

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Drenched

Summary: Golden Lace. Lacey’s plans to seduce Mr Gold are not at all delayed by the dismal weather. In fact, the rain might just help her along…

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling October random prompt: Taking shelter from the storm

Rated: E

Drenched

It was an absolutely miserable day, especially considering that it was supposed to be the middle of summer and the forecast had been for bright sunshine for the rest of the week. Gold looked out at the rain pouring steadily down from the slate-coloured sky, the rumbling of thunder in the distance promising further deluges before the day was up. 

He wondered where Lacey could have got to. Although anyone looking at her on a day-to-day basis would call her the very epitome of unreliable, she was generally very regular in turning up to work in the pawn shop, mainly because she never wanted to lose a second of needling him. For a moment, a vision of her having slipped in the rain in her ridiculously high heels passed across his mind, but he shook it away, really not wanting to think about something terrible having happened to her. She was annoying, yes, but he would never wish any harm on her. Not at all. Quite the opposite in fact. 

Gold would never admit to Lacey, or indeed to anyone, just how much he enjoyed having her around in the shop, but he really did. She was a breath of fresh air, and unlike everyone else in the town, she was not at all scared of him. She gave as good as she got, and it was always nice to have a sparring partner on his level. 

“That witch!”

The pawn shop door was flung open, the wind lending perhaps a little more energy to it than intended, and Lacey scrambled inside, battling against her obviously broken umbrella before giving it up as a bad job and throwing the thing into the street outside. Once the door was finally closed against the storm, she growled at it, eyes narrowed, and Gold had to wonder what had got her so vehement. 

Well, apart from the fact that she was soaked to the skin, hair hanging in tendrils around her head and her dress clinging to her. 

Her white dress. Which had gone very see-through as a result of her drenching, and which was showing Gold without a shadow of a doubt that Lacey was not wearing anything underneath it. 

He managed to drag his gaze away from her, looking very pointedly down at the cash register and pretending to be doing something very important to distract himself from the fact Lacey was very wet and showing off rather a lot more of herself than she probably realised.

Although, that said, Gold had never really been sure when it came to Lacey. There had been several times in the past when their banter and teasing had turned a corner into flirting, and neither of them had been uncomfortable with it. Lacey was certainly beautiful, and it would be a lie to say that he didn’t find her attractive. He’d just never been entirely convinced that it was a good idea to admit that to anyone. Especially not to Lacey. 

“Who’s a witch?” he asked, as conversationally as he could, trying to pull his thoughts in a different and much more chaste direction.

“Fiona Black in her Ferrari. If she were a man I’d say that she was compensating for something; it’s so ostentatious. Anyway, I swear she deliberately splashed me. Look at me! I’m soaked! Even more soaked than I would have been without her intervention!”

Gold really didn’t want to look at her, but somehow, he found his eyes wandering in that direction again. Lacey was wringing out her hair onto the doormat and she didn’t seem at all perturbed by the sudden transparency of her clothing. In fact, as he gave her another almost-involuntary onceover, she grinned. 

“I suppose I should get out of this wet dress,” she said, her voice almost sing-song. “I’d hate to catch cold.”

Gold nodded, waving abstractedly towards the back room. “Help yourself to any of the vintage stock. You can switch on the space heater to dry out your dress.”

“Thank you, Mr Gold.” She blew him a kiss as she went past, already beginning to unfasten the buttons down the front of her dress and peel it away from her skin. Once she was safely ensconced behind the curtain, Gold let out a shaky breath, leaning heavily on the counter. If he could get through the rest of the day, then it would be an utter miracle. At least the weather made it unlikely that they would get much custom, and no one except Lacey would notice his increased distraction.

He swore that she was going to be the death of him, and he still couldn't tell whether that was going to be a good thing or not.

"Hey, Mr Gold." Lacey's voice was still teasing as she called out from the back room. He took a deep breath, determined not to give in to the temptation to go over to the curtain and take a look at what was going on, lest he see something he most definitely liked.

"What?" he asked, teeth gritted against every urge.

"What do you think would suit me best?"

He took another breath. She was definitely doing this on purpose, there could be no doubt about it, and he was determined to beat her at her own game. He would not give in.

He racked his brains, trying to think about what he had in stock at the moment. Clothing was never something that sold well and was not something that he usually came into possession of; old clothes went to Goodwill, not the pawnbroker.

"It's ok," Lacey called again. "I've found something. Not exactly seasonal, but I think it looks good." There was a long pause. "Why don't you come and see?"

"I'm sure you look lovely, Miss French. Now, I believe that you have work to be getting on with."

He heard Lacey's exaggerated sigh. "You know, Mr Gold, you're really no fun at all."

The curtain was pulled back, and Lacey struck up a pose in the doorway. She was wrapped in the heavy throw rug from the cot in the corner of the workroom, its faded folds draped around her in a seductive manner that suggested more skin on show than could actually be seen.

"I know you're not completely oblivious," she said. "I know you try and act all aloof and unaffected, but I know that you're interested." Her eyes gave him a slow once over, lingering on his crotch and the bulge that was becoming apparent there. "What I don't know is why you persist in grinding your teeth and pretending not to see what's right in front of you, instead of giving in and letting us have what we evidently both want."

"I..." Gold didn't really have a response for that. In the back of his rational mind, a mind that was very rapidly being overtaken by not at all rational thoughts, he knew that it was probably something to do with the fact that he didn't believe for a moment that Lacey's attraction towards him could ever be genuine, that someone as vivacious as Lacey could want someone as old and bitter as him.

But here she was, standing in the doorway to the back room, naked but for a blanket, her hips cocked invitingly towards him as one hand reached down into the folds of fabric, disappearing in the direction of her sex.

"I really think you liked what you saw, earlier," she continued, a purr in her voice. "Do you really think that I didn't wear that dress on purpose, knowing that it was raining cats and dogs out there? Naturally, I didn't intend on getting quite so very drenched on the way here, but that just served to speed things up. So…" She stepped away from the curtain, moving towards him, until she was so close that Gold could feel her breath against his lips. "Want to warm me up after my soaking?"

Gold took the plunge, kissing her in response and pushing the blanket off her shoulders, taking in every inch of her body. Lacey smirked, grabbing his tie, and all he could do was let himself be led back into the other room, sinking down onto the cot as Lacey straddled his lap, undoing his tie and tossing it to the floor.

"Skin to skin is the best way, don't you think?"

Gold nodded, running his hands over Lacey’s skin, coming down to grab her ass and then up to her breasts, rolling her nipples under his palms and making her wriggle on top of him.

“I can’t believe it took a rainstorm to get to this,” Lacey murmured. “I should have got splashed by a Ferrari sooner.”

She made quick work of his shirt and waistcoat buttons, diving in for another hungry kiss as she pushed them down off his shoulders, breaking away only to let them get onto the cot properly. It was an ungainly mélange of limbs and hands and lips everywhere: no finesse, only the urgency of a need long-suppressed and finally surrendered to. Lacey certainly knew what she wanted, and it didn’t look like she was going to stop until she got it – and Gold was happy enough to let her have it.

As she shoved his trousers and boxers down his legs, he wondered if this was a good idea; if finally giving into the lust that had been simmering below the surface would make the easy, more-than-occasionally flirtatious relationship they had previously shared awkward, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He had always prided himself on his patience, a quality that Lacey almost certainly lacked, but now, that taut string had completely snapped, and it disintegrated altogether when Lacey grabbed his cock, pumping his length a couple of times before grinning down at him. She was in control. She’d always been in control from the moment she’d first stepped into his shop.

Lacey’s purse was on the floor beside the cot and she grabbed it up, rummaging around until she found a condom, then her glorious hands were back, stroking him once more and gently rubbing his tip along her folds, her hips rocking and writhing in rhythm. When she finally sank down onto him, he groaned with the sensation, throwing his head back against the uncomfortable mattress. Above him, Lacey laughed, a low, breathy laugh that betrayed her own loss of self-control. She was only clinging on by her fingertips, and as Gold looked up through heavy eyelids as she rode him like the goddess she was, he saw the moment she came, one hand braced on his stomach as the other rubbed frantically at her clit. There was something so wild and wanton in the image of her – hair rat-tailed and curling around her face, mascara smudged beneath her eyes – and it only took a moment before he followed her over that edge.

The silence in the back room was broken only by their panting. It had not exactly lasted long, but there was such intensity in the release of his tightly pent-up desires that it felt almost like running a marathon.

Lacey let him slip out of her and slumped down onto his chest like a cat, her smirk returning as she came down from her own high.

“Now, aren’t you glad you came out of your denial?” she purred.

Gold nodded. “That was… certainly something.”

Lacey laughed again, going in for another kiss, and Gold just let himself be swept along in her wake. He didn’t know if this would make things awkward between them, and he didn’t know if this would lead to many more pleasurable encounters of the same kind, but for now, he didn’t care. The storm was still raging outside, and it was a while before they had to get back to their usual lives and responsibilities. There was plenty of time for them to take shelter together, and as he rolled Lacey over onto her back, Gold certainly intended to make the most of it.

[aethelar]

*bursts through ur front door* nEWT RESCUING MERMAN!GRAVES FROM POACHERS

Newt is five the first time he goes to the circus. He trots behind Theseus, his hand securely held by his older brother to stop him slipping away and getting lost in the crowd. Not that Newt would intentionally wander off, but there was so much to see, so many sights and sounds and colours - over there, giant kites hovered in mid air, the one a flame-coloured goldfish with trailing red-yellow-orange ribbons, the other a glittering butterfly with reflective silver spots sewn over blue-green wings. There a man on stilts picks his precarious way through the thronged people below, his twelve foot trouser legs patterned in contrasting neon stripes. There, a lady selling candy floss, great sugar clouds of pink and blue on sticks and hanging in bags from the edge of her cart.

And there, ahead, rising above the mayhem like a gleaming castle, the big top.

Newt pulls Theseus ahead. “C’mon,” he says impatiently, tugging at Theseus’ hand. “C’mon, we’re going to miss it!”

“Calm down,” Theseus laughs, leaning back and moving at a deliberately slow meander. “It’s not going anywhere.”

“Theseus,” Newt whines. “What if all the good spots are gone and we can’t see?”

Theseus stoops down and picks Newt up, lifting him in one smooth movement to sit on his shoulders. Newt squeaks, his muddy shoes leaving black marks on Theseus’ coat and his fingers tangling in his brother’s hair for balance.

“There,” Theseus says, holding Newt’s feet in place. “Now you can see everything. Right?”

“You can’t pick me up,” Newt retorts. “I’m too old to be picked up.”

“Well, if you don’t want to be able to see…”

“No! I’m fine. I’ll let you carry me. Can we get sweets?”

Theseus changes course and heads for the candy floss lady. “And here I thought you were worrying about being late,” he says teasingly.

“Yes,” Newt explains with all the patience of a child having to state the obvious, “but that was when I was short and now you’re carrying me so I’m not. So, sweets.”

Honestly, big brothers were useful things, but they weren’t half slow sometimes.

In the tent itself Newt’s attention is torn between keeping himself and his oversized pink monstrosity of a candy floss stick balanced and laughing in delight at the show. He tries, he honestly does try to keep Theseus sugar free, but there’s distinct wisps of pastel in his dark hair by the time the first act finishes (not to mention the ones in Newt’s eyebrows, behind his ears, inching up his shirt sleeves and lodged under his collar). Theseus manfully ignores it and focuses on making sure Newt isn’t blocking the view for anyone behind them. The circus itself isn’t quite his cup of tea - the performers are brightly coloured, but their acrobatics are nothing special, really. He’s seen Newt do better trying to reach the cake jar on the top shelf.

It’s not the acrobatics though that are the star of this particular circus and the crowd falls into a hushed silence when the ringmaster comes out to announce, with great aplomb, the “Moment you’ve all been waiting for, the mystery and the magic, the magnificent and the magical; ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for MACUSA’s Marvellous Menagerie!”

The heavy velvet curtain behind him draws back and Newt gasps in anticipation, leaning forwards with wide eyed delight.

“A many gerry, Theseus,” he breathes. “Do you think they’ll have a tiger?”

Theseus ducks left to give Newt a better view. “They might,” he says. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Newt’s protest about wanting to know now is drowned out by the roar from the crowd as the first creature, a long-necked camel bedecked with a gold and red tasselled head dress, is led out and paraded in front of the crowd. It walks with a strange, rolling gate and has two humps on its back, one of which stands straight and one of which flops over, and there’s bells tied to its feet that jingle with every step. It’s everything Newt could ask for, everything that should have delighted and amazed him -

But his attention is caught by something else. There, just there behind the edge of the curtain, he can see the narrow end of a glass tank. It isn’t very big; the end that Newt can see is maybe a metre square, the bottom resting on a dark wood trolley with a great hook at the front for a harness to attach to and top covered by an ornate gold lid. The light from the tent glints off the surface, playing tricks with Newt’s vision, but inside he sees - that is, he thinks he sees -

The camel is replaced by a lady with very little in the way of clothes, draped in the coils and folds of an enormous green snake, its scales dotted with small white flecks and its eyes staring unblinking at the crowd. The lady dips, holding out her arms to force the snake out of its tightly balled shape; it raises its head and hisses, much to the crowd’s delight.

She’s blocking his view and Newt cranes his neck to look past her.

“You see alright up there?” Theseus asks, shifting to the left to give him a better angle. Newt makes a distracted sound in answer, still straining to see the tank. The snake holder dances and twirls off the stage and Newt’s breath catches in his throat.

There’s someone in the tank.

There’s someone in the tank, and they’re looking at him.

Dark eyes set in a pale face, a halo of drifting hair around them; they catch Newt’s gaze and the rest of the tent seems to fade away. They twist, their face drifting upside down and right side up, and their hands come forwards to press against the glass. They come closer - he, perhaps, they’re a man, or something that looks like one. He comes closer, and mouths something, some words Newt can’t hear and doesn’t understand. At his blank stare the man repeats them, slower, mouth opening wide to exaggerate the movements and are those his teeth -

Theseus jostles him, shaking him out of the strange moment and Newt looks down automatically.

“So?” Theseus asks. “What did you think? You were awfully quiet up there.”

“I was looking,” Newt protests. He glances back up but the ringmaster’s back on the stage, his voice booming out something about a private showing and exclusive, never before seen creatures for those willing to pay the trifling price and step backstage.

The man in his glass tank is gone, blocked from view behind the curtain.

“Yeah?” Theseus asks. “Which one was your favourite then? I think I liked the parrots best. Weren’t they bright and colourful?”

Newt gives an irritated huff. He doesn’t want parrots, he wants to know about the man in the tank. Theseus is already turning though, moving with the flow of people back to the stalls outside.

“The camel,” he says, picking the first animal because it’s the only one he really remembers seeing. “But Theseus, we have to go back. There’s someone trapped there, he needs our help.”

“Trapped? Newt, you can’t go rescuing all the animals because you think they’re unhappy. They belong to the circus - that’s stealing.”

Newt tugs on Theseus’ hair in frustration. “Not the animals, the person. He was underwater. What if he drowns?”

There’s a steady stream of people curving round the back of the stage, going to where the ringmaster is waiting to welcome them to the private exhibition, and Newt’s mind whirrs.

“I don’t think -” Theseus starts hesitantly, but Newt has a better plan.

“Let me down,” he says. “I’m all numb, and I don’t need to see anymore.”

Theseus makes a dubious noise, but lifts Newt over his head and down to the floor all the same. “Ok little brother, whatever you say. But stick close and - Newt! Newt!”

Newt squirms out of his brother’s grip, ducking between people’s legs and scrambling under the raised seating areas at the back. Theseus curses as he chases but Newt slides under the striped canvas of the tent wall and makes a mad dash through the mud for the back. The back entrance is marked exit only and guarded by a bored looking girl in a faded circus uniform; she frowns as Newt careens into her.

“Hey, kid,” she starts, but Newt cuts her off.

“My brother’s in there, I got lost but he’ll be mad if I don’t go in,” he babbles. She tries to take his hand but Newt’s more mud than person by this stage and he slips free while she’s trying to find something to hold onto that won’t leave stains on her uniform.

“Kid, wait!”

Newt ignores her. The inside of the tent is dimly lit and smells of a heavy, foreign smoke. It’s hung with low coloured-glass lamps and swathes of brightly patterned silk, and decorated with assorted urns and jewel encrusted masks chosen more for their cost than any cohesive design..

Newt hurries past the lavish opulence with barely a glance. Real or fake, the effect is lost on him and the perfumed smoke only serves to irritate his lungs. He fights the urge to cough and creeps past a china pot that claims to hold a faerie inside - in any other circumstance he’d’ve stopped to look inside, but he’s too focused on his goal to stop. If he’s worked things out right, then the tank should be just to one side of the stage curtains which would put it… There.

In the low light, he can only make out the outline of the tank, straight sided glass walls and an overly decorated iron lid. It’s not until he’s standing right by it that he can see the man inside and he barely manages to stifle a gasp because the man isn’t a man at all.

No, that’s not quite right; he has a head, two arms, broad shoulders and a muscled torso - those things look like a man. But he also has a ridged fin running down his back, trails of dark, glittering scales wrapping down over his ribs, and in place of his legs there’s a sinuous, curving tail.

“You’re a mermaid,” Newt breathes. He hears a quiet rap and jerks his gaze up; the mermaid is frowning at him, one fist raised where he’d knocked on the glass. Newt flushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” he says.

The mermaid lifts an eyebrow and studies him for a moment before his frown morphs into a satisfied smile. With an encouraging trill he lifts his arms and stretches out as much as he can, turning slowly in the water. He twists his head round as he does so to keep his eyes on Newt and make sure his audience appreciates him showing off.

“Wow,” is all Newt can say, and amends his earlier statement: “You’re a beautiful mermaid.”. He comes closer, both hands pressing against the glass. Now that the mermaid is moving he can see that the tank’s too small; his tail is coiling back on itself just to fit in and the sharp-edged fins at the end of it are crushed awkwardly against the sides.

The mermaid knocks again, and when he has Newt’s attention he gestures pointedly to his bare chest.

“I don’t understand,” Newt says, confused. The mermaid rolls his eyes and makes a vaguely obscene curving gesture over his front, then shakes his head and goes back to running his hands down his chest again.

Newt’s face burns as he gets it. “Oh,” he says, and trips into apologies again. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t know - what do you call a boy mermaid?”

The mermaid who isn’t a mermaid mouths something, lips twitching up in humour but Newt still can’t make out the words. He hears a noise behind him - the ringmaster, leading his private tour. He squeaks in panic and drops to the floor; the tank sits on iron feet, like a fancy bathtub, and with some frantic crawling and squirming Newt just manages to get underneath. There’s barely enough space to fit; he tilts his head to the side and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take shallow breaths.

The mermaid knocks on the glass above him.

“They can’t see me,” Newt whispers back as loudly as he dares. If he believes it hard enough, then it’ll be true; like keeping the nightmares away at night, like Theseus taught. He hears footsteps and the low murmur of the approaching crowd and repeats it to himself: they can’t see me, they can’t see me, until he feels it settle over him like a safety blanket.

“And here,” the ringmaster announces, pride and glee threading through his oily tone, “here we have it ladies and gentlemen, the mighty monster from the deep: MACUSA’s own mermaid, the only real one to be found in any circus, anywhere. A genuine treasure, ladies, genuine treasure.”

Newt holds still. His heart is too loud - why is his heart beating so loud?

“How can you prove,” someone drawls, “that this one is real? It could be one of your stage hands in a costume for all we know.”

“Monsieur, you are wiser than your years! Come, come -” the feet obligingly step closer and Newt shrinks smaller in terror - “See, there’s no air in this tank. See there? Ah, my friend, don’t turn away - it’s shy, forgive me - those, those marks on its neck? Those are gills. Could a man spend all his life underwater without drowning, I ask?”

There’s an impressed rumble of agreement, but the same voice points out, “You could have a pipe hidden in the corner. That lid’s certainly large enough to hide one, and all your man would need to do is breathe from the pipe when no one’s looking.”

“Truly, an observant gentleman!” the ringleader praises with faked delight. “I see then you won’t be satisfied with anything but the truth, so watch, watch.” There’s a metallic groan as the lid is lifted open followed by an angry, distorted shriek that seems to sink into Newt’s bones and shake them apart. He presses back further under the tank and clamps his eyes closed, one step away from sobbing. The thud of the lid falling back into place cuts off the mermaid’s shrieking but Newt still can’t stop himself crying, muffling the sound in his sleeve.

“You see,” the ringleader says proudly. “You see now, do you see? Are you satisfied, my doubting friend?”

“I’m satisfied,” the other man agrees quietly. There’s something covetous in his harsh almost-whisper that the ringleader boldly ignores. They exchange more words, more boasting and more nodding at the right places and more making the right sounds of appreciation, but Newt stays pressed against the ground with his eyes closed until after they’ve shuffled off to marvel over the next thing in the tent.

The mermaid knocks on the glass.

“Go away,” Newt says. “I want my brother.”

He knocks again, more urgently this time.

“Go away!”

“Newt!”

Newt scrambles out, scraping his knee on the ground and banging his elbow against the tank but he doesn’t care because that’s Theseus.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stumbling over his feet as he flings himself at his brother. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Theseus soothes him, dropping to his knees to hug his brother. “It’s ok, I’m here now. You’re alright? You’re not hurt?”

Newt shakes his head. “I’m not but - but Theseus, we have to help him.” He turns to point urgently at the mermaid in his tank and falters in shock.

There’s a cut across the mermaid’s tail, just below where his hip would be if he were a man. It’s not a deep cut, but the water draws the blood out in a dark cloud and every movement of his tail makes the wound glisten an angry black.

“They hurt him,” Newt says in horror, pulling against Theseus to go to the glass.

“Newt,” Theseus says, stunned and still trying to get over it. “Newt, that’s a mermaid.”

Newt tugs sharply, annoyed by the delay. “He’s not,” he says crossly. “He’s a merboy and we need to help him.”

“Of course we do,” Theseus says faintly. The mermaid - merboy - scrapes his fingers against the lid, the clawed tips making a harsh scratching sound against the metal.

Newt darts in and pulls himself up on the tank’s feet, pushing futilely against the lid. “Theseus!” he says, jolting his brother into action.

“What do we do when we get the lid open?” Theseus asks, but he comes forward to help all the same. “He can’t swim out and we’ll get caught if we carry him - Newt, move - and mercy Lewis I’m asking a five year old for plans what am I doing with my life.”

“He’ll figure something out,” Newt says confidently. “He’s smart.”

In the tank, the mermaid darts a quick smirk in Newt’s direction.

The lid is heavy, heavier than it should be for how it looks and Theseus strains against it. It’s not until Newt joins in again and stubbornly puts his shoulder against the rim to help that it creaks its way open. They freeze, both of them darting nervous glances behind them to check that no one heard, but now that the lid is open a crack the mermaid gets impatient.

He slides a hand under the edge of the lid and, in one smooth movement, flings the whole thing off the tank to fall with a loud crash down the other side.

“Oh gods above,” Theseus moans. He makes a grab for Newt but Newt twists aside, hooking his fingers over the glass to watch as the mermaid lifts his torso out of the water. This close, Newt can see how very human his top half looks, but at the same time all the little things that so clearly mark him as different. His ears extend into points, long and low and dusted with dark blue scales. His eyes blink twice, the second, clear set of eyelids making them seem to glow in the dimly lit tent, and the eyes behind the eyelids are so dark they look like they lack a pupil. His teeth, showing in his open mouth as he pants for air, are curved down to sharp points. His gills flare with every shallow breath.

He mouths something, the words coming out as a soft croon.

“I don’t understand,” Newt says.

“Newt, we have to go,” Theseus urges.

The mermaid points at Newt, then at himself, then gestures at his legs, then finally back at Newt. He mouths the same word again but Newt shakes his head, frustration making him shout, “I don’t know what you want!”

There’s footsteps approaching, the sound of people coming to investigate the crash.

“Time’s up,” Theseus says, scooping a protesting Newt up in his arms and throwing the mermaid an apologetic look. With a growl the mermaid swipes his hand out, claws catching on Newt’s outstretched arm and leaving three bloody scratches in their wake.

Newt yelps and Theseus swears as he pulls out a handkerchief to wrap around the scratches. The mermaid ignores them in favour of licking the blood off each claw. He closes his eyes as though savouring the taste then takes a deep breath and hauls himself out of the tank, the glistening length of his tail unfolding behind him as he collapses over the side and falls to the floor -

And lands, rolls into a crouch, and stands up in one fluid movement.

“What the hell,” Theseus says, staring at him. His gills are gone, as are the long fins down his back and his tail, replaced by legs that are bare, muscled, and completely human. Theseus averts his eyes and covers Newt’s. Completely male human. The cut from his tail is now a wide gash over his left thigh, red blood clotting sluggishly around the edges.

“We need to go,” the man rasps, grabbing for Newt. Theseus backs away, keeping his brother out of reach.

“You think they’ll be lenient because he’s a child?” the man growls. “Come.” He stalks towards the curtain separating the back of the tent from the stage and disappears through it.

“Hey!” someone shouts behind them, and Theseus slings Newt into a piggyback and hurries out after the mermaid-turned-man. He pushes aside the heavy curtain and runs across the stage, praying that none of the staff were in there preparing for the next performance. The man is hovering by one of the side flaps, lifting it aside to peer out with an angry scowl.

He looks up when Theseus skids to a halt next to him.

“They won’t be far behind us,” Theseus pants. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan?” The man raises an eyebrow. “I go back to the sea. He comes with me.” He reaches for Newt again to lift him off Theseus’ back and Theseus spins to put himself between them.

“No.”

The man glowers. “I didn’t ask you.”

“He’s five,” Theseus spits, and grips Newt’s legs tight in warning when he makes a noise of protest. He doesn’t know what he’s doing - Theseus isn’t small by any means, but he hasn’t forgotten how the other man - mermaid - hell, whichever, how the other man casually threw the heavy metal lid it took both Theseus and Newt just to budge. If it comes to a fight then Theseus can’t hope to win, but Newt is his brother; Theseus can’t not defend him.

The sound of angry voices behind the curtain breaks their standstill.

“Fine,” the man snaps. “While he’s a child he’s yours. When he’s a man, bring him to the sea. I’ll find him.” He lifts the tent flap to go through and Theseus holds his tongue on pointing out his nakedness. Just before he goes he looks back over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Newt. “Oh, and before I forget,” he says, lips twitching into an amused smile. “My name is Graves, and I’m a merman if you don’t mind.”

“Yessir,” Newt squeaks, and Graves is gone.

“Do I have to go to the sea?” Newt asks in a small voice, gripping Theseus tighter.

Theseus glares at the empty space where the merman stood. “Not if you don’t want to,” he promises. “For now though, we have to go home before anyone sees us, so sit tight and keep quiet.” He pushes aside the tent flap with a foot, checks for passing naked mermen-given-legs, then slips out to join the crowd and hopes no one stops them to ask why Newt is quite so covered in mud, or why he has a makeshift bandage around his forearm.

He’s not yet sure how he’s going to keep his promise, but he will. If Newt doesn’t want to go to the sea then Theseus will make sure he doesn’t have to. He has thirteen years; he’ll find a way.

In the meantime, maybe he should look for a job further inland.

[awesamkiller]

Walk With Me?

The song I listened to while writing

Warnings: nothing, unless you have an aversion to lesbians, trans men, mobility issues or deafness. 

Genre(s): Fluff! Pride!

Word Count: 922

I request: You to tell me how I did! I’ve never really written a darker skinned character, but the prompt said to have people from EXTREMELY DIVERSE backgrounds. The girls got a mobility issue, is white, lives in the shitty part of town, the boys deaf, POC, and lives on the nice side of town. They’re united by pride and pride alone, at least until they learn more about each other!

The bus was loud. It was bustling with teenagers to old folk, some of which were indeed silent as you would expect of public transport. But with the day's destination, she could see why everyone was so bubbly and excited. She heard a yell behind her as the doors closed and she paid the fare, the cheapest ticket for her money. Sure, a return ticket limited her a little bit more than just paying a different ticket to get home whenever she wanted to go home, but let’s be honest, it’s cheaper this way. The bus was alive and buzzing like a raw wire, and, short ginger hair was carded and combed by the busses air-conditioner, she could absorb the energy. The front row of seats was fuzzy and a little less worn-looking than the others as her body was not-so-gracefully dropped into it by her legs. The air circling passengers' ankles was cold and refreshing in the burning summer heat that poured through the glass, and many had colourful layers exacerbating the temperature. Some had flags over their shoulders, some had hilariously unfashionable, garish rainbow cardigans or pink and orange striped long socks, but rest assured everyone was colourful and a little warmer than your average Shelly and her shorts-and-tank top combo.

Closed eyes shielded her for most of the drive as she absentmindedly spun her walking stick between her palms, feeling the colourful electric tape she had decorated the wood with, the bright stripes easily visible in her mind.

The bus was loud. It was bustling with teenagers to old folk, some of which were indeed silent as you would expect of public transport. But with the day's destination, he could see why everyone bounced and babbled like it was a gossip over the garden fence, he should have heard a sweet call of a mother to her child behind him as he boarded, and bought whichever ticket gave him the most flexibility. He felt warm in his green shirt and cargo trousers (Emblazoned with reflective ST. JOHNS AMBULANCE in many places, as ever). It was loud, he spoke in his mind, or at least, it looked to be loud. The bus, to him, was near silent. He heard the bang of an exhaust outside just about, as he took the last remaining seat by a woman looking to be near napping in the heat of the window. He noted, as his bare, caramel skinned arm felt the seat behind him, that these chairs were a little fuzzier, fibres less compressed, the chair in general a little less used. He put his hand on the orange bar in front of him as he shuffled himself back in his seat and bent down to a problem he’d discovered just before boarding the vehicle.

His shoelace was untied. It almost resulted in some scraped hands and ALMOST cost him his hearing aid. If he’d have tripped as he put it in (having a house by the bus-stop is so helpful, sometimes) it would have easily scuttled to, and down the drain like a red skipped pebble. He felt the shoelaces as he tied them. They felt strange on the light skin of his fingertips, the pattern on them forcing them to be flat rather than round, the rainbow stripes were thin, incredibly so, but it was still evident it was a rainbow. Another bright pop on the already bright outfit was the pink blue and white stripes on his pride month epaulets. Sure, they cost a little, and sure he didn’t have to buy them, but pride is good! Pride got the rights they have today, and it’s one of the major reasons that he was able to push testosterone into his body through a needle that morning. He tilted his head back onto the handle that adorned the back of his chair, and closed his eyes with a loose smile, the world around him fading away as he did until it was nothing. He was awake, but all he could really do like this was smell, and the world is a lot more complex than the overwhelming scent of sunscreen around him. He felt the tiny bun of hair on the back of his head catch on the handle slightly before he settled.

Two people woke up from a sun-beaten daze when a set of hands bopped them on their heads. The person behind them left the bus as they both jolted upright like they’d been electric shocked. They watched the bisexual-flag caped stranger bounce off the bus before looking to the person besides them. It was like a funhouse mirror. Two evidently different people with the exact same expression. One had much more textured, darker hair and the other was pale as a bottle of milk. One had caramel, medium coloured skin, while the other had fiery ginger curls in a loose pixie cut.

But both looked like they’d just been struck by lightning, and both found the others expression INCREDIBLY funny. So they laughed. They laughed and they laughed, they laughed as he shuffled to let his new acquaintance out, they laughed as they walked past the driver and thanked him, and they laughed as she clocked onto the red plastic hooked over his ear. He was about to walk away as she raised her hands before her, holding her stick between crossed legs, and signed.

“I’m Emma! What’s your name?”

“I’m Michael. You’re going to pride?”

“Of course! And you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything. Walk with me?”

[fredthedriver]

Basic Information

full name: Frederik Reuter. nickname(s) / alias(es): Fred. age: 34 during FFVII. date of birth: April 22, 1973. hometown: Kalm. current location: Midgar. ethnicity: caucasian. gender: cis male. pronouns: he / him. orientation: heteromantic and heterosexual. religion: follows the main faith. political affiliation: slightly pro-Shinra, but harbors no real prejudice against Wutai. occupation: a company driver for Shinra. living arrangements: an apartment in the Sector 2 housing area, above plate. language(s) spoken: common tongue / Midgarian and his native tongue from Kalm.

Physical Appearance

face claim: Alexander Petrov. hair colour: blond, sand-like. eye colour: light blue. height: 1,74 (‎5’8″).   weight: 68kg (149 lbs).   build: lean but fit - he’s not muscular and not very strong but he’s no scrawny man either. tattoos: none. piercings: none. scars: as a kid, he fell from a tree while playing with his brothers and has a funny-looking scar on the right side of his ribs to show for it; he was also attacked by an old, vicious dog of their neighborhood and there’s a light, almost faded mark on his right leg (but the trauma persisted). clothing style: for work, Frederik is mostly in formal shirts and trousers, following the company dress code with dedication (although he doesn’t normally wear a tie or jacket). During his off-time, even if he’s a bit on the vain side, he doesn’t care a lot for fashion. It’s mostly cotton shirts, the occasional sports jersey and a collection of shorts / jeans. usual expression: serious but approachable and attentive. distinguishing characteristics: very expressive blue eyes - the things he thinks but cannot say are usually translated by the way emotions flicker through his eyes (he’s a very, very poor liar). 

Health

physical ailments: he has a genetic heart condition - nothing too serious if he eats healthily and exercises regularly, but it eventually was the cause of the death of his father and the reason he was reproved for the military. neurological conditions: nothing requiring medication - however, Frederik is very anxious (sometimes to the point of light paranoia) and he may find it very difficult to relax. allergies: shrimp - not medically confirmed but he just feels horrible after eating them. sleeping habits: Frederik is fortunate to be in a position to have a rather decent sleep schedules. If he’s not working a particular night assignment (which are very rare), he will be able to be in bed by 11pm, and waking up at 6am. He often has early mornings, but can make up for it by getting to bed earlier too. eating habits: maybe because of the shrimp issue, he’s not too fond of sea food in general and anything his mother cooks is automatically labeled as ‘the best thing on all of Gaia’. But he likes meat (on the raw side) and really spicy food. exercise habits: it’s a pretty organized, daily thing - before his work hours, Frederik will exercise at home with some simple but effective routines to ensure he doesn’t meet the same fate as his father. He isn’t a super fan of collective sports, but Sam has tricked him into playing soccer with the boyfriends/husbands of her co-workers every Tuesday and he sort of likes it (but won’t admit it to her). emotional stability: to an outsider, Frederik will be regarded as controlled and reserved (although internally he may be freaking out immensely). But all things considered, he’s level-headed and well adjusted, even if his anxiety kicks in at the worst times. It’s mostly not related to the job per se - driving, the traffic, picking up things and people he can handle just fine, but the social interactions and how difficult some Shinra executives can be can really wear the guy out to the point of a nervous breakdown. sociability: Frederik is an introverted guy - his usual hobbies are not very social and he loves reading, bricòláge (he helped his father around their Kalm home a lot) and watching documentaries, but he can be convinced to go out for drinks with friends (mostly Sam’s). He’s also good with pets but he’s never had one - the cute, fluffy ones, of course. body temperature: average - but his hands go very cold when he’s anxious. addictions: none that count - he’s ‘addicted to his mirror reflex’ if Sam’s complaints are anything to go by, but he just likes to look good and presentable. drug use: none - he’s never even tried anything, he was always very afraid of experimenting with anything. alcohol use: Frederik drinks socially - but in reality his endurance is pretty low. Compared to his fiancée, half a bottle of wine can already make him very dizzy and prone to more emotional outbursts (he’s a mix of happy and crying drunk types - it’s a coin toss to know which one you’ll get).

Personality

label: type 9: the peacemaker / mediator. positive traits: reliable, focused, well-prepared, modest, altruist. negative traits: anxious, passive, judgemental, gullible, pessimistic. goals / desires: to have a good life - Frederik has very modest goals, he just wishes to be a good husband and father and to provide the material comfort to his family (and to his mom in Kalm as well). He would like to travel and see more of the world when his unborn kid is older and capable of going with them, too. fears: chaos and unpredictability - his routine is very organized and he deals very badly with situations he’s not prepared/planned for. Improvisation is absolutely not his thing. hobbies: as mentioned above, he has some solitary hobbies - fixing stuff around the house, reading books and magazines, watching documentaries and going for walks around green areas (he misses that the most about Kalm - the fresher air, the birds singing, some nature in sight). He doesn’t do this frequently, but he likes camping. habits: his body language is very easy to read after a while - and Frederik communicates a lot of things without words. His eyes, the way he shifts the weight of his body, how he drives - he doesn’t always talk, but he always has a lot to say (or on his mind). But to a distracted third-party / bystander, he’ll come across as someone quiet to the point of being regarded as ‘boring’.

Favourites

weather: crisp weather with blue skies. colour: dark shades of blue and grey. music: he likes some indie rock and some very old/classical rock bands - thanks to his father. He absolutely does not keep up with the latest pop trends. movies: documentaries and biographies - he loves them. sport: he’s surprisingly good at soccer! It’s popular in Kalm and he used to play a little with his brothers, but it wasn’t until he was a full-on adult he discovered he’s a decent forward. beverage: natural juice and teas. food: meat (on the raw side), exotic spicy food and cinnamon-flavored confections. animal: he’s always liked wolves - but in a distant, documentary-viewer sort of way. Other than that, he likes fish and birds.

Family

father: Benjamin Reuter (deceased - heart attack when he was 67). mother: Ruth Reuter (alive - still resides at the family home in Kalm). sibling(s): two younger brothers, Lukas and Patrick. Lukas is a freelancer photographer and Patrick ended up taking over their father’s dental practice in Kalm. children: is expecting his first kid with his fiancée, Sam. The gender of the baby has not yet been revealed and they do not wish to know until the baby is born. pet(s): none. family’s financial status: he’s slightly above medium class when his salary is combined with Sam’s, but even as a kid his family had enough material comforts.

Extra

zodiac sign: taurus. mbti: ISFJ: the defensor. enneagram: type 9: the peacemaker/  mediator. temperament: phlegmatic. hogwarts house: Hufflepuff. moral alignment: lawful neutral. primary vice: sloth. primary virtue: patience. element: earth.