#(you can take that from my cold dead hands)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 7: Lightning and Rust]

A/N: Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️���🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), babies and parenthood, blood and violence, character deaths, I really cannot summarize this chapter you just gotta experience it, I'll pray for you 🙏

Word count: 6.8k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

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You’re curled up in bed with a velvet pouch of hot stones that have gone cold, bloody rags bunched between your thighs, trying desperately to sleep, and outside a storm is brewing over Blackwater Bay and bringing with it dark skies and strikes of lightning that stalk ever-closer. Through the open window, the air tasting like late-summer rain, you can hear Helaena and the maids corralling the children back into the Red Keep. They are laughing because nobody is dead yet, not even the ailing and absent King Viserys, not even doomed little Luke Strong.

Aemond lets himself into your chambers and stands over your bed, staring down at you with some combination of annoyance and concern. You have failed him. You were not where he wanted you to be. “Why weren’t you at the beach?” Playing with your niece and nephews, collecting your seashells.

“Because women are cursed.”

Aemond smiles, perhaps a bit relieved; he has his answer. “And you more than any of them, because you’re so wicked.”

“Maester Orwyle says I can’t have more milk of the poppy for two hours.”

“Then we must listen to him. It is a powerful remedy, and we cannot endanger you.” He takes off his boots and climbs into bed, lying behind you, one hand following the curve of your waist to settle on your lower belly. “I can relax the muscles. It might ease your suffering.”

Right now? “Oh no, no, you don’t want to do that,” you warn him. “It’s very messy.”

“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” Aemond says, amused. “Everything we’re built of is the same.” He lifts the hem of your silk nightgown and reaches underneath the nest of rags, sliding there in the coppery wetness as you inhale sharply, startled but not unwilling. When Aemond removes his hand, the carnage he is stained with is bright crimson but dotted with clots. Then he licks the blood from his fingers and paints his tongue red. You can’t keep the shock from your face. Aemond grins, wets his hand again, draws a heart on your left cheek just beneath your eye. You laugh and pretend to try to shove him away.

“You’re deranged, you’re a monster—”

“Let me help you,” Aemond whispers, nuzzling blood from his lips into your silver hair. “Let me take your pain away like you quiet mine.”

And you surrender to him like you always do—worn down, overpowered, intoxicated, bewitched, seduced, perhaps all at once—and as Aemond’s hand works and the gory metallic ether of blood fills both of your lungs, the cramps dissolve into nothingness and then build to desire, and you’re opening your thighs for him and the rags are whisked away, unnecessary, forgotten, and now there is blood on the bedsheets and your fingers are twisting into the pillows strewn around you, and it doesn’t feel shameful at all anymore, because what is blood if not made from the same minerals as coins and blades and ocean and ash, and what is lust if not a fire that burns the constraints of the world away?

You kiss him as you come, moaning into his bloodstained mouth, biting his lower lip, and if the careless pressure of your teeth makes him bleed then that’s just more iron and copper and steel to add to the molten sea you are marooned in, more magma, more rust. “Enough,” you gasp when the last of the waves have passed and you are emptied and too sensitive, and Aemond knows to listen. Then you reach for Aemond’s trousers, where you can see he is hard. You are abruptly and ruinously exhausted—you struggle to keep your eyes open—but it feels wrong to not take care of him in return.

It shouldn’t take long, he’s already flushed, he’s already dripping sweat—

“No need,” Aemond says, gently stopping your hands. And as you burrow into the pillows and your eyes dip closed, your skin and hair still splattered with red, he slips away silently so you can sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jace says, knowing that he has to anyway. “Either of you.”

You are nursing the baby in a chair by the fireplace; you needed a change of scenery from the bed. The upholstery is pale blue velvet. The blanket the baby is swathed in is embroidered with pine trees and foxes, and far beyond your skill; Lady Caro made it. She is nearly as gifted with a needle as Helaena. On the walls of the bedchamber you share with your husband are mosaics you’ve pieced together over the past nine months here at the modest castle of Heart’s Home in a cold, remote corner of the Vale. The fractured faces look in on you like curious gazes through clear windows: Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Criston. You aren’t any closer to them now, but you feel like you are. The world seems softer, warmer, smaller.

You smile as you ghost a fingerprint over the baby’s faint dark eyebrows. He’s half-asleep as he suckles, hushed and content and entirely helpless. He has Jace’s coloring, but something about the shape of his eyes reminds you of Aegon. “We’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“I think he looks a lot like Luke,” Jace says, admiring the baby. He’s standing with one arm draped over the back of your chair and the flickering firelight from the hearth on his face, turning his skin from snow to sunstone. “And Joffrey. His face is rounder than mine.”

“Have you been to the Eyrie to see them since the war began?” Joffrey, Rhaena, Rhaenyra’s young white-haired sons Aegon and Viserys.

Jace shakes his head. “I never wanted to be away from you for longer than necessary. I didn’t want to risk being spotted and revealing where they’ve been hidden. And I didn’t know what to say.” About us, about our marriage, about our baby.

“You should visit them, Jace. I would visit Helaena and her children if I could.” You leave out the others intentionally; Helaena is your only sibling that Jace considers blameless. You miss Aegon and Daeron just as much, but in the solitude of your own heart—in the stillness, in the silence—you aren’t sure if you want to see Aemond again. You don’t know if he will be soft with you, or vengeful or cold, or if he has filled the void of your absence with a lover, something that you cannot think about without your stomach lurching and your skull aching, and so you put him out of your mind as much as you can and stay here with the baby instead.

Jace rests a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, then strokes your cheek. He says, meaning the baby: “We’ll have to get him his own egg.”

“I hope he won’t inherit my affliction,” you murmur somberly. “I hope he’ll have a dragon someday.” Without them, we are powerless. Without them, we aren’t real Targaryens.

“Maybe there’s something you need to do first.”

You look up at Jace, not understanding.

“I’ve spent a lot of time considering what inspires a dragon to bond to someone,” he says. And you think, feeling a fleeting stab of betrayal before you stitch the wound closed with invisible thread: Because you’ve been helping the Blacks search for riders. “It seems that each creature has their own preferences. Meleys favored women who were spirited and highly intelligent. Dreamfyre has chosen two riders, both gentle, shy, and fond of animals. Seasmoke bonded to two sons of Corlys Velaryon with similar temperaments, agreeable and charismatic, Quicksilver to a father and son who were both considered weak and died young. Caraxes seems to have an affinity for warriors.” It does not escape you that Jace neglects to mention Vhagar, as if through his silence he can make the beast and her rider vanish. “And Vermithor…” Jace offers you a small, sympathetic smile, remembering that you once wanted him. “The Bronze Fury bonds to riders who are imposing in body and ambitious in spirit. And I suspect he only likes men.”

“So it was always hopeless,” you say gloomily. You recall the miniature Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you out of oak wood. You hope that Aegon is still alive somewhere, scarred but lying in wait, always underestimated, always so much deeper than he seems, an ocean that Mother and Father mistook for a puddle, messy and marginal and inconvenient.

“I believe dragons often gravitate towards riders who are mirrors of themselves. Even Vermax, he is…” Jace considers this. “He’s proud, and he’s clever, but he’s not as formidable as he imagines himself to be.”

“Like you,” you say before you can stop to consider whether Jace will be offended by it, and he gives you an amused smirk. The baby has stopped nursing and fallen asleep; you fix the bodice of your gown and cradle him against you. There are maids to take him when you’re tired, and Jace loves holding him, and Lady Caro steals him away often, but right now you don’t want your freedom. You don’t want your mind to be untethered and to wander to all the places you’re not supposed to be.

Jace continues: “What I mean is, perhaps there is some quality you must cultivate within yourself before the beast you are meant to have judges you worthy.”

“Hardly any unclaimed dragons are left now.” Then you tease: “Do you suggest I become quiet and timid so Grey Ghost will like me?”

Jace laughs. “No, I fear that’s a lost cause, princess. You could never be timid.”

You are intrigued. “Then what am I?”

“I think you’re hungry,” Jace decides. “I think you always want more.”

“I never wanted that many things.” Aemond. My family to be safe. And I wanted Vermithor.

“Every line that is drawn, every place you’re told not to go or act you’re not supposed to do, you insist upon overreaching.”

Is that why Aemond and I were so drawn to each other? you think doubtfully. Because it was forbidden? Because it horrified people who climbed high enough to live alongside Targaryens but could never understand them?

“I think Meleys would have been a good match for you,” Jace says after a while. “If she hadn’t already been claimed by Grandmother.”

“And now the Red Queen is dead.” Like Arrax, and Moondancer, and Seasmoke, and probably Sunfyre too. How many dragons will be left when this is over? How many Targaryens? You clutch the baby closer to you; he stirs in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. “What sort of rider does Silverwing favor? What could this illiterate drunk Ulf the White possibly have in common with Good Queen Alysanne?”

Jace snickers. “That’s a good question. I’ve been ruminating on it. My theory is that since Silverwing was never ridden into battle, and has always been relatively docile and accustomed to living peacefully near humans, she was attracted to Ulf’s…how to describe it? His lack of military prowess. Or, alternatively, once Vermithor was claimed Silverwing was very, very lonely.”

You smile, and then it dies. It must be indescribably painful to be separated from one’s mate after a century together. Unsurvivable, even. “Can Silverwing fight, do you think?”

Jace heaves a sigh and shrugs. “I’m not sure if either of them can. Ulf will try, at least. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and Vermithor is enough to protect King’s Landing. Hugh Hammer is an inexperienced rider, but he’s brave and he’s committed. Each time I see him he’s better than he was before.”

Hugh Hammer is a bastard blacksmith, but he has more power in this war than I do. Ulf the White is an idiot and a drunk, but he’s a true Targaryen and I’m not. You rock your sleeping child in your arms, quieting the voices that flutter in your skull like bat wings. You kiss his wisps of dark curls and breathe in his warmth and newness and blood that is interwoven with yours.

“You could learn how to hate your own kind and claim the Cannibal,” Jace jokes.

You chuckle. “I don’t hate anyone.” Not here, not now.

Lady Caro arrives in the doorway carrying a tray of cinnamon tea. “I have come offering a trade,” she says, grinning, and shuffles excitedly across the room. She sets the tray down on the table by your chair and holds out her hands. Reluctantly, you surrender the baby. Lady Caro coos and beams at him as you and Jace sip cinnamon tea, sweet and loosing steam like morning mist into the air. “Surely by now you’ve made the logical decision to name him in my honor.”

“Carolei would be a very strange thing to call a boy,” Jace says.

“Caroson,” she jests.

You add: “Carogon. Carocaerys.”

“Awful!” Jace says, laughing.

“Have you been feeding the baby again?” Lady Caro scolds you. “We have wetnurses for that.”

“They get him all night. I want time with him too.”

“You’re barely even producing any milk. You’d make for a terrible goat.”

“Then I’ll nurse him for as long as I can.”

“You’ll end up with pitiful floppy breasts like mine.”

“Isn’t this what they’re for? Nourishing children, not being gawked at and tugged on by some man?”

Lady Caro turns to Jace, exasperated. “She has some disease. She can’t listen to anyone.”

He smiles. “She’s an untamable beast, I’m afraid. Burns up anyone who makes the attempt.”

Lord Corbray walks in, and nestled in his ancient arthritic hands is a sword in a sheath. There is a large heart-shaped ruby in the hilt. “Prince Jacaerys, I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it has been not only to host you and the princess here in our humble castle, but also to have a future king of the Seven Kingdoms born within our walls.”

Jace stands up straighter, as his mother would want him to. He’ll never look like the heir to the throne, like a Targaryen, but he can act like one. “We continue to be grateful for your hospitality.”

“To commemorate this happy occasion, I wish to gift you a cherished heirloom of my house. This is Lady Forlorn, made of Valyrian steel. She came to House Corbray over a century ago, and now I bequeath her to you. I hope she will aid you in your victory in this unjust war, and that all the realm will soon be at peace and under competent rulership.”

Jace looks at you uneasily; you pretend to be preoccupied drinking your tea. You ignore Lord Corbray’s slight against the Greens. You don’t have much choice, and you’ve had plenty of practice. Jace takes Lady Forlorn from Lord Corbray and unsheathes her, studying his reflection in the cold smoke-colored grey of the blade. His face is grave. Now he feels the weight on his shoulders of being not just a prince, an heir, a soldier, and a husband, but a father as well, something he himself never had in a way that was truthful and pure. You are alarmed to see tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Jace?” you say, touching his arm.

He regains his composure. “Thank you, Lord Corbray. I will treasure Lady Forlorn, and I will endeavor to always use her wisely.”

Lord Corbray smiles fondly at the slumbering baby in Lady Caro’s arms. Across the Riverlands, their sole surviving child, Jessamyn, is in hiding with her husband and children. At Lady Caro’s insistence, they fled from the Mallisters’ castle at Seagard in case Aemond and Vhagar descend upon it. He is still burning. A monster? you think. “I assume you’ve named your firstborn?”

You and Jace exchange a glance. You haven’t yet; you are afraid to discuss it with each other. There are so many possibilities—Targaryen or Velaryon or Strong—and none seem to be without some unspoken allegiance or condemnation. There are so few guiltless names left. But you think you know what Jace would choose if he dared to speak it aloud.

“We should name him after Luke,” you say. A boy, an innocent. A victim of a horrific accident that started this war.

Jace is surprised, but there is relief in his face too. “Lucerys?” he says, trying it out. Then he is solemn again. “It feels wrong to use the exact same name. Like I’m trying to replace him.”

“Lucerion,” Lady Caro suggests, still holding the baby. “It sounds like a prince’s name. It sounds like a king’s.”

Jace attaches Lady Forlorn to his belt and then takes the baby, obviously against Lady Caro’s will. “Lucerion,” Jace murmurs, smiling down at his son who is stirring awake and beginning to whimper. “Is that your name? Is that what we’ll call you?”

“Perhaps Luca for short,” you say from your chair, feeling drained and like you need to lie down. You’ll have to change your rags again soon, or you’ll bleed through them.

“Luca, the littlest dragon,” Jace proclaims, touching his fingertip to the baby’s puggish nose. Then he turns to you. “Did you have a nickname as a child? I always did and still do, of course. And Luke…” Jace trails off, thinking of his dead brother, murdered by yours.

You see your red bat traveling around the board; you feel the warmth of blood on your cheek. “They called me Red.”

“Red?” Jace is baffled. “Like the color?”

“There was a game we played when we were young, and my piece…” You close your eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel the weight of their absence. “It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.” And you fear that Jace will hear the evasiveness in your voice and ask you more questions; but he is absorbed with the baby, and he has already forgotten.

Two days later Jace and Vermax fly south to King’s Landing, and you and Luca are left in the care of the Corbrays and the maids and the ghosts that haunt the drafty stone corridors of Heart’s Home, soldiers killed in the Riverlands and the Reach, women and children burned and starved, bones devoured by dragons, generations of names forgotten.

Sometimes you giggle with Lady Caro as you drink cinnamon tea in the Great Hall. Sometimes you stand in the castle rookery listening to the ravens caw and stare out into the cold mist of the mountains, wondering what is happening in the world outside. And sometimes you have Luca nestled in your arms and walk with him around your bedchamber, introducing him to the faces of the people you left in your old life, when you were called Red and you believed you could be someone like Visenya. But you never mention Aemond, and not just because there are no mosaics of him on the wall.

You wouldn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t know where to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~

You learn Jace is back when he climbs into bed just as you are drifting off one night, silver moonlight spilling in through the glass of the window, his body folding into you, his arm skating over your waist to find your hand and weave his fingers through yours. Two months have passed since he left, moons that grow full and then vanish, milk that dries up and blood that ceases flowing and rebuilds inside you for the next child, if there will be one, when there will be one. Luca is sleeping in his own room with his maids and wetnurses. Jace’s curls tickle your throat as he nuzzles into you as if he wants to disappear.

He says: “The littlest dragon is much bigger than I remember.”

“How was Helaena?”

“Troubled, as is to be expected, but in good health. Jaehaera and Maelor are well too. King’s Landing is cold some days now. I think they’ll have snow soon. The taxes, the riots, the stockpiling of food as the Reach and the Riverlands burn…it’s a disaster. Mother is desperate. She misses Luke, I think. And Baela, and Daemon. She’s lost so much weight I barely recognized her. But she was very, very happy to hear about Luca. Hopefully she can meet him soon. Although we’ll have to be careful traveling with him while he’s so small, we’ll have to ensure he’s warm enough.”

Winter is coming, you think, remembering Cregan Stark’s army under the protection of Daemon and Caraxes. “Did you see Rhaena and the boys at the Eyrie?”

“I did,” Jace admits, as if it was a fraught experience.

“And what happened?”

“Rhaena called me a traitor.”

“For marrying and fathering a son with me?”

“No, that she understands,” Jace says. “But it is treason to love you.”

You turn around to look at him in the shadows, in the moonlight. “You told her?”

“She could tell. I cannot hide it. I am a glass jar and you and Luca are the butterflies inside.” And Jace kisses you softly, his fingers hooked beneath your chin, his flesh coming alive again after so long away: managing and conciliating, lifting Rhaenyra’s spirits, pawing through the heaps of bastards in King’s Landing for dragonriders, flying on Vermax through storms and snow.

When you kiss Jace back, when your hands go to his chest and his jaw and his face, when you open his tunic so you can feel the heat of his skin underneath, you are aware that parts of you are waking up again as well. There is a dull but definite ache of lust beginning to bloom like a blood drop soaking into white cotton.

“Are you…” Jace begins. “Do you think you’re healed enough, I mean…have you stopped bleeding?”

You hesitate. “I have.” You think of your first time with him and how painful it was, the sensation of burning, of tearing, and you can only assume it will be worse now. “But I’m rather terrified too.”

“No, no, don’t be afraid,” Jace whispers, he pleads, running his fingers through your long unbound hair. “We don’t have to do that. I won’t hurt you. I’ll wait for as long as you want.” His dark eyes travel down the white nightgown that clings to your body, your breasts, your belly, and then lower. “Can I…can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, bewildered. Then as Jace begins to push the hem of your nightgown up over your hips to your waist, you grin and kiss him again in the dim celestial light, cool night air rushing up over your bare legs, blood surging through your arteries to where he bends low to taste you once—a long, slow, tentative drag of the tongue—and then moans quietly and pushes your thighs further apart so he can bury himself there and lick, suck, swallow down your clear mineral wetness as it pools for him.

Something isn’t quite right—not enough pressure, not the ideal angle—but it’s exquisite to be reacquainted with this side of yourself, to know you can feel this way again, insatiable and desired. When you reach to touch Jace, there is a moment when you are startled to find dark curly hair in place of silk-smooth silver, and there is a ghost in the room like a voyeur watching, and you think dazedly: If Aemond knew about this, would he kill me?

“There,” you gasp, jolting as your husband stumbles upon the perfect place and rhythm. “Jace, right there…”

He listens, he is groaning with desperation for you, and you roll into a climax that is brief and sharp and a little painful, but good. Instead of being extinguished, you are a kindled flame. You turn over, straddle Jace, and unfasten his trousers. You begin kissing your way down his belly, nipping at him, your palm kneading his hardness, and you know he wants you but for some reason when you go to take him in your mouth, he pushes you away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jace says, alarmed.

“I know. I want to.”

“No, seriously. Stop.”

You look at him, wounded, rejected. “Jace, I’m not doing this out of obligation. I enjoy it.”

He is staring at the wall. “I just…for you to…I’m sorry, it just feels wrong.”

“I can do things you believe are only for whores and still be your wife.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is gentle but his face is pained. You think of something Criston once told you when you were collecting bones from the Godswood of the Red Keep: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. Are you cursed to disappoint people, to repulse them, to be eternally misunderstood? “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

Jace gets out of bed and fetches a small wooden box he must have brought into the room with him when you were still half-asleep. He opens the box, debates whether to reach in, decides against it and passes you the whole box instead. “I asked the castle maester to procure some while I was away…”

You squeal with delight when you see what’s inside: three black and white bats the same breed as Sapphire was, large fanlike ears and wiggling noses and small black eyes that peer curiously up at you. When you offer them your open palms, they immediately scramble into them.

“I hope they’re good ones.” Jace chuckles nervously. “I don’t really know what makes a bat suitable or not.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, smiling. “I’ll build them a roost. I’ll introduce them to Luca.”

Yet you cannot stop yourself from thinking: Aemond wouldn’t have cared if I was still bleeding.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are snuggled up with Luca in your chair by the fire, cool midday light—the color of steel, smoke, rainclouds, ash—streaming in through the windows. The baby’s eyes have turned dark like Jace’s, and his curls grow longer. He is only half-awake and blinking drowsily, his diminutive hands clasping your fingers. He doesn’t cry often, but he doesn’t smile either. Lady Caro believes he already has the temperament of a good king, a calmness, a graveness. She says: How improper would it be for him to be full of complaints or cheerfulness, the way the world is right now? No, he ought to be serious. He ought to be grateful he’s not starving or being roasted alive.

“I have some new friends,” you whisper to the baby like a secret or a myth. “They’re asleep right now. They sleep all day, kind of like you do. But then at night they come alive and they’re free, and they fly around like hawks or dragons.”

You speak for Luca, a soft bird-trill of a voice: “What are their names?”

“Good question,” you say, smiling. “Iris, Shark, and Flood. And you’ll meet them soon.” Your eyes go to the mosaics on the walls. Jace hasn’t asked you to take them down, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either, except for the mosaic you made of him that hangs by the headboard of the bed. He beams at that one and calls it fine work. “You’ll meet the people I grew up with too. Aegon will make you wood carvings. Helaena will sew you blankets. Daeron will take you on adventures. Jaehaera and Maelor will play games with you. And Mother and Criston will love you because you won’t be like me. You’ll be sweet-tempered and honorable, and when you’re old enough you’ll have a dragon to help protect us with.”

There is a knock on the doorframe; one of Luca’s wetnurses has arrived to feed him. You regret that you can’t anymore. Lady Caro was right; you’d be a terrible goat or cow or yak.

“Princess,” the wetnurse says, curtsying before she takes the baby from you. You watch her leave with him for his own bedchamber—Lady Caro has already filled it with toys and children’s books—and as soon as they are out of sight, the darkness of your losses creeps back in like spiders scurrying down the corridors of your veins and arteries, like rust growing over steel. Then you hear the rumbling of voices downstairs in the Great Hall.

You stand and swish in your gown—one of the Vale’s anemic colors, a faint dusky rose—through the hallway and down the spiral staircase of the tower. In the belly of the castle, the commotion is louder, and you sweep into the Great Hall to find men gathered around the table closest to the roaring hearth, Lord Corbray and his knights and the maester, and Lady Caro too looking on anxiously. Jace is holding a piece of parchment in his hands, presumably just delivered by a raven. He shakes his head as he reads it. Outside, snow is falling.

Lady Caro is saying: “Well you’ll have to tell her. Oh, the poor dear, as if everything else isn’t bad enough. And only the gods know where Aemond is, he hasn’t been spotted in the Riverlands for days…” Then she spies you and shoos Lord Corbray and his men from the room. They bow to you as they depart, swift little bobs of the head. They have to; you are now both the wife and mother of future kings.

“Jace?” you say when the Great Hall is empty except for the two of you and Lady Caro.

Jace’s face is stricken. Lady Forlorn hangs from his belt. The letter is still clutched in his left hand; the right grips the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” you ask, immediately horrified. Aegon dead of his burns, Daeron killed in battle, Mother executed for treason, Aemond…? “What happened?”

“You have to believe that I had no idea about any of this, I never would have given Hugh the order if I’d been there, or let Mother do it—”

“Jace, please tell me.”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond??

Instead, Jace says absurdly: “It’s Helaena.”

You stare at him. “Helaena isn’t a warrior.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she got to Dreamfyre somehow and tried to escape the city.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That’s impossible. She wouldn’t leave Mother and the children. “No, she couldn’t have, she—”

“She took flight,” Jace insists. “And my mother sent Hugh Hammer after her on Vermithor.”

Vermithor was supposed to be mine, you think numbly. “And Helaena, she…she was…?”

Jace is trying to keep his voice steady; his dark eyes gleam, begging you not to hate him. “Dreamfyre attacked when Vermithor flew close to her. She wasn’t an especially aggressive dragon, but she was large and formidable, and she fought to defend her own life and that of her rider. Vermithor ripped out her throat, though Hugh was burned to death in the saddle. Then Vermithor flew eastward, and no one knows where he is now. Dreamfyre crashed to the earth, and Helaena with her. Their bodies were found on the beach outside the Red Keep.”

She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone. She just wanted to be with her creatures and her family. She embroidered my blankets with red bats, she put ladybugs into my open palms. “Why would Helaena try to run, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

You think nonsensically, as you have no way of knowing this: Because she was trying to stop something terrible from happening. “I told you to give her more freedom. And that freedom allowed her to sneak away to the Dragonpit.”

Jace reaches for you. “This isn’t your fault—”

“All of it ismy fault!” you shout at him, and Lady Caro shrinks away and covers her mouth with her hands. “If I’d had Vermithor, the Greens would have been unstoppable! And Rhaenyra never would have tried to claim the throne, and Aemond wouldn’t have been sent to Storm’s End, and Luke and Jaehaerys and Baela wouldn’t have died, and Aegon wouldn’t have been burned, and Aemond wouldn’t be destroying the Riverlands, and Helaena would still be alive, but instead I’ve always been useless!”

“You aren’t useless,” Jace pleads.

“Not normal enough to be a good wife or daughter, not extraordinary enough to have a dragon!”

Again, Jace tries to touch you, to soothe you. “Please don’t—”

You fling his hands away. “What was our marriage for if not to stop this from happening?! To end the dying, to protect the people we have left?” You whirl away from him and flee from the Great Hall, the castle, yourself. Behind you, Lady Caro is comforting Jace with soft tenderness you’ve never been capable of.

“Let her go, my prince,” she is counselling. “Give her a moment to grieve…”

You throw open the first door you pass and trudge out into the snow, no fox fur coat, bare feet. The cold stings and then your skin goes numb and it doesn’t bother you anymore. The icy mountain wind tears at your hair, flowing in long waves like the women of the Vale wear it, delicate and feminine, pretty and powerless. Tears cascade down your face; currents of red magma scorch your throat. When you close your eyes, you see the yellow butterfly that was once Helaena’s game piece.

She never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong.

Now you are under the shadows of the soaring pine trees, their green needles so thick you cannot see the grey of the sky.

She never met Luca.

You gaze up into the branches, covered with tufts of white snow and icicles like fangs, and you have the overwhelming, ravenous feeling that you need to go home. You don’t belong in the Vale. The Vale almost killed you when you were a child, Aemond’s hands shoving you into a rushing stream freckled with ice.

And then all at once—like you’ve been hit, like you’ve been stabbed with a blade—you are flying high above the castle and the wind is raking over your cheeks, but it is not your face but Aemond’s, half-blind and half-scarred, torrential red waves of a sea of blood in his skull.

He’s here, he’s here—

And if he’s able to see through your eyes that you are outside in the forest…

The castle!!!

You bolt through the trees back towards Heart’s Home, your bare feet leaving tracks in the fresh powdery snow that is nearly up to your knees, and you stumble out of the shadows just as Vhagar soars overhead and unleashes her flames on the castle, wood burning, stones collapsing, people inside shrieking as they incinerate. You’re screaming for Aemond to stop, but he does not hear you and he does not see you either, he is high above in a place you’ve never been and never will be, he is flying, and he is hearing only devastation and he is breathing in its dark, intoxicating smoke, and as Vhagar swoops by the stable and it bursts into an inferno—horses galloping loose and engulfed in fire, dead but not knowing it yet—you run into the crumbling castle.

“Jace?!” you shout, but the air is full of smoke and the sounds of wood cracking and stones caving in are deafening. You feel blindly for the spiral staircase that leads up to the tower where your and Luca’s bedchambers are located. From the part of the castle that was once the Great Hall, you can hear Lord Corbray and Lady Caro screaming as their skin blisters and sloughs away and their flesh is cooked and their bones are charred black, and when the flames reach their lungs the screams go quiet. You cannot think about them. You don’t have any time; you must think of Luca and Jace. “Jace!” you bellow through the smoke.

And then there is a weak reply: “Here.”

You follow it into the stairwell. Parts of the wall have been blasted away; you can see the pine forest outside, the cold barren sky, the Mountains of the Moon. Jace is halfway up the steps, slumped against the fractured wall and pinned there by stones that have rained down on his legs. His bones must be broken; his face is bloodless and his curls matted to his forehead by sweat. His right hand fumbles futilely for the hilt of Lady Forlorn. Now, dimly, you can hear Luca crying.

Jace rasps as he stares vacantly up at you: “I tried to get to him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jace, I can do it.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

You climb over him and chase Luca’s wails up the staircase. Vhagar is back, and the ruins of the castle tremble when she roars, and you feel the heat of her flames radiating up through the floor. You lose your footing and clamber up the last few steps on your hands and knees, then manage to stand again and careen into Luca’s room. Half the roof has collapsed; a wetnurse is sprawled on the floor and half-buried in fallen stones, blood hemorrhaging out of her mouth and ears. You grab the baby out of his cradle and quickly bundle him in his blanket patterned with blue dragonflies. His tiny hands grasp at your face and your hair as you rush back down the spiral staircase to help Jace. Smoke needles your eyes; you and Luca are both coughing as you try to clear your lungs.

You reach Jace and kneel beside him, holding Luca in your left arm and using your right to try to roll the stones off Jace’s legs, but he’s not helping you.

“Jace, please, we have to go now,” you say, but when you look at his face he’s not there. His dark eyes are glassy, his chest doesn’t rise and fall with the tide of air.

He’s gone, you think. Like Father, Luke, Jaehaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, Helaena. And you are struck by an excruciating pang of fondness for Jace more forceful than anything you ever felt for him when he was alive, and you cannot leave him here. He was your husband, he was Luca’s father. And he loved you. He must have. He said it over and over again.

“Jace?” you sob. But outside Vhagar is still flying—the gales churned up by her wings gust into the jagged holes in the castle walls—and she could be coming back, she could be returning to burn you, and Jace is dead but the baby is still alive.

You clutch Luca to you as he cries and you race down the steps, following the smoke-filled, twisted passageway. The heat is suffocating, the sounds of a dying castle engulfing, Heart’s Home turned into a graveyard, into a shattered skeleton, charred and cursed like Harrenhal. You crash through the door at the base of the stairwell and into the ground level of the castle, and you are almost out—

Something ignites, something explodes, and stones from the castle wall you are feeling your way along rip out of their centuries-old mortar and collide with you. Your ribs crack, you are thrown to the floor, but even as you scream and claw your way out of the rubble you don’t let go of the baby. You force yourself upright and stagger with Luca towards a gaping chasm where there was once a wall. There is a tremor like an earthquake. Outside, Vhagar must be landing.

Now you are in the snow again, bare feet and a gown covered with soot and wreckage. The baby isn’t crying anymore. When you glance down at the blanket he is swaddled in, the white space between the blue dots of dragonflies is turning red with blood.

Blood?

You can’t look. You can’t allow yourself to feel it; it will consume you until there is nothing left. The last vestiges of the castle are crumpling. Across the field, Vhagar is devouring Vermax’s small, broken corpse, crushing his bones in her massive, monstrous jaws.

Blood??

Aemond’s footsteps are behind you, crunching in the snow. His cloak cracks in the frigid wind like the sails of a ship. His words are full of dark, euphoric, lethal triumph, a high like nothing he’s ever known, not even when he claimed Vhagar, not even what he imagined he would feel on your wedding day when you’d be bound to each other with fire and blood in the tradition of Old Valyria. “I said I would find you, and I did.”

You hear your own voice as if from a very far distance, lightning strikes miles away but moving closer. “You killed him.”

Aemond is puzzled. You are supposed to be happy. You are saved, you are home. “Killed who?”

“He’s dead, and there will never be another. Not like this one. Jace was his father, but Jace is gone. You killed him too.”

And you turn to face him, and Aemond sees what you are holding in your arms, and only then does he understand.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Exchange

Warnings: allusions to parental abuse, non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: Your father surprises you for Christmas.

Character: Cole Turner

Day Twenty-Three of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - let me dust the snow off your coat/hat/shoulder 

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“What the fuck are you doin’?” Your father’s snarl sends the turkey slipping back into the sink. You spin to face him, holding up your cold hands. 

“Daddy, just doin’ up the turkey,” you blink. “It’s thawed now--” 

“I don’t care about the fuckin’ turkey,” he retorts. “Should be gettin’ yourself ready.” 

You frown and look down at yourself. You wear one of his old shirts, the Ford tee with the hole near the hem and a loose cardigan Shelby from down the way gave you, over loose sweats that were once also his. Nothing you have it really your own, it’s only his scraps, what he doesn’t need anymore. 

“Ready for what?” 

“You questioning me, girl?” He growls. 

You gulp and shake your head. You lower your hand, keeping them away from your clothes as you’re all too aware of the raw poultry all over them. You stare at him. 

“Yes, sir, I'll get ready,” you step forward hesitantly, uncertain as you watch him.  

He huffs through his nose and curls his lip, “presents on your bed. Figure it out.” 

You nod as you come close to him, wary of a lunge as you thank him under your breath. He only shoulders past you and goes to the counter. You’re confused.

Your father doesn’t get you gifts. He doesn’t get anyone gifts. You spent weeks thrifting what you could to give to your aunt and uncles when they got here, altering it all to make it presentable, but he only ever reads his sci-fi books and makes demands. 

You go to the bathroom to wash your hands. You look at yourself in the mirror. Anxiety tenses in your cheeks. Every day roils with the same uneasiness. Every day for more than two decades. You should want to get away but complacence is easier. He hates you but for whatever reason he won’t let you go. 

You go to your room. There’s a bag on your bed. You don’t know why you expected something wrapped or a bow. Still, your surprised by the contents of the paper bag. 

A pink dress with long bloused sleeves and a short skirt. You lift it out and stare in disbelief. You lay it on the bed and take out the shoes with it; little white booties with fur. At the bottom, there’s a box with shiny colours streaked across it; makeup? 

Your father’s footsteps have you facing the door and he appears in his stained flannel, slurping his instant coffee. “Well?” 

“Thank you, daddy, it’s really nice--” 

“Get a move on,” he snaps his fingers at you. 

“Oh, uh, yes, sir,” you shrink down and turn to gather up the things. 

“Make sure you wash all of ya,” he sneers. “You smell like a dead bird.” 

You swallow down your embarrassment. It feels like a trick. Why would he get you such nice things but still be so mean? Where did he get the money? His Christmas bonus always goes to whatever car he’s clanking around on in the garage. 

You go to your dresser and fish out a bra and some clean underwear. Everything you have are handmedown. They are all forgotten, like you. It feels so strange to have anything brand new. 

You take it all to the bathroom and start the shower. You stick to the golden rule; no more than three minutes to get washed up. Don’t waste the damn water, your father’s voice haunts you. 

You dry off and dress. The dress is nice but a bit snug. It’s too short, isn’t it? You tug at it until you can breathe. 

You once more face your reflection. You are lost. You do your best to tame your hair then put on the dollar store cream.  

You open the box of cosmetics. You read each label and search for any instructions. There’s nothing.  

You uncap the liner and examine the tip. You pull your eyelid taut and meticulous draw a thin line over the edge. You let it go. It looks okay. Not tacky or anything. You do the other and do your best to even them out. 

Next the mascara. You fear scraping your eyes but coat your lashes without incident. It looks better now. You blink as you take in the effect. The blush... you’re not very sure. You blend a bit into your cheeks but don’t think it makes much difference. 

Finally, you gloss your lips with the stick of pink. You like the colour but the sheen feels unnatural and sticky. Your father clears his throat as he prowls outside. You sniff and pack everything up. That’s as good as it gets. 

You step out as he grumbles in the kitchen door frame. You glance over and he huffs. “Put the damn shoes on. Whatcha draggin’ your ass for?” 

You flit back to your room and grab the boots. You think of grabbing socks or something but you don’t have anything to go with the dress. Your legs will just be cold. 

You come back out on the heels, wobbling slightly. Your father storms at you from the front door, moving quicker than you’ve seen. He shoves your coat at you. You pout as you try to unravel his intent. 

“Daddy?” 

“Go wait outside. He'll be here soon, won’t he?” 

“He? Daddy?” 

“You’re so fucking mouthy, go.” 

He jams his thumb at the door and you flinch. You take the coat and pull it on. It doesn’t go with the dress or boots. What’s going on? 

“Are you coming?” 

“Fuck off,” he pushes you toward the door and you stumble into it. 

You put your chin down as you plant your feet and pull away from the door. You put the coat on before you untwist the lock. You are lost. 

He slams the door behind you before you can shut it yourself. You shiver as you step onto the porch and search the wintery country fields. There isn’t much snow, enough to dust the ground, but the air is crisp. Your legs are scalded by the early freeze. 

You stare off in the distance. Your heart pumps faster as a thought startles you. Did your daddy just kick you out? Why? On Christmas? 

You see the square headlights first. The pale blue truck winds down the hidden dirt road and steers towards the old homestead. You squeeze yourself as another chill sweeps over you as you watch the approach. Hooked to the back of the truck is a long trailer, the contents covered. 

You recognise the silver trim of the truck. You squint at Cole through the windshield as he pulls up, the exhaust clouding the frigid air. The door shrieks as he pushes it open and you chatter as you bring your hands to your raw cheeks. 

“Hey, you look frozen,” he says. “Merry Christmas.” 

“M-merry Christmas, sir,” you call back. You still don’t understand. 

“I’ll just unhook the load for your dad, then we can head out,” he grins as he keeps his hand on his open truck door. “Got the heat going, you wanna get in before you freeze your knees off?” 

You wince and turn to peek at the windows. Huh? You shrug and come down the steps. You’re so cold, you don’t care. You just want to stop shivering. 

Cole closes the driver’s door and leads you around to the passenger’s side. He pauses to dust snow off your shoulder as flakes swirl down lazily. His touch somehow makes you colder. He opens it and holds out his gloved hand to help you up. He’s always polite but you don’t see him very much. Your daddy did a few repairs on his truck and he would help with the garden in the summer. You were always inside, locked up. 

You let go of him, your hand thrumming from his warmth. He gently shuts the door and continues towards the rear. The truck jostles as he unhooks the trailer. You peek in the mirror and see the thick ends of the wooden planks poking out from under the tarp. It’s a lot of wood. Expensive, probably. 

None of this makes sense. Cole comes up to the driver side and gets in with a ‘brrrr’. You blow into your hands and he reaches to turn the vent up even higher. He smiles at you as you avoid looking at him. 

“Ready?” He asks. 

You hunch down and rub your hands together, “for what?” 

He’s quiet. He peers through the windshield at the house then back at you. You shrink under his gaze. 

“Did your dad... what did he tell you?” 

You heart thumps. Will you get in trouble if you don’t go along with whatever this is? “He didn’t... he just told me to wait for you.” 

“Ah,” he reaches once more to wipe away melted snow from your sleeve. “Well, er...” He stiffens in his seat. “I thought he’d... say something.” 

You just nod. Whatever you say or do will get back to your daddy somehow. He’ll be mad if you ruin whatever this is. 

“It’s a lot of wood. Your dad says he’s going to add onto the garage,” Cole speaks as he shifts gears and steers away from the trailer, circling back towards his tire tracks. “Not many folks got that kind of money and I don’t really need anything done on the truck.” 

Your lashes flutter in furious thought. It feels like this should be obvious but your mind isn’t clicking. 

“Did I say you look really nice?” He clears his throat. “Cold, but nice. I shoulda bought some stockings too.” 

You look down at the rosy skirt and shake your head. A piece slips into place. Of course it wasn’t your daddy who bought it all. 

“Oh, you—thank you, Cole,” you squeak as you smooth the short hem. 

“Well, I figured you’d want to look pretty. I mean, you always do, but... it’s Christmas, right?” 

He sounds nervous, just as much as you. You wring your hands and look around the white landscape. Your stomach is a storm. 

“It was nice of you to bring daddy all that lumber, sir,” you say. 

“Please, call me Cole,” he insists. He’s quiet for a moment as he steers, then sucks his teeth. “Or you could call me something nicer. Like... honey?” 

“Honey?” You eke out. “Why-- uh... oh?” 

You furrow your nose and rub between your brows. That dark feeling crawls up from your stomach as the doubt in your head trickles down to meet it. It’s not making sense but... 

“You still look cold,” he reaches over to rest his hand on your knee, “you can get warm...” He tickles along your skirt then bends his arm up and stretches it out to grab your shoulder. “Come here.” 

You blanch but make yourself slide over. You tremble as you do. He curls his arm over your shoulders, his other hand on the bottom of the steering wheel. 

“See, isn’t this nice?” 

Your eyes prick as that rotting sensation in your chest overwhelms that voice in your head. You sniffle and touch your nose. You squirm as the cold seeps away to unbearable heat. Your denial melts under the flames of dread. 

“Sir-- Cole,” you twiddle your fingers. “Where are we going?” 

He chuckles and slows, turning to plant a kiss on your hair, “you’re going to come meet mom and dad. They are very excited to have you for Christmas.” He squeezes you even tighter, “not as excited as I am though.” 

Your chest hollows out as if you���ve been hit directly in the heart. You can’t breathe as it sets in. It’s absurd but there’s no other explanation. Did your daddy really trade you for a cartload of wood? 

Well, he always did love his cars more than you. You hope it’s a nice garage, that it’s worth it. Well, it would be worth more than his useless daughter. 

[ninikrumbs]

Christmas love

satoru gojo x reader. for all my girlies spending christmas alone. fluffy fluff fluff. idiots in love. established relationship. ᰍ ׅ ۫ . 🧣 ೀ

The smell of cinnamon and pine wafts through the air, as Satoru and you left the Christmas Market. His hand held yours inside his jacket pocket as you watch him talk animatedly beside you.

“I’m sure my plans can’t compare to yours,sweets!”

Satoru was just about at the end of telling you his plans for the rest of Christmas week; Babbling excitedly about his Christmas dinner with his family, a short ski trip with Suguru and Shoko on the 25th, and even a reunion dinner with some old high school friends.

It wasn’t a surprise to you, Satoru was social, friendly, abundantly popular, and the life of every party so of course everyone wanted him around.

You laugh as genuinely as you could before answering him, “Of course! I’m jam packed, I feel like Christmas caroling is the only thing I’m not doing this week.”

Lies. Well not completely, you did have a few dinners lined up with a couple of close friends, even a birthday party. The only thing was your were gonna spend Christmas Eve and Christmas day alone.

A good few of your friends were married so they spent Christmas with their families or spouses, some where taking out of the country trips and some were working on Christmas day. It was a bit depressing, you weren’t exactly expecting to spend Christmas alone.

But at least you had today, which was your date with Satoru to go around the Christmas Village. You had fun, with the dinner, the ice skating, the slow dancing under the mistletoe with Satoru stealing a kiss, and now holding hands as the both of you walked to his car under the cold winter air. It was perfect.

Satoru’s lips quirk up, “Hmm, maybe we should go caroling next year! Start a new tradition together!”

While it moves your heart to bits that he can see you still being together next year this early into your one month relationship, it still stung that you won’t be spending Christmas with him this year. You honestly thought he would ask you when he started talking about his plans a few days ago, but then he started asking about your amazing plans so you decided to fib.

This connection is new and delicate. You couldn’t ask him to drop his traditions and plans for you; plans that were made before you started dating, that was just selfish and knowing him, he probably would drop everything if he found out about your non existent plans. So you chose not too, it’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.

You playfully roll your eyes at him, “Sure, Toru. You can take some singing lessons while your at it!”

He holds a hand to his heart in offense, gasping so dramatically, “I’ll have you know that I have the voice of an angel!”

“Babe..” You clasp his free hand before exhaling, “Whoever told you that was lying.”

You made a run for it the moment the words left your lips, laughing against the icy breeze.

Barely getting 5 steps away, strong arms capture your waist from behind, lifting you off your feet. Damn his long legs. “Gotcha!”

He places you down for one second before throwing you on his shoulder and starts walking.

“Satoru, put me down!” You grasp the back of his jacket, terrified of falling onto the icy pavement.

“Nope.” He says popping the p.

“I’m gonna fall!”

“You won’t.” Reassuring you by tightening his grasp on your waist.

“At least hold me with two arms!”

“Your man is the strongest, sweets. I only need one arm to carry you.”

You snort before mumbling, “Show off..”

He slaps a hand to your butt making you jump, startled. “I heard that.”

“Good.” Which earned you another soft spank to your butt, “Satoru! stop that and put me down, people are staring.”

Though you were sure they staring at your gorgeous boyfriend.

“Not until you say that your boyfriend is the most handsome man in the world and has a voice can even bring the dead to life!”

He was absolutely ridiculous, “No way!”

“Then your gonna be up there indefinitely.” He was joking you were sure of it, but there was nothing wrong in indulging him sometimes.

“Fine, I give!”

“Yessss!” He whoops in victory.

“Can you at least put me down?” You ask meekly.

He huffs, smoky air puffing out, “So you can run away again? Not happening.”

“Wouldn’t you rather I say it your face?”You say trying to convince him which makes him hum, thinking about it.

After a moment, he gently places you back on your feet but not without pulling you flush to his chest, holding you steady.

You were a little bit dizzy from the change of position, but you could still see Satoru’s bright azure eyes staring at you expectantly.

Once again, he was absolutely ridiculous yet you gaze at him with such exasperated fondness.

You reach up and softly brush his snowy bangs away from his face, your touch creating a light blush to dust his cheeks. “My boyfriend is the most handsome man in the world.”

Its makes his eyes gleam and smug smile curve on his lips. He was so pretty, so where was the lie?

“And..” You breathe out heavily as if it took everything in you say the next few words, “He has a voice that can bring the dead back to life.”

He grins victoriously and leans down to press a peck on your nose the your lips which makes you melt, “See? that wasn’t too hard.”

“You’re lucky I love you.” You grumble but with no real spunk behind it.

He presses another soft kiss to your lips, eyes filled with so much warmth, “The luckiest.”

You were still pouting when Satoru started walking towards the car again. Your gaze landing at your intertwined hands, no longer in his pocket. Your eyes drop when the reminder that you were gonna spend Christmas away from him creeps in your mind once more.

It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

—

“Yeah, yeah, I’m all packed.” Satoru grumbles.

Shoko was nagging him about packing correctly for their ski trip. Make sure to bring your actual ski’s idiot. Like he didn’t know that. He forgot that one time. Big deal. He could just buy another pair at the ski resort.

“Hey, Gojo. I’m kinda surprise that your coming with us this year or I at least thought you wouldn’t be coming alone.”

He sighs, throwing himself on his bed with mood dropping instantly. “I didn’t want to pull y/n from her plans.”

The fact that he wasn’t spending Christmas with her made him so depressed, he doubts he was gonna have fun on this ski trip.

He thinks he made a good job at hiding his displeasure from her. Not wanting to come off more childish that he already did. But damn it did he want to see her. The phone call from earlier was barely enough to have his fill of you..

“Huh? What plans?” Shoko’s confused voice rings from the phone.

“Y’know, dinner plans or was it a Christmas girls night with her friends that they planned a whole while ago.”

The line goes quiet for a while, “Satoru..No, she doesn’t.”

Satoru’s heart drops at the certainty on her voice, “What are you talking about?”

—

Familiar tunes of popular Christmas hits floats throughout your apartment along with the scent of newly baked gingerbread muffins cooling down on your kitchen counter.

You took as sip of your hot coco from your ugly Christmas mug as you admired the twinkling lights on your small festive tree. The sound of your fireplace crackling made everything feel more cozy.

Christmas was a holiday you always enjoyed. Especially the traditions that came with it: the pretty lights, the colorful gifts, the white snow covering the pavements and roofs, the Christmas gatherings and how everyone seems to be extra nice this time of year. Ever since you were a kid, Christmas was simply magical.

You didn’t mind spending Christmas alone. You already had the evening filled with plans on baking which you had just finished, reading, and binge watching some cheesy Christmas movies.

Still, you find your mind wandering, even the magic of the fluffy snow falling down your window pane couldn’t fend off the prickle of loneliness dripping down your heart. Not to mention snow only reminded you of a certain someone.

You let out a sad exhale before catching yourself. Shaking your head, you put you mug down your coffee table and proceeded to clap your palms on your cheeks.

It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. There’s always next year. You can be selfish then.

After pathetically comforting yourself, you sit on the sofa planning to start perusing the dozens of Christmas films on Netflix.

Hmm, The Holidate sounds interesting. Fun and quirky, something that’s not gonna make you bawl your eyes out. Perfect.

The that’s intro comes up on the screen, but a sudden hard knock on your door makes you click pause.

Who could that be? Did you order something? Its probably a neighbor who needs a wine opener.

You make your way to the door, the incessant knocking continues. “I’m coming. jeez.”

You swing the the door open. The sight that greets you makes you take a step back, your heart tumbling over itself.

There he is with his hands on his knees, gasping for air like he ran a marathon to get here. Sweat lines his forehead despite the cold air. He runs a hands through his white strands as he happily grins at you,.

“Satoru, what are you doing here?” You ask skeptically, “Shouldn’t you be on your way to your ski trip?”

You couldn’t let yourself hope that he was here for you, maybe he forgot something in your apartment.

Yet he proves you wrong when he stands up to his actual height. His face flush from the effort, closes the door behind him and tugs you flushed to his warm chest. Your senses fills with his scent and you melt. He smells like home.

He plants a soft kiss to you temple as he buries his hand in you hair, breathing you in, “You didn’t think I was gonna let you spend Christmas alone, did ya?”

Your eyes grew wide before tears start to prickle your eyelids, the gravity of spending Christmas alone somehow finally sunk in at his words, making you clasp his back in distress. You weren’t fine at all. “How did you know..?”

He lets out a breath and pulls back at bit to gaze into your eyes. “It doesn’t matter, what matters is why didn’t you tell me?”

You drop his gaze, not able to form the words. How could you tell him? That you didn’t wanna look so pathetic. That you didn’t make any plans in hindsight of wanting to spend Christmas with him. It was either a Christmas with him or no one at all.

A hand on your chin guides you back to look at him, his face so distraught it made your heart clench. “Baby, I wanted nothing more than to spend Christmas with you.”

“But your plans..”

“Fuck those plans! I don’t care about them. I wanted to cancel every single one of them just so I could spend Christmas week with you.” He cries out.

“What?”

A finger wipes a stray tear from your eyes before cupping your cheek. His starry eyes looks at you with worry and a shed of guilt, “If I made you feel like Id rather spend time with other people than my gorgeous girlfriend, then I’m doing a horrible job as your boyfriend.”

“No! It just-” Despite his assurances you still couldn’t wrap your head around it, “I couldn’t just make you drop your plans, Toru. I’d feel too bad about it.”

He caresses a thumb down your cheek in understanding, “I mean sure we could have eaten dinner with my family, but other than that I would’ve been much happier spending my week with you, pretty.”

You don’t know if you felt relieved or embarrassed. Relieved that he felt the same way or embarrassed that he found out about you non existent plans. Okay, you were both.

You cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you try to explain yourself, “I’m sorry, Toru.. Its just what we have- its just so new and I didn’t know how to go about it and..” You give resigned sigh, “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Oh, baby.” He coos, pulling me back to his chest. “There’s no ruining this, that would be next to impossible, especially you. If there’s anyone who has a chance of ruining this, its me. You might get sick or too annoyed with me one of these days.”

He might be joking, but you could hear the insecurity lacing his words.

“No way!” You place a kiss on his chin. “That’s impossible.”

“I’m happy you think so, pretty.”

He pulls away once more and hangs his jacket on your coat rack. Then proceeds to lead you to your living room where you had everything set, from your Christmas decorations, your muffins, the tree, to the fireplace, and the paused movie.

“And to think you were gonna have such a cozy night without me, you must really hate me.”

You roll your eyes at him dramatics, “That’s far from the truth.”

He plops himself on the sofa that were filled with cozy Christmas themed pillows and thick blankets. The image made your stomach feel warm. He was here. Satoru was here. He came for you.

Like he always does.

You feel like an idiot for doubting him. He tilts his head at you just standing there. “Come here.”

And you do. Though before you could sit beside him, he pulls you down to his lap. Your back to his chest, “There you go. Right where you belong.”

You giggle, “There’s enough space for the both of us to sit, Toru.”

“Too much space if it makes you sit away from me.” He pouts childishly, tightening his arms around your waist.

“That’s just..” You shake your head with a fond smile. He nuzzles you neck for a good while, as if trying to make up for the time your weren’t in his arms.

“Sweets, I’m sorry” He murmurs against you neck after a while making you turn your head to look at him. “For what?”

“I should have been honest from the start..” His voice tinge with regret, “I wanted to beg you to cancel your plans from the beginning but I didn’t want to be selfish.”

You smile sheepishly at him, “Yet you wanted me to be selfish?”

He blinks, “Of course, your my girlfriend. I love you more than anything.” His voice was lace with so much unfiltered love, it made your eyes sting, “You come above everything else. I want you be selfish with me.”

You furrow your eyebrows, overwhelmed by his dedication, “Toru, that’s too much..”

He merely shakes his head, “Never too much. Not when it come to you. I hope you know that.”

You maneuver yourself in his lap so that your facing him. His sparkling blue eyes twinkling under the lights. He was so pretty it almost hurt. His mere existence overwhelmed you in the best way.

Cupping his face, you move in closer, “Then you should be selfish with me too. Don’t be scared to ask more of me, Toru.”

He stares at you, eyes tracing your face as if committing every feature to memory,

“God, I love you.” He breathes out as he pulls you by the neck and closes the gap between your lips.

Your toes curl as his lips molded with yours, your arms curls around his neck pulling him closer as he angled his head to deepen the kiss.

He groans against your lips as his tongue dances with yours and you could hear the sound of your lips echoing around the living room.

He tasted like candy and cinnamon. It made your head spin and heart pound a mile a minute , your hand crawled down touch his chest to feel his heart racing as fast as yours.

Its like he couldn’t get enough as he kissed you like a man starved again, again and again.

You didn’t want it to ever stop, but there was one more thing you needed to tell him.

You pull away with his lips chasing yours, eyes in a daze making you giggle, “Toru, before I forget.”

“What?” He says, bright blue eyes still focusing on your kiss bitten lips.

You pinch his nose, hoping to make him focus. “Merry Christmas, Toru.”

He blinks and scrunches his nose, a bit of clarity seeping into him as he smiles tenderly at you, “Merry Christmas, baby. On every list I ever sent. You’re the gift I love the best.”

Merry Christmas to everyone around the world!

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 51!

almost the last fic rec list of the year, can you believe it? like last week, i haven't cross-referenced this list with previous ones, so apologies for any potential double recs!

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some might also contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

before the night fades | MilenaDaniels/@milenadaniels| 8.6k | T

EddieAna and BuckTaylor double date and it ruins everyone's night. this fic is one of my favourite outsider povs ever! it does such a wonderful job of capturing our 911 characters as well as fleshing out a lovely cast of ocs <3

chicken alfredo | EiraLloyd/@unlifeira | 4.6k | T

when Helena laughs at the idea that her son is now able to cook well, Buck ropes Eddie into proving her otherwise. this captures the buddie dynamic so so well <3 also made me hungry lol

do you want me (or do you want me dead) | carpediaz/@sofa-king-lame | 2.3k | T

The one where Buck finds out Eddie wears reading glasses and loses his fucking mind over them, and Eddie knows exactly what he's doing. eddie in reading glasses is a VISION holy shit buck is so relatable in this. i love the silly fun!!

emails i can't send | heartbeatdiaz/@lonelychicago | 6k | T

buck should've known better than to let his email account open and then give his computer to a toddler to play with. i love love love the formatting of this one, with the emails and everything <3 so so good!! they're just french angelfish <3

i took a little journey to the unknown | 42hrb/@exhuastedpigeon | 4.3k | T

“I-it’s okay, you don’t have to talk,” Buck says and the comforting warmth is back on Eddie’s hand. The only thought that rings clearly through his head is that Buck’s hand is safe. Buck is going to keep him safe. “Just - can you squeeze my hand if you’re awake?” this is just such a lovely fic. i love the character study elements and the hand holding and just <3

in the dark (with the stars) | tawaifeddiediaz/@aashiqeddiediaz | 13k | M

Eddie’s relationship with food, anxiety and cooking, as told through the past and present. eddie's relationship with food in both canon and fanon is absolutely fascinating to me. i loved this take on it so much <3

last first kiss | songbvrd/@songbvrd | 3.4k | GA

Buck tries to say goodbye. Eddie isn't ready. frankly i think the best promo i can give this fic is exactly what i said in my comment here, which is "tim minear better be taking notes" because wow it's just that good <3

lucky boy | serenelystrange/@serenelystrange | 1.9k | T

In which Buck and Eddie are so bad at being in a secret relationship, but instead of show-typical angst, fluff! secret relationship buddie, the gift that keeps on giving <3 exactly the fic i needed on a cold early bus ride this week!!

platonic co-parents don't kiss like we do | thelikesofus/@thelikesofus | 7.1k | M

5 times other people see Buck and Eddie kiss + 1 time they really mean it. i love love love all these different types of kisses <3 the loveliest buddie fic from the perspective of the firefam!!

take what the water gave me | Daisies_and_Briars/@cal-daisies-and-briars | 20.7k | M

New transfer to the 118, Eddie Diaz, has a secret. And upon getting to know his coworker, Buck, who is also hiding something, he begins to suspect their secret is the same. He's wrong. i've been devouring every little snippet of this fic i've seen on tumblr and i was so so excited to see the full thing land in my inbox! and wow did it not disappoint. such great worldbuilding and such a fantastic characterisation of eddie <3

the bunkroom fic | exvichan | 11.5k | T

The Station 118 bunkroom has witnessed a lot over the years. Private conversations, spats, occasions of affection, joy, and anguish. It’s seen pranks, and games, and camaraderie. It’s even been privy to an unfolding love story or two. It holds the memory of each of these moments. the 118 bunkroom my beloved <3 i love these little moments so much, especially the conversations between the firefam!!

the wayward son | brewrosemilk/@gayhoediaz | 56.9k | E

Eddie misses his son, grows a mustache, pines after his best friend, and becomes a regular at a gay sex club. That last part is either an indulgence or an inevitable, somewhat self-destructive conclusion to several decades worth of compulsory heterosexuality and catholic guilt. Don’t ask him which. i can't even capture the vibe of this fic in just a few lines but holy shit is it brilliant. the most incredibly writing, great characterisation, and also just very hot stuff. an immediate bookmark and new favourite!

[misshunterskye]

a ( very ) self-indulgent one shot where Sylus encourages your Taylor Swift vinyl collecting ... because i've been listening to her since i was 7 and you'll have to rip the albums from my cold dead hands.

buy me a ko-fi 🫶🏻

You're splayed out on Sylus' couch, waiting for him to come home. You're completely cozy, his vinyl player playing your favorite album as you read a book. When the door opens with a creak, Sylus steps in silently.

He's drinking in the sight of you. It feels like you are back in his cave, where he can keep you safe. Where he can spoil you. Where all of his treasures lose meaning. After all, all of the shiny things in the world would never amount to you.

"You like the record, I take it?" He muses, finally breaking the silence and announcing his presence. You light up the second you see him, something that is not lost on him. He likes your smile, and he'll spend a million lifetimes trying to put one there.

"Well, it is my favorite album. And the pressing is so pretty. I think I watched it spin for like, 10 minutes before I got cozy on the couch."

He comes to sit with you, and you quickly move to intertwine yourself with him. Actually, that's not quite true. You both move toward each other until you are melded together. Your legs hang over his lap, your back against the arm of the couch. His arm lazily draws patterns on your leg.

"I'm glad you enjoy it, kitten. Next time there's an auction, I'll bring you with me now. You're getting good at spotting value."

You giggle at him. One of your hands comes up to play with his hair. It's soft, and you lose yourself in it, combing through it. "You won't judge me if I use your card to buy my favorite albums? Even if it's Taylor Swift?"

He chuckles. "I don't care what you buy. As long as it makes you happy, go for it, kitten. -- Besides, I already got you a orange original Reputation released in 2017."

"I know, but now I'm eager to find a 'betty in the garden' version of folklore!" You says with a smile, happy that he remember your favorite album was Reputation. He also had gone to great lengths to get you a copy of the Eras Tour movie. It is your favorite type of vintage.

"Mhm," he says, knowing that he'll full well direct your attention away from that particular vinyl. Not because he doesn't like it. No, because it's already gift wrapped and sitting in his office for your anniversary.

He meant it when he promised himself that he'd do whatever it takes to make you smile.

[arixella]

Hello~ I was wondering if you could do a continuation of 'you don't tell them you're hurt' with the members of Cross Guild 🙏🙏🙏

Of courseee I can doo! This one was fun to make!

You get hurt and don't tell them pt.4 ' ft. crocodile, mihawk, buggy

wc: 440 a/n: not proof read luffy, zoro, sanji law, ace, sabo shanks, kid, killer

Crocodile

-Crocodile isn’t the type to fuss, but he’s sharp, and you’re not getting away with hiding an injury from him.

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” His voice is calm but carries a dangerous edge, as if daring you to lie to him.

-Once you admit it, he clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Reckless. Don’t waste my time trying to hide things like this.”

-He handles the situation with cold efficiency, ensuring you’re patched up without much fuss. However, his hands are surprisingly gentle, and he makes sure you’re as comfortable as possible.

-Afterward, he lectures you in his usual gruff tone. “There’s no pride in pretending you’re invincible. You can rely on me.”

-While Crocodile may seem cold, his actions betray his concern. You catch him casually checking on you later, making sure you’re healing properly without drawing attention to it.

-If someone else caused the injury, they’re as good as dead. Crocodile doesn’t make a scene—he just ensures they disappear without a trace. “No one touches what’s mine and walks away.”

-He might not say it out loud, but his subtle protectiveness speaks volumes about how much he cares.

Dracule Mihawk

-Mihawk is impossibly observan, so the second you try to hide an injury, he catches on with an arched brow.

“Hiding something from me? That’s unwise.” His tone is calm but piercing, like he’s already read your mind.

-He examines your injury with precision, his touch light but firm. “You’re fortunate it’s not worse. Carelessness doesn’t suit you.”

-Mihawk insists on personally treating you, pulling out an extensive first-aid kit you didn’t even know he had. “A blade is only as effective as the one wielding it. You should take better care of yourself.”

-Afterward, he pours you a glass of wine and insists you rest, staying close by with his usual composed demeanor. “I won’t tolerate unnecessary risks, especially from you.”

-Though he doesn’t openly fuss, Mihawk keeps a sharp eye on you for days afterward, ensuring you don’t push yourself. His silent care speaks louder than words.

-If the injury was caused by someone else, Mihawk’s cold fury is unmatched. “I’ll handle it,” he says, and you know he means it.

Buggy the Clown

-Buggy doesn’t notice at first, but when he finally realizes you’re hurt, he absolutely freaks out.

“What?! You’re hurt?! Why didn’t you tell me?!” His voice is loud enough to make everyone turn their heads, drawing unnecessary attention.

-He rushes to your side, flailing dramatically and overreacting as usual. “Do I need to call a doctor? Am I supposed to do something?! What if it’s fatal?!”

-Once he calms down (sort of), Buggy genuinely tries his best to help, though his methods are questionable. “Here, let me tie this… uh… is that supposed to be bleeding?”

-Despite his antics, Buggy stays by your side the entire time, even shooing his crew away to make sure you rest. “Don’t you dare move until you’re better, you hear me?!”

-He constantly checks on you, asking a million questions like, “Are you okay? Does it hurt? Do you need anything?” His concern is over-the-top but heartfelt.

-If someone else caused the injury, Buggy flips from dramatic to angry clown mode. He may not be the strongest, but his crew will make sure payback is served. “Nobody messes with my crew—or you!”

-Later, he’s back to his usual self, teasing you about being “so clumsy” while secretly keeping a close watch to make sure you’re really okay.

♡♡♡

[tranceinnumerabletabs]

When Johnny Comes Back pt7

Howdy! I'm really proud of this one! Please enjoy! it gets funny

idk if you wanted to be tagged in this one too but, @supermegabitchboyexceptimagirl, and of course @beelzebee

I think I should get those tumblr dividers. Also, sorry if you can't understand everything that's said here. You'll know it when you get to it. Its not the end btw.

part1, part2, part3, part4, part5, part6

It’s a quiet night once more, this time you’re in bed, unable to sleep.

It’s been too long. He’s gone. Shot by some guy. Just like in your nightmares

You sigh and look at your clock, 1:26 AM.

ugh

You get up, your cat waking up due to it, and decide to just….pace

You do just that, trying to find reason within your rhyme. You feed makes thudding noises on the cold hard ground.

thud thud thud thud

he’ll be fine

Thud thud thud thud

he’s just recovering

Thud thud

he’s gone

Thud

no he’s not

Thud thud thud

you’ll never be able to see him again

Thud thud thud

you’ll never tell him I love you

Thud thud thud

there’s no more Mactavish finesse

Thud thud thud

he’s reduced to ashes in an urn like in your nightmares

Thud thud drip thud

you look down and realize that a tear has fallen from your face.

sigh

you told yourself that you wouldn’t end up like this. If he’s alive then this is for nothing and if he’s dead….well…then this was just added misery.

You go to the bathroom and wash your face, sniffling a little.

he’s fine

You stare at your face in the mirror, blood rushed to your nose and cheeks, puffy eyed. You didn’t look so good.

You looked tired. You’ve been holding yourself up well right?

Yeah…

Yeah you are!

You could’ve been so much worse but you held up. Even if your eyes look tired and the steady drip of water from your face to the sink makes it unclear whether or not your crying. You weren’t. you’re fine

Ugh. This is why you try not to think of him! You feel so stupid and naive and sensitive and lost and-

“mrow?”

You feel Simon brush up against your leg, stopping your train wreck of thoughts. You smile, he’s so cute no matter how grumpy he is.

“Simon” you say fondly. You lean down and pick him up into your arms, swaying him like a baby as you walk out the bathroom.

Simon’s presence helped but it can only do so much.

You rock him, pet him and scratch him as you continue to pace.

Thud thud thud

you’re so cute Simon

Thud thud thud

you’re precious

Thud thud thud

you know Johnny will come back right?

Thud click thud

you know you’re a little bastard?

Thud thud thud

yeah you know you are? A bastard just like-…..

Thud Creak thud

like….

Thud stomp thud stomp

like……

thud Stomp Thud

.

“Honey, I’m home!”

.

.

.

.

You stand there, eyes wide in shock.

“Johnny?” You whisper but it was too low for even yourself to hear.

“Aye Bonnie, ye miss me?”

Your legs felt frozen as you look at him. A bandage around his head and a few new scars onto him to show off. His bag in one hand.

“What’s wrong lassie? Ye look like ye’ve seen the dead came back tae life” he teases gently, but in a tone that indicates that he missed you.

he’s here

Johnny Came Back

You feel tears pricking your eyes, but he didn’t notice. He drops his bag down and starts walking towards you. Ready to spend his return the same way he usually spends it: watching a movie with an engorgement of take out and smothering you.

“Johnny” you whisper a little louder

Johnny smiles “the one and only. Couldn’t have ye sell my urn to the damn Brits” He chuckled

“Johnny” you whisper once again and this time he catches the weight of your tone and becomes more solemn and sincere. “Aye….it’s me Bonnie….it’s me. I’m home” Your breath hitches and your hand slowly raises to cup his jaw, feeling his overgrown facial hair. He couldn’t shave it to his preferred length.

He drops his head’s weight into your hand, rubbing his cheek into your soft palm, looking softly into your eyes with a smile.

“Johnny” you voice now breaks and your breathing audibly hitches, tears welling in your eyes.

Johnny's eyes widen in shock, as if that was somehow an unexpected reaction.

“Bonnie?”

He tries to comfort you. Tries to think of something to say

“Bonnie I-“

“I thought you were dead Johnny!” You break out.

Johnny looked more shocked. Did you get the wrong information? Or did you just assume the worst?

“No, I-“

“I thought I’d never see you again!” You cry, your shoulders shaking. He looked guilty, he opens his mouth to try to apologize but you do what you should’ve spent he moment he showed his handsome ugly mug. You hug him, tightly. Almost too tight for the worn soldier.

Johnny is startled for a moment before reciprocating, hugging you back with fervor. You wet his shirt with your tears “I thought you were gone Johnny!” You cry, shaking in his arms. “No no lassie don’t cry” he rubs your back as you take lungfuls of his scent, finally being able to breathe it in again after it faded from your home.

He rocks you slightly as you take him all in and muffle all your grievances into his shirt. Eventually he grabs your face and stares into your eyes, his face seeming so tired and pained. Your heart clenches. You should care more about how he’s feeling.

“I’m tae sorry fer words honey, I didn’t think tae tell someone tell ye I’m fine. I just, had a rough time in the hospital an-“

You hug him again “sit down you lug. You need to rest” you gently guide him to his spot on the couch, where he belongs

“How are you feeling? Do you need anything?” You gently ask, cupping his face with both hands and looking at his injury.

He smiles and seemed to relax more that he’s done in a while. He places his rough calloused hands on yours and closes his eyes.

“Aye Bonnie lass, ye could kiss it better” he chuckles, feeling up your hands.

.

.

.

.

he’s had a rough time. Maybe he just needs any form of affection after being hospitalized for so long

You lean in up to his temple where the bandages are and place the most gentle and delicate of kisses on it. Johnny’s breath hitches, you don’t usually kiss him why would you? You’re just friends right?

You wanted to tell him you’re in love with him, or that you wanted him and no one else. But….no. not now, he just came back and…if it’s not reciprocal you don’t want him to deal with that right now. This should be all about him and not you. No, now all you wanted was to make sure that your roommate was okay. That can….come later. If you were willing to risk it. What’s most important is that he’s here and you take care of him. Not your feelings. “Miss me that much Bonnie? I should get shot more often. Then I could get another kiss” He tries to tease but the look on your face was enough to drop the jokes. He becomes more somber, his hands on yours now stroking your forearms. He looks into your eyes, sincerity evident “I missed ye too lassie, didn’t think tae tell ye cuz I dinae think I’d be gone fer so long. Glad to hear I was missed. Nice shirt” he says but it wasn’t the usual teasing tone he had. You look down and sure enough, you’re wearing one of Soap’s shirts as pjs, his scent long done from it. You smile, sniffling a little “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried Johnny….”

“Aye, I could tell……ye dinae need to worry Bonnie lass, I’m a big strong man”

You huffed a laugh as he rubbed your eyes “Don’t be sad….your big bad sergeant is here.” You lay on top of him, face to neck, just….taking in his presence. He does the same, scratching your scalp, rubbing your back.

He’s back

Johnny came back

Johnny came home

.

.

.

.

After some time, he piped up

“Let’s watch a movie aye? I’m starvin.”

You chuckle, a much lighter and freer laugh than the ones you’ve been making for months. Free from your worries about Johnny

“Of course Johnny. I’ll order you take out”

You kiss his nose. He gives you that signature smile of his.

“Yer spoilin me, love”

“Don’t you forget it”

"how could I ever?"

____________________

It felt so good going back to an old routine. Your movements were unfamiliar and rusty as you sit and eat take out with Johnny at 2:17 AM while a movie was on. He already finished 2 meals but the soldier was still going at it like the dog he was.

“Better than any hospital slop I tells ye!”

You smile, softer and fonder than Johnny remembers, and settle in the routine you remember you had before he left. A blanket tossed over both of you legs, an arm wrapped around some part of you. This time it was around your neck while he ate, a bit awkward but you were not about to complain. He was back and that was all that mattered. He finished up his feast and went back to watching some silly movie based on a tumblr post.

It’s about a random Asian kid whose plane goes down somewhere in Scotland, and he learns traditional Scottish kickboxing. The wise old mentor speaks with an indecipherable Highland accent, Johnny somehow understands and translates for you, and spends the whole film in a full kilt for no particular reason. He goes back to China to reclaim his parent's company made in the style of those "mediocre white boy learns the secrets of ancient martial arts" movies. It’s a funny concept and a movie you’ve been wanting to watch for months but didn’t because….well….Johnny wasn’t here. You couldn’t watch this without him.

And you’re so glad you didn’t because now as Johnny has his warm arm wrapped around you, gentler than usual due to his injuries on his arm. His mouth is near your ear as he ‘translates’ English to English. It doesn’t really matter what he was saying. All that mattered is hearing his raspy deep voice reverberating in your ear. Usually you’d tell yourself you could drag yourself to bed after the movie but you knew couldn’t drag yourself to bed after all this. You wanted to fall asleep on this couch with him. But just before you resigned yourself to that wonderful fate, you remember something.

“Are you going to sleep here Johnny?” You asked

“Aye, can’t anger the sleeping tiger. I won’t move an inch wee Bonnie don’t ye worry”

You sit up and look at him while the movie was Montaging with terrible bagpipe music “No. You need to rest on an actual bed. You’re still recovering”

“Ye dinae need tae worry aboot me love. I’m fi-“

“Johnny.” You say sternly “you’ve been shot in the head don’t BS me now after all that” your voice cracked a bit when you mentioned his terrible injury.

Johnny sighs and smiles “I could get used tae being babied like this”

His tone was teasing but somehow you had a feeling he did wanted to be babied, to be treated and spoken to gently in a way he couldn’t get in a military setting.

You sigh and smile. “One movie okay? Then I’ll run you a bath, rub your back, maybe change your bandages and scratch your hair till you fall asleep in a bed sound good Johnny?” His eyes were enticed but he just had to be a goofy little guy doesn’t he?

“Cannae read me a bedtime story?” He teased. You giggled and nodded. You had a feeling he just wanted to hear your voice “I’ll tell you the story of the ugly duckling. I’m sure you’ll relate” you joke back

“Aye, sing me a lullaby too?”

“You motherfucking bastard.” You roll your eyes with a smile “yeah I’ll sing you a song about how John and Jill when up the hill to fetch a pail of whisky. John fell down and broke his crown and Jill couldn’t see him for months while he was in the hospital.”

“Dinae my fault Bonnie!”

“I know baby I know” you coo, calling him a baby but Soap seemed to be very happy being called that.

“As soon as the movie’s over I’ll show my baby just how much I missed him. Wake me up if I sleep okay? If you don’t you’ll never get that bedtime story ye hear?”

“Yes ma’am”

“Good boy”

You lay back down next to him, continuing to watch the silly movie, the Chinese kid is somehow the chosen one from some ancient Scottish texts made when during some important historical British-Scottish conflict. How did they seriously think that a dizi (bamboo flute) mixed with a bagpipe would make a good soundtrack? And how are they right?

Whatever, it’s not like you were paying much attention when Johnny was stroking your arm right next to you, leaning in and rubbing his scratchy chin against yours, murmuring comments and ‘translations’ that may not even be that accurate. God you missed him. The movie ends with a Scottish themed “Kung Fu fighter” esque credits song.

He automatically hums something about putting on another movie. “Johnny it’s like 3 and a half in the morning”

“Dinnae care Bonnie. Missed ye”

“C’mon Johnny, I’ll tuck you in bed” you tease He grips you tighter into him “I’m tucked in enough like this”

You smile, wide and so happy.

“C’mon Johnny” you whisper into his ear, scratching his scalp, careful to avoid the injury “those clothes can’t be comfortable. Let’s change into something nicer hmm?”

He sighs contently “only if ye keep that up Bonnie…..feels like heaven”

“Deal”

You leave him to turn on the bath faucet, making sure it’s the right temperature before going back to clean up the take out. He tried to help but you told him firmly to “stay” and like a good boy he does. He watches you walk around the flat like a puppy, eyes glued to your form and glimmering so fondly.

You check the bath and it’s ready.

As you turn to call for him “Johnn-“ you bump into him directly. He followed you here, unable to be away from you. You huff a laugh and lean on him.

“Take a bath Johnny. You could use one of my bath bombs too.”

“Stay with me?” He whines

“I’m not gonna watch you bathe Johnny. You clingy dog.” You chuckle and flick his nose “but I’ll be waiting for you when you come out okay?”

You walk out, feeling his lingering gaze on your back. You go get his bed ready.

It’s…not clean. You’re not proud to admit you’ve slept here on more than one occasion due to his absence. It was a mess of Soap’s belongings. A pile of clothes, some things that reminded you of him, things of the like. You clean it up, place a new bedsheet and pillow case, along with a plushie of a kitten with a mohawk, a gift from you.

(The kitten. Image description: a cute kitten with what looks like a mohawk of fur on it's head. end/ID)

(i-it looks better in the story! but the collar is still there /ID a plushie of the mohawk kitten but it looks crudely made and grumpy with a spiky collar /end ID)

You were admiring your clean up before your were startled by a strong set of hands around your waist and a head into your neck and shoulder. “Johnny! You scared me” He breaths in your scent, while being towel clad “hmm….Bonnie…”

You giggle and turn around, your smile dropping when come face to face with his bared chest. There were more bandages you didn’t see before, new scars and burns. You tsk, gently touching the bandages as he gazed at you “you poor thing…they must hurt so much….”

“…..”

you look up at him “do they hurt? Do you need me to change them or painkillers?”

“I’m fine lovie…”

You shake your head “I left some at your bedside just in case darling.”

“…thank you lassie…what would I do without ye?”

“Die in a ditch apparently”

He smiles, rubbing his thumbs on your waist.

“Never leave me…”

I blush a little at how he said that. Like it wasn’t just a roommate thing. “Never…..let’s get you to bed. I’m sure you’re so tired”

“Nae, I still got an enough for that bedtime story and lullaby”

You laugh “you're such a baby…okay get dressed”

He, being the bastard he is, decided to go “aye” and take off his towel right then and there.

You squeak in surprise and avert your eyes

“Johnny!!”

“What? Like what you see?”

You whine and mumble as he laughs “get dressed!”

You hear a chuckle and him opening the closet, a moment later he speaks “Ye can look now hen”

You turn around and low and behold he didn’t even put on anything “JOHNNY!” You slap your hands over your eyes as he laughs.

“What’s the matter hen?”

“JOHNNY I SWEAR TO GOD-“

“Aye aye, I’ll get dressed.”

You hear some movement as he wears actual clothes, not a lot of clothes but still something

“You can look now, fer real this time”

“So you’re decent?”

“Not morally but I’m wearing pants”

You turn to look and lo and behold this man only put boxers on.

You groan and roll your eyes

“How’s that decent Sergeant Soap?”

“Cannae see my tadger. And it’s Johnny to you.”

You pretty much can see it honestly but you let him.

“Lay on your stomach”

“Be gentle with me hen”

“Of course”

“I’ve been a good boy”

“Shut it”

“Yes ma’am”

You look at the tragic state of his back, pity pulling at your heartstrings.

“Tell me if it hurts too much okay?”

“You can never hurt me hen.”

“Johnny.”

“Aye aye, I will”

You sigh and pull out some oils you have along with a muscle gel that should alleviate any pain he’s brushing off in favor of seeming strong or okay. You know he's usually sore after expending himself so much during his job.

“Yer spolin’ me bloody rotten”

“Shush”

You climb on the bed and gently rub in the oil first

“Nae, could barely feel it.”

You press harder

“It tickles”

You press harder

“Das it”

You roll you eyes and do this. Feeling your face heat up every time he groans and sighs. You later put on the muscle relaxant and he sighs and groans even louder, his voice becoming even deeper due to his tiredness, making your insides mushy.

“Oh…right there…hmm…lower”

You go lower

“Lower”

Alright…

“Lower”

“Any lower and I’ll be touching your ass”

“Aye”

“Okay that’s enough time for bed” you get off him and he whines

“Nooo. I’m so sorry bonnie please come back. I’ll behave”

“Oh really? Never seen you behave once in your life Mactavish” you scold as you put away the things

“Gie me a laldy then”

“Goodnight Johnny” you turn to leave

“No! Wait!” He jumps and yanks you from behind.

“What is it Johnny?”

“Ye Haven’t tucked me in with a bedtime story yet.” He whines

You sigh but secretly you’re smiling wide at his antics, just glad to go through them again. Leave it to Johnny to overcommit to the bit.

“Aight here’s your bedtime story Ya wee sook” you reply, turning to face him. He was shocked “Ya we- where did ye learn tha’?”

“I learnt it from a very sexy Scottish lad once upon a time” you say as you start literally tucking him into bed, the bastard really has you wrapped around his finger.

His face turns red and his smile wide and bright like the sun.

“An’ do I ken this mysterious Scottish lad?”

“Aye” you mimic his accent

He chuckles “tell me about him” he lays down under the covers laying on his side away from the injury. You think for a moment, then a deeply devious and mischievous look came on your face. You grin and began describing.

“He’s sexy, charming, funny, he’s got a cute pet, he’s a like knight who saves princesses, he’s large and strong with a Scottish accent.” You list off as Soap’s face goes brighter and happier. He wouldn’t say ‘save princesses’ but he wasn’t going to really correct you. If you see him as a hero who is he to complain

“I wouldn’t say that. What else?”

“Oh but of course he was. His people were in trouble, and he went out to save them” he shook his head, adorable wee civi aintcha?

You continue “He lived alone for a very long time till he met one woman he began to live with”

“Was she pretty?”

“The fairest in the land” He chuckles and settles in more, getting comfortable as you tell this grown ass man his fucking bedtime story

“what happened?”

“They got married”

His eyes widen in shock as his face and ears turn a hot red. He clears his throat that suddenly became very dry. Did…did this mean what he think it meant?

“Tha’ right?”

“Hmm hmm”

“I like the sounda that”

“Then they lived happily ever after”

Soap looked at you with shocked eyes

“Tha’ so?”

“Hmm hmm”

He quickly put a mask of faux confidence, putting on his big goofy smile. Pride swells in your heart for making him smile so brightly. He clearly needed it.

“And who May this dashing man be?”

“I’ll give you a hint”

“Aye”

“His name starts with an S”

He chuckles

“I think I ken who it is Bonnie”

“Oh really?” You ask, your face growing more excited “who is it”

He pulls his arm out from under the blanket and wraps it around you “tis’ me, Soap. And it’s Johnny to you sweetheart”

His grip tightens as he drags you closer to him, he shoves his face into your stomach, his heart suddenly beating too fast. Is this….your confession? Did you really just say you’ll marry him? Looks like those military spouse benefits are too tempting. He looks up, eyes hopeful and ready for his dreams to come true. That you’ll become Mrs Mactavish and he’s your Prince Charming.

“Wrong.” You suddenly say.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Wha?”

“I said wrong”

“T…then who’s the big strong sexy Scottish lad who marries the fairest in the land?”

“Shrek”

.

.

.

.

“Ye. fuckin’. right. SleEkiT bAmPOT!!”

You burst out laughing hard, doubling over and laughing so hard you collapse on the bed with him. But he doesn’t appreciate that

“Away an’ bile ye head! ye absolute weapon!” He practically yells

“Yer a right glaikit shan wee gobshite! Ye fuckin’ bastard cunt!!”

He raves and raves unintelligibly as you seem to get a six pack just from how hard you’re laughing and occasionally snorting like a pig. You’ve never heard so many Scottish insults in your life. Or at least you would hear them if you weren’t laughing!

Eventually, he shuts up and your laughs slow down. You look at Soap after wiping away your joyful tears. But unfortunately, The look on his face made you burst into laughter all over again.

“Alright alright that’s enough” he huffs and shakes his head, throwing an arm around your face to quiet you.

“Okay okay! I’m done!” You claim, your laughter lowering.

Johnny looked so done with you it was priceless. You were still in a fit of giggles as he shook his head

“Seriously hen? Shrek?”

“Whaaat?” You ask as if you could feign innocence as you’re giggling uncontrollably

“Shrek is the big sexy scott?”

“Yeah!” You laugh

“He bathes in mud Bonnie! He’s nasty” he says disgusted as if he doesn't have worse hear me outs

“And you’re not?”

“Oh that’s it ye-“ he jumps you and harshly man handles you. Pinning you with his big weight, restricting your breathing by pressing on your chest, just being an overall rough housing bastard. It’s not bad enough to cause actual legitimate harm but it’s rougher than he’s ever been with you.

“Johnnyy! Mercy I beg you!” You whine, trying to squirm away and kicking up your legs

“There’s no Johnny here now leannan! Now it’s sergeant Soap! And yer taking discipline!”

You wheeze at the lack of oxygen his man handling is doing, you didn’t have much in you anyway from laughing so much. He growls into your ear and pins your squirmy hands to your chest.

“Johnnyyy! I can’t breathe!” You wheeze out

“Shrek eh?”

You breathlessly giggle at your joke

“Shrek is the sexy charming and funny man who taught you what a wee sook is?”

You wheeze another giggle, unable to stop laughing at the joke.

“Anyone else?”

You try to wheeze an answer “s-s..”

but he doesn’t understand so he lets go. You breath in a desperate deep breath

“Answer the question lassie.”

“What question?” You tease, giggling. He growls and places his pillow on your face to quiet you

“Who’s the charming Scotsmen that makes ye laugh!”

He removes the pillow to get an answer

“Scrooge McDuck”

“You wee lil shite!” He smothers you with the pillow again, so you won’t even have a chance to laugh.

He removes the pillow as you wheeze with a smile

“Wrong answer”

“Whaaat? He’s funny!”

“Tsk. Who’s the Scottish soldier who’s strong and witty”

“James Bond”

“Leannan!!!” He wraps his arm around you in a headlock, he’s done that plenty times before and even taught you how to do it and get out of it, it almost slipped your mind due to your giggling.

You do try to get out of it but he just tightens his hold

“Think ye’re strong, do ye lassie? I’ll show ye strong, ya wee twig!” He growls

“Johnny!” You whine “mercy!”

“No mercy to the enemy bonnie.” He bites your cheek

“Eww! You dog!” You whine and squirm “okay okay you win!”

She shakes his head, mouth still filled with your cheek “Johnny! Please! You’re gross!”

He bites harder

“Away with ye ya daftie!” You poorly mimic He laughs and lets go. You rub your saliva covered cheek on his bicep.

“You’re gross. Let go”

“Nae”

“Johnny.” You try to be stern

“Nah. You need to tell me who th-“

“It’s you! It’s you Johnny! You’re the big, strong, funny, charming Scot that saves princesses!” He lets go, letting you drop on the bed with a thud.

“That’s right lass. Say it again”

“It’s you Johnny. You’re the one I wait in my tower for.”

“Tha’ right?” He says, smiling down at you

“Yeah…it is…”

He smiles and lays down once more

“Either that or Hagrid”

“Bonnie.” He asserts sternly

“Sorry sorry Johnny”

“Brat.”

“Bastard.”

“Your bastard.”

“Your brat.”

You both shake your heads. You sigh and realize how tired you are. You look to the digital clock on Johnny's bedside table. Jesus.

“I’m so sorry Johnny” you get up

“What is it?” He asks, lost

“Just look at the time! A little more and it’ll be sunrise. You need to rest after all that” you hop off the bed but Johnny grips you

“Naee. I’m fine” he whines. Truth was he was exhausted down to the bone, but this was the most affectionate you’ve ever been.

“What is it Johnny?” You sigh

“I haven’t gotten my lullaby”

You groan. You were tired too but you wanted to take care of him.

“Please Bonnie! My heart needs tae be soothed after all tha’. Ye called me nasty :(”

“You’re a big baby Mactavish”

“Aye” he shoves you back to sit on the edge of the bed. You start to lightly scratch his scalp.

“I….don’t have a song..”

“Anythin’s good”

“🎶Somebody once told me th-“

He pinches your waist

“Hahaha, okay not that one”

“…”

“Hmm….🎶we’re no strangers go love. You know the rules and so do-Ouch!”

He grumbles as you giggle

“Then what do you want baby?”

“Quit takin the piss outta me” he grunts “sing…somethin’ calmin’” You think for a bit and a song comes to mind, you think a solider like him could do some good knowing his song.

(A/N: I’m so sorry for what you’re about to sing)

“🎶There's a shadow on the wall, stay calm, stay calm 🎶

🎶There's a figure in the hall, stay calm, stay calm🎶

🎶Keep my wits and stay alive, wish I had a nine to five 🎶

🎶There's a stranger in us all, stay calm, stay calm🎶”

He relaxes and listens intently. Finally a normal song, he thinks foolishly

“🎶Every hair is on it's end, that's fine, I'm fine🎶

🎶Feeling my adrenaline, that's fine I'm fine 🎶

🎶I can keep away the creeps, safely from my swivel seats🎶 🎶Something's crawling through the vents, that's fine I’m fine🎶”

You start humming to him while scratching his head gently. He sighs and cuddles up to your waist more, rubbing his bandaged head gently against you.

“🎶In the end there's only me alright, alright 🎶

🎶 Morning sun will set me free, all right, all right🎶”

His face was calm and droopy, ready to rest his tired war used bones. He looked like he could sleep through the winter.

“🎶I spent..um…many months away from you🎶”

You hum him the tune as he falls asleep, looking peaceful.

After you’re done you sit there admiring him for a moment, seeing him home, not in one piece but home made you take the time to appreciate his presence.

You yawn, realizing that you could see the sunrise peeking from the curtains. Wow it’s late, but it’s worth it. He’s had such a rough time and deserves all the comfort you could give him. You slowly and quietly try to leave the bed, thinking he’s asleep. Only for him, the baby he is, to grip you hard and force you into bed

“Johnny!” You whine, this time whinnier than ever.

“Give me a kiss goodnight princesses”

“Johnny.”

“Please leannan? Last thing I’ll ask o’ ye and I’ll sleep” he sleepily grumbles while gripping you like a stuffed animal. You felt so….vulnerable like this. You’ve never been in his bed with him.

“Promise?”

“Aye”

“Pinky promise?” You tease

“Aye aye just gimmie a Smourich and I’ll sleep”

“Sigh”

“Please”

“Fine” you wiggle in his iron grip to lean up to him and give him a gentle kiss on the cheek. He smiles, eyes still closed as he settles in one last time. “Goodnight love.”

“Goodnight Johnny” you smile, moving to get out of his grip and go to b-you can’t get out.

Johnny's grip is strong around you. “Johnny?” You pipe up and wiggle to try and move away. He doesn’t budge

“Johnny.” You more firmly and look up to see his sleeping face as if he knocked out cold within seconds of getting a goodnight kiss. “Johnny!” You whine “you bastard! Let me go”

No response

“Johnnyyy!!!” You flop like a fish in his grip but nope! Too bad! You’re stuck!

“Johnny I know you’re awake I swear to god if you don’t let me go right now!”

No response but you swear he’s doing this on purpose. You groan and struggle for a few more moments till you feel a soft furry mass lay on your side, Simon. He fell asleep on the couch after the movie and a joyful (as joyful as Simon could he) reunion with Johnny. You freeze up as Simon gets comfortable, laying on you. You wouldn’t wake up a cat would you? Especially not one so grumpy and tired. No, you sit there without moving a muscle and wait. Cat owner rules.

Welp….looks like you’re sleeping in a big man’s arms tonight. The position makes you flustered but between the unconsciousness of the bastard sergeant, the softness of your cat and your sleep deprived mind body and soul. You decide fuck it and just fell asleep in your roommate’s bed. It’s cozy like this anyway. You’re knocked out cold within the minute.

AN: This is NOT the end!

[waitimcomingtoo]

Built A Fire Just To Keep Me Warm

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader enemies to lovers

Synopsis: you and Peter are in the same friend group but never got along. That doesn’t keep him from making sure you never get cold

Masterlist

“Guys, why is it so damn cold in here?” You groaned and rubbed your arms up and down. The thought of sitting in your lecture class for the next hour with your professor with the dullest voice imaginable somehow made you even colder.

“I told you to layer up.” MJ shrugged. “But you never want to listen during layer talk. You know this guy always cracks the AC.”

“I always listen during layer talk.” Ned mumbled and threw his scarf over his shoulder.

You looked at your professor in the front of the room and then up at the vent above you.

“Why though? It’s the middle of December. My arm hairs should not be standing up.” You said and held your arm up for MJ to see.

“Maybe you should wear a jacket.” Peter interjected, making you all look at him.

“What was that?” You asked him. Ned signaled for him to stop talking but Peter had a point to make.

“I was just saying. You know this professor always has the AC on. But you always come to class in thin shirts and then complain that you’re cold.” Peter said. You sat up in your chair so you could fully face Peter and narrowed your eyes at him.

“So?”

“So,” he mimicked your tone, “You know its going to be cold in here. But you still never wear a jacket. Maybe you should put one on next time so you won’t have this problem.”

“And maybe you should mind your business. I wasn’t even talking to you.” You grumbled and slumped down in your chair. Peter watched you rubbing your arms to keep warm and rolled his eyes a little.

“You were talking to the group.” Peter pointed out. “I’m in the group. So it was my business.”

“No, I was talking to MJ.” You stated as your annoyance for him grew.

“You said “guys, why is it so damn cold in here?”. That implies you were asking all of us.” Peter corrected. Ned and MJ exchanged a look as you glared at Peter.

“Okay, but I didn’t say ‘Peter, I’m really cold. Please give me your professional opinion on how to prevent that’. I was just making an observation.”

“But that’s not really an observation though, is it?” Peter asked. “It’s a declarative statement. We were in Linguistics together. I’m surprised you don’t remember that.”

“Oh my God.” You groaned. “Why do you have to be such a know it all?”

“I don’t know. Why do you insist on wearing the flimsiest shirts to class and then complaining that you’re cold?” Peter retorted.

“There’s about to be an active threat in this classroom.” You mumbled under your breath.

“What do you mean?” Ned asked you.

“I mean I’m about to beat Peter up.” You told him.

“Knock it off you two.” MJ warned. “Can you guys go one day without going at each other?”

“Tell Peter that. He started it.” You reminded her.

“I don’t care. I don’t want any bickering at my party tonight.” She said. “It can’t be like Friendsgiving. Because that was giving enemies instead of friends.”

“If you don’t want any fighting then you’ll have to uninvite Peter.” You told her.

“I can’t. He’s the only one with an ID. We need him for the alcohol.” MJ replied.

“I’m right here.” Peter pointed out

“Unfortunately.” You mumbled.

“Speaking of alcohol, I can’t go with him to get it.” Ned cut in. “My Lola has a sixth sense for this kind of thing. If I even look at a bottle of alcohol, she’ll know about it and strike me dead.”

“Then you’re going to have to go with him. I’ll be busy setting up.” MJ told you.

“What?” You whined. “I don’t want to go with him. Why can’t he go alone?”

“Again, right here.” Peter stated and waved his hand.

“Because of the Buddy System.” MJ answered. “Remember when we sent Ned alone to the bodega to get Sun Chips? He almost got kidnapped.”

“The only reason the man didn’t take me was because he thought my choice of chips was disgusting.” Ned whispered.

“That’s valid.” You shrugged. “I wouldn’t kidnap you either.”

“Can you guys just go together this once? For me? For little mixed drink loving old me?” MJ pleaded and held your hand to her heart.

“Fine.” You sighed and rubbed your hands up and down your arms. Peter watched you doing this and then looked up at the vent above you.

“Don’t act so excited about it.” Peter mumbled to you.

“I’m not.” You scoffed and gave him a look.

“I was being sarcastic.”

“So was I.” You said as Peter got up out of his seat.

“Where are you going?” You asked him.

“To pee. Is that allowed?” He sassed you.

“Go piss girl.” Ned called after Peter as he walked down the steps of the lecture room, earning many stares from other classmates.

“Ned, no.” MJ whispered. “That’s not relevant anymore.”

“Oh shit. Um, mama a hawk tuah diva behind you?” Ned asked to try and fix his mistake.

“Just stop while you’re ahead.” MJ replied with a pat on his knee. She then turned to you with a devious smile.

“Peter totally likes you.” She whispered.

“What?” You laughed. “No he doesn’t. We’re barely even friends. I only tolerate him since he’s friends with Ned. And I mess with Ned heavy.”

Just then, Peter came back from the bathroom and stopped at the professors desk. You watched them curiously but you couldn’t hear what they were saying. When Peter walked away from the desk, your professor went over to the thermostat and turned the AC off. You felt the vent above you stop spewing cold air just as Peter came back to where you were all sitting. He didn’t look at you but his cheeks were pink as he sat down. MJ and Ned hadn’t noticed what happened so you leaned over to him to whisper.

“Why did you do that?” You asked him.

“You said you were cold.” He shrugged, still without looking at you.

“So? Why do you care if I’m cold?”

“I don’t. I was cold too. Not everything’s about you.” He said quickly. You decided to drop it but you found the interaction strange.

Later that day, you and Peter kept a distance between you as you walked towards the nearest corner store. You had your arms folded to keep your hands warm and Peter was fighting the urge to comment on your lack of preparation for the cold.

“Do you have the list?” You asked Peter as you neared the store.

“I do. But it just says “alcohol” so we’re going in blind.” He answered. You couldn’t help but laugh at MJ’s lack of instructions as you rubbed your arms up and down. Peter noticed this and was about to offer his jacket when you reached the store. Instead, he held the door for you and you smiled in surprise.

“Thanks. Let’s just get what we need and get out of here.” You said, feeling awkward now as you walked past him into the store. You were never really alone with him so you weren’t expecting him to be so civil. You split up and went down each isle to collect a few token party items. As you browsed, you kept feeling Peter’s eyes on you but you never looked up to check.

“They don’t have MJ’s favorite vodka here. She’s gonna kill us if we don’t come back with it.” Peter came up to you to tell you.

“Damn. We could try the store two blocks down. They usually have it.”

“All right. Let’s go.” Peter said and nodded towards the door. As you started to walk to the next store, the frigid New York air hit you and sent a chill through your entire body. You shuddered and blew hot air on your hands before holding your arms to keep warm.

“Are you cold?” Peter asked you.

“Of course I’m cold. It’s brick out here.”

“How come you never wear a jacket if you’re always cold?” He asked. He didn’t sound accusatory, just curious.

“Because I thought we were just running to the store by the dorms. I didn’t think I’d need one.” You replied. Peter fought every instinct in his body that told him to stay silent and unzipped his jacket.

“Take mine.” He offered and held it out to you.

“What?” You laughed in surprise. “No way.”

“Come on. Don’t be stubborn. You’re freezing. Just take it.”

“I’m not taking your jacket. I’m fine.” You insisted and continued to shiver.

“Just take the damn jacket.” He sighed and put it over your shoulders. You wanted to be stubborn, but you more so wanted to be warm. You gave him a look and slipped your arms into his jacket. You instantly felt better and smiled a little at your new protection from the cold. Peters jacket hung a little big on you but kept you perfectly warm.

“Thank you.” You said timidly. “But aren’t you cold?”

“Nah.” He waved his hand. “I run hot.”

You had reached the next store by that point and he opened the door for you once again. You flashed him a quick smile and went inside to get the drinks for MJ. You found it quickly and joined him at the cash register.

You hugged Peter’s jacket tightly around you as you walked back to the dorms together. He felt better now that he wasn’t watching you freeze to death and you felt better now that you were safe from the bitter wind. You dropped Peter off at the boys dorm before going back to yours and MJs room. As soon as you walked in, you were hit with a familiar scent that made you suspicious. You looked around the dorm until you found what you were looking for.

“Oh, hey. You’re back.” MJ smiled when she found you.

“What’s this?” You asked and pointed to the mistletoe taped to the ceiling of the kitchen.

“Nothing.” MJ said quickly. “It’s basil.”

“You have basil taped to the ceiling?” You asked skeptically.

“I’m Italian.” She shrugged.

“No you’re not. I’ve eaten pasta you’ve made. It was like chewing a pen cap. There’s no Italian in that blood.”

“You got me. It’s mistletoe.” She admitted. “Arranged beautifully due to my floral arrangement class, may I add. I hung it incase you wanted to kiss any boys tonight.”

“I knew it. You’re still trying to set me up with Peter. It’s never going to work so give up now. Now matter how much basil you hang up.” You said and snatched the mistletoe down.

“You fight it but my lesbian instincts tell me that you guys are meant to be.” MJ said and held her hands up in defense. “And you better hang that back up because that was my only bushel of mistletoe.”

“The same lesbian instincts that made us get on that bus to Long Island? I can never un-go to Long Island, MJ. You did that to us.”

“It was dark. All the buses looked the same.” She defended herself. “But trust. My instincts are right about this one.”

“They’re not.” You stated. “I don’t like Peter like that. I don’t even like him as a friend.”

“Okay. Sure. I believe you. Nice jacket, by the way.” She smirked before walking away. You looked down and remembered you were wearing Peter’s beat up winter jacket. You quickly followed her into the kitchen area to continue the conversation.

“That doesn’t mean anything. I was cold.”

“Yeah. I bet he was too. Especially after he gave you his jacket.” She said smugly.

“He said he runs hot.” You insisted.

“Yeah. Hot for you. Ayo.” She grinned and held up her hand for a high five.

“That’s not getting a high five.” You said flatly. “There better not be any more surprises. Don’t try to intervene tonight, okay? Peter and I would never work.”

“I thought you said you and Peter would never happen. Now you’re saying it just wouldn’t work? Sounds like someone’s having a change of heart.” MJ clicked her tongue as she finished setting up for the party.

You rolled your eyes at her and didn’t respond as you helped her put out snacks. While setting a bowl of chips out on the table, you caught a whiff of Peter’s cologne coming off the jacket. You instinctively smiled at the scent before you caught yourself. You had never thought about it before, but now that MJ put the idea in your head, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was a deeper reason that you and Peter never got along.

An hour later, the party was in full swing. You made your rounds and greeted people as you filled their cups up some more. You would never admit it, but you were a little disappointed to not see Peter in the crowd yet. MJ noticed you searching the room every so often and took a place by your side.

“Looking for Peter?” She asked with a smug expression.

“What? No. Like I care if that doink shows up. I’m looking for Ned. He’s supposed to bring the…. Sun Chips.” You lied to cover up what you were really doing.

“Right, right. Of course. And how do you feel about Sun Chips?” She asked sarcastically.

“I need some air.” You said quickly and walked away from her. To get away from the crowd, you went out to your room and crawled out the window to sit on the roof. You hugged Peter’s jacket tightly around yourself and stared up at the night sky. The sound of the party coming through your open window sounded a million miles away. You drew your knees to your chest and rested your chin on them as the cold wind sent a chill through your body.

“Hey.” You heard behind you, making you turn around. You saw Peter coming through your bedroom window and come join you on the roof. You got a new feeling in your chest as he sat beside you.

“Hey.” You smiled softly at him. He returned the smile before an awkward silence settled between the two of you. You didn’t know how to interact after he was nice to you on your trip to the store.

“Thanks for walking through my bedroom with your dirty converse on.” You said to break the silence.

“Like my shoes were the dirtiest thing in that room. I’m pretty sure I saw a rat eating your homework.” He mumbled. You stared at each other as you both tried to read the situation. You were bickering like usual, but there was a playful sense to it this time.

“That’s just our third roommate, dummy.” You replied, adding to the teasing nature of the conversation.

“Ah, I see.” Peter chuckled before looking down shyly. The awkward silence returned but you found yourself hoping he didn’t leave.

“How come you’re out here? You’re not having fun?” He asked after a beat.

“It got a little overwhelming in there. I needed some alone time.”

“Oh, I could go.” He offered and went to stand up.

“You could stay.” You said and stopped him from getting up by placing your hand over his. You watched Peter turn bright red so you quickly withdrew your hand. It was quiet again and you both looked anywhere but each other.

“How come you’re not in there with Ned and all them? Didn’t you just get here?” You asked to break the silence.

“Oh, yeah. Ned and I just got here. But I walked by your room and I saw the window open. I was going to close it until I saw you out here.” He answered a little too quickly.

“Why were you by my room? The party is in the kitchen area.” You wondered. Peter was flushed again and a smile tugged at your lips.

“Were you looking for me?” You asked in a quiet voice. Before Peter could deny the allegations, a gust of wind hit the two of you. You shivered and rubbed your hands together to stay warm.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked you.

“You know what’s wrong.” You said with a slight roll of your eyes. Instead of pointing out that you were purposefully outside on the chilly roof, Peter took both your hands in his. You watched him curiously as he rubbed his hands up and down yours to generate heat. It occurred to you both at the exact same time that this was the first time you’d ever touched. You locked eyes with him and thought he’d let go, but he instead leaned down to blow some hot air on your hands to warm you up.

“Thanks.” You said softly. “That feels better.”

“You’re welcome.” He said in just as timid of a voice. The awkwardness returned and you turned away from each other to avoid it.

“I’m sorry about before. In class, I mean. It was none of my business. You can wear whatever you want.” Peter said after a minute.

“It’s fine.” You waved your hand. “Maybe you kinda sorta possibly had a point. I knew it would be cold. I should’ve worn a jacket. Besides, we always go at each other like that. Don’t be sorry.”

“You’re right. We do always fight.” He agreed. “Do you ever wonder why?”

“Oh, um. I don’t know.” You shrugged. “I assumed that’s just how we are.”

“Yeah, it is.” He nodded. “But how did it start? Did we just meet one day and decide we hated each other? I was trying to think about it the other day but I couldn’t remember.”

“Well, I remember MJ telling me she made a friend in her floral arrangement class. Which I told her not to take, by the way.”

“I told Ned the same thing.” Peter sighed. “I said it was a waste of time and credits. He didn’t listen. But he did make me a beautiful bouquet for my birthday.”

“MJ failed so she got me a gift card to Staples.” You replied, making Peter laugh.

“Why Staples?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure she found it on the ground.”

“Did you ever use it?” He asked.

“I did. And guess what I got.”

“Staples?”

“Yep.” You nodded, making him laugh again. You never realized it before, but Peter had the kind of laugh that made you want to say the most random things just to hear it again. His eyes crinkled when he laughed or smiled, another thing you hadn’t noticed before.

“I remember Ned introducing me to MJ, and then MJ introduced me to you. But I don’t remember how our dynamic started and why we fight all the time.”

“Hm.” You hummed. “It’s funny.”

“What is?” He wondered.

“The one time we’re alone together is the one time we’re not fighting.” You pointed out.

“You’re right.” He smiled shyly. “Funny.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. You felt like you were talking to a completely different person than who Peter usually was. This version of Peter didn’t get under your skin or make you roll your eyes. This version was sweet and warmed you up from the cold.

“You kept my jacket.” Peter pointed out, making you flush in embarrassment.

“Oh, you can have it back.” You said and went to take it off.

“No, no. It’s okay. I want you to keep it.” He insisted and pulled it back around you. For extra measure, he zipped it up to your chin before patted both your arms. You smiled at the action and tilted your head down so the jacket would cover your chin.

“It looks better on you anyway.” He added without looking at you. You picked your head up and looked at him but he was busy fussing with the her of his shirt.

“Thanks. It’s really warm.” You said in a soft voice.

“Good. You need it. You’re always cold. And never prepared.”

“We can’t all be hot.” You replied. “Run hot, I mean.”

“Did you just call me hot?” Peter asked with a devious smile.

“Shut up.” You groaned. “You know what I meant.”

“I wish I had your problems. My hands are always sweating because I’m always so hot.” Peter said as he looked at his hands.

“Gross.” You grimaced. “Keep that to yourself.”

Peter looked sad as he didn’t realize you were joking. You found yourself feeling bad that you hurt his feelings despite all the times you intentionally tried to hurt them.

“I was just kidding. Let me feel.” You quickly assured him and took his hand. You ran your fingertips along his palm to see what he was talking about while Peter stayed perfectly still. You let out a soft laugh which sent chills up Peter’s spine.

“What do you think?” He asked in a quiet voice.

“It’s like touching a Swedish fish that’s been in a toddlers hand for too long.” You replied, making him laugh as well.

“Thank you. That was a really lovely description.”

“Seriously, how do you walk around with these things? Do girls ever complain when you hold hands?” You wondered as you slipped your hand into his. He instinctively rubbed his thumb on the back of your hand as the comfortable silence returned. You stayed like that for a moment, holding each others hand on the cold rooftop. The only warmth Peter had was from your hand so he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Aha! Holding hands!” MJ suddenly exclaimed from behind you. And was standing in your room and pouting at you through your open window. You turned around and quickly dropped Peter’s hand.

“What? No we’re not.” You scoffed and stood up. Peter felt an overwhelming wave of disappointment wash over him as you left the roof to follow MJ. It hurt him that you were so quick to drop his hand and deny what was happening, and even quicker to leave him.

“Lesbian instincts.” MJ said as she tapped the side of her head.

“Shut up. We weren’t holding hands.” You insisted as you led her back towards the party.

“I may be a little drunk right now but I know what I saw.” She stated. “And you can’t deny something I saw with my own two eyes.”

“What did she see?” Ned asked as he came to your side.

“Nothing.” You said quickly. “She didn’t see anything.”

“Nothing except her and Peter practically having full on intercourse out on the roof.” MJ replied, making Ned gasp.

“Oh my God.” You groaned. “We were not doing that. We were just holding hands.”

“So you admit it!” She clapped her hands at the confession and nearly fell over.

“Girl, how are you so drunk already?” You asked her. “The party only started an hour ago.”

“Not the point.” MJ held up a hand. “Why were you and Peter holding hands? I thought you hated each other?”

“Peter doesn’t hate her.” Ned laughed like it was ridiculous. You were about to question what made him sound so sure when you realized you had left Peter out on the roof. You left MJ and Ned behind and quickly ran back to your room. The window was shut but Peter was nowhere to be found. Guilt building up in your stomach now, you went back out to the party and searched the crowd for him. When you didn’t see him anywhere, you went back to the kitchen to find Ned.

“Did Peter come in here? I can’t find him.” You asked him.

“You just missed him.” Ned answered. “He said he wasn’t feeling well so we wasn’t going to head back to our dorm.”

“He left?” You asked sadly. You looked at your front door before looking at MJ for help. She tapped the side of your head again and you knew what you had to do.

You ran out to the hall but didn’t see Peter anywhere. The hum of the elevator gave you an idea where he might be. You got to the elevator just in time to see the doors closing. Without thinking, you wedged yourself in between them to get them to open back up. They bounced off either side of your body but opened up enough for you to get inside. Peter caught you as you stumbled in and helped you stand up straight.

“Oh my God. Are you okay?” He asked as you held your aching body.

“I think I just went down a cup size.” You wheezed out.

“Why didn’t you just tell me to hold the door?” Peter asked through a laugh.

“There was no time.” You waved your hand. “I had to talk to you. You’re leaving?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m not much for parties.” He lied.

“Neither am I.” You told him as you stared into his eyes. He stared back and you could see a sadness in them that you knew was probably your fault.

“Before you go, I just wanted to apologize for before. I shouldn’t have run out on you like that.”

“It’s okay.” He shrugged. “We did look pretty incriminating.”

“We did.” You agreed. “And MJ was thrilled to see it. She has this dumb idea that we only pretend to hate each other to cover up the fact that we like each other.”

“She thinks that? Wow. That’s quite a theory.” Peter said as a blush painted his face a warm pink.

“Right? I don’t know where she gets it.” You shook your head and slid down the wall of the elevator. Peter decided to see the situation out and sat down beside you. Neither of you had pressed any buttons so the elevator stayed in place.

“Ned has a similar theory, actually.” Peter told you. “He thinks I’m totally in love with you and I don’t know how to express it outside of teasing you or making sure you’re warm.”

The silence that followed Peter’s statement was almost more incriminating than the hand holding. In your head, you replayed every time he had done something to keep you warm. Just the week before, Peter had wordlessly dropped a blanket beside you during a movie night at his dorm. Another time, he insisted you drank the tea he brought to class because he decided he didn’t like it anymore but didn’t want it to go to waste.

“Also quite a theory.” You said to break the silence. “But wait, if you run hot, how come your dorm has been perfectly toasty everytime MJ and I came over this winter?”

“It’s not usually like that.” He admitted. “But I take out the space heater when you and MJ come over because I know you get cold easily.”

“Oh. Well thank you.”

“For the teasing?”

“For keeping me warm.” You corrected. Peter flushed again and looked down at his lap.

“It’s all right. Winter will be over in a month. You won’t need me to keep you warm anymore. Then we’ll go back to being enemies.” He said without looking at you. You could hear a sadness in his voice and moved a little closer to him.

“You’re not my enemy. I just never really liked you.” You admitted.

“Yeah. I had a feeling. But how come?” He asked with genuine curiosity.

“Well, because I got the feeling that you never really like me either.” You shrugged. “Once our friend groups merged, you and I were just kinda there. We never really gelled like Ned and I or you and MJ.”

“Yeah, we didn’t.” He agreed. “The only times we would talk to each other is when we were fighting or something. That’s the only reason I kept teasing you.”

“Because you wanted to talk to me?” You smiled teasingly. Peter didn’t smile back and just stared into your eyes.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you.” He said quietly. “I never wanted us to fight. But if we didn’t, then we would never talk. And I really, really wanted to talk to you.”

The way you had felt about Peter just that morning had completely changed for the better. You were now hanging on his every word and desperate to hear what he had to say next. You turned a little to face him better and tilted your head to the side.

“What did you want to say?” You asked him. Peter’s eyes darted around your face and eventually landed on your lips.

“That I think you’re really cool. And really pretty. And really smart. Even though you never wear a-“

“Don’t say it.” You cut him off by leaning in the rest of the way and kissing him. Peter turned his body so that he could slip a hand in your hair to kiss you back. He took the chill right out of your bones as he kissed you as if he’d been waiting his entire like to do so. You pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt and kissed him until you ran out of breath. He had a dreamy smile on his face when you pulled away. You smiled shyly and sat back down on the elevator floor. Peter started to sniff the air suddenly and looked around.

“Do you smell basil?” He asked. Your smile dropped and you looked up to find the source of the smell. Sure enough, taped to the ceiling of the elevator was a makeshift mistletoe MJ had crafted out of basil and ribbon.

“Freaking lesbian instincts.” You muttered and stood up to snatch the basil down.

Tag list 🏷️ 🧥

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

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@solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant

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@hallecarey1

@ciarahollands

@nellabella @boogywoogywoogy

[cecilyv]

New Fic: the chain I forged (9-1-1, buck/tommy)

Happy Holidays, my friends. @liminalmemories21 and I had Tommy get Christmas Caroled just for y'all. Wherein he meets some ghosts (or possibly hallucinates as a result of whatever was in those shots Lucy handed him last night). Either way, he’s too old for this shit.

"I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it." — Jacob Marley, in Charles Dicken's, A Christmas Carol

11.6k | General Audiences

[Read here on Ao3]

He comes awake abruptly, the hair on the back of his arms standing straight up. He lays there, trying to get his breathing back under control, when he hears the chair creak on the other side of the room. Shit. Fuck. Damn. There’s someone here. And not in the fun kind of way, the way he'd gotten used to with Evan — shit, Buck (he still gets that wrong in his head, when he's half asleep, still a little drunk). He'd gotten used to Buck getting up in the middle of the night, and then pausing before he got back into bed to take a sip of water, put on chapstick. Six months shouldn't have been enough to overwrite the pattern of a lifetime of sleeping alone. But— He still reaches for Evan — fuck. Buck. He still reaches for Buck when he wakes up, expects the heat of him next to him in bed, expects his pillow to smell like Buck’s shampoo and aftershave.

This time though, there's a person in his room and it's not Buck; doesn’t sound like him, smell like him. He breathes and smells dirt and cold and rot. He keeps his eyes closed, facing the ceiling, trying to remember what he might have on hand to defend himself with. Tries to figure out how this person got into his house without setting off the alarms. What he's here to steal.

"I know you're awake," whoever it is says, voice low and raspy like he doesn’t use it much. There's a rustle of fabric as the guy shifts position. "I ain't here to hurt you. You can go on and sit up, open your eyes."

He pushes himself up warily, flicks on the light and blinks in the sudden brightness. Blinks again. A burglar in a Halloween costume was not on his list of possible scenarios. And why, he wonders, if you're going to dress up to break into people's houses, wouldn't you wear a mask?

He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and a vest, but what Tommy can’t look away from (and doesn’t want to look at at all, honestly) is his skin so tight across his face it’s translucent ( like butter scraped over too much bread, a voice in his mind echoes). And the guy has— He squints, and then shakes his head. Looks back. Those look a lot like the inflamed boils Evan — Buck — had had. This seems very specific for a Halloween costume robbery. He would have expected more dead president masks.

"Uh. You're welcome to take whatever you want. I'm not going to fight you on it." It's just stuff.

The guy — the cowboy? — crosses his arms and looks annoyed. "Ain't here for your stuff."

Tommy glances at his bedside table like that's going to reveal that he'd gone to bed with a kitchen knife, or a hammer, or something useful. There's a glass of water and a book he's been saying he's going to read for going on a year now. "Okay. So, why are you here?" Keep him talking, he thinks.

The guy rolls his eyes. "Ain't here to kill you either. Didn't I just say I weren't here to hurt you? Keep up."

He's not sober enough for this. "Okay. I give. Why are you here?"

The guy relaxes, like he's been waiting for this cue. "I'm here to show you what has been, what is, and what is yet to come." And Tommy thinks, okay, Galadriel.

Tommy gives him a blank look, and the guy elaborates. "I owe a debt." He stops, like that’s all the explanation he thinks Tommy should need.

Tommy wracks his brain, but, "I think I would remember meeting you. Was it on a call?"

"Didn't say it was to you.” Pauses and says reflectively, “I wasn't always a good man, but I always paid my debts, and no one can say different." There's another pause and then, “Unless it was to a bank."

Okay, sure. This seems … nope, he’s got nothing. This seems like nothing he can possibly put a name to. This is clearly what he gets for letting Lucy talk him into going out after their last shift, and then letting her buy them shots. The wages of sin. Or something. "Are you seriously telling me you’re here as the Ghost of Christmas Past? Because you owe a life debt? To someone? Who is not me?"

The Ghost — sure, why not — nods, like he's glad Tommy is finally catching up.

He looks closer at the guy, really looks and — leather vest, chaps, boots, boils. Just fuck his life. "You're Billy Boils, aren’t you?"

Billy makes a face, like he tasted something nasty. "William James McCurdy. At your service.”

[ghostf1ux]

5 Times Jason Saved his the Flock and 1 Time they Saved Him: Second Time's the Charm

Day 10: Begging

Words: 5.6k

TW/CWs: Graphic description of injury, claustrophobia, literally digging out of a grave

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 (here)

-------------------------------------------------------

Everything was going according to plan.

Except for one small issue.

It turns out, Jason was not nearly informed enough about Blüdhaven. At least, according to his standards. Dick seemed to think what he shared was plenty, but he neglected to let Jason know that the underground owner of the god damn city had a personal vendetta against him.

So… Jason's a little upset. At his brother, for withholding crucial information. But mostly at himself, for getting into this mess.

What is the mess, you may ask?

Well, currently, Jason has had all his gear stripped from him save for the clothes he wears under his suit, which is just a thermal compression shirt and leggings combo, and he's gotta say, the thermal is really not helping in this dingy ass cold ass basement.

That may be in part of the sweat and blood dripping down his neck, the latter starting to pool on the ground from his kris blade embedded in his right thigh, pinning him to the chair he's strapped to by his arms.

Which, in reality, the chains keeping his forearms strapped to the arms of the chair would be easy enough to escape. They aren't very tight. The issue is more the armed guards surrounding him and, oh yeah, fucking Blockbuster standing at the other end of the room. There's also the issue of his… dislocated elbow and cracked radius on his left arm, dislocated right collarbone, several cracked ribs on both sides, and, oh yeah, the dagger in his thigh. And that's not even mentioning the extensive bruising and other minor injuries from the rest of the night.

Dick is so going to get punched later.

Jason grimaces as Blockbuster yanks his head up to face him by his hair, squinting when the fluorescent light nearly blinds him.

“Now, if I remember correctly, you work with that low-life flippy little blue bird vigilante,” Blockbuster states, like it's not even a question. Jason sighs, then immediately regrets the action.

“Work with is a strong description, Buster. Or Blocky? Which do you prefer? Mr. Bust, maybe?” Jason grins a bloody, toothy grin up at the man. He only scoffs.

“You play at being confident, Red Hood. But you will be how I take my revenge against Nightwing. For my life, I will take yours. But not before he knows that he could have saved you, and simply failed to do so.”

“What, you gonna put a bullet in my brain?” Jason croons.

“No, no,” Blockbuster chuckles, “But you're going to wish I did with how you're going to die.”

“Didn't stick last time, doubt it will this time.”

He hisses as his head is dropped and his collarbone shifts, just slightly.

“We'll see.”

------------------------

Dick sighs as he hears his phone ring, cocking his hip out in annoyance as he looks at the unknown number.

“Can you just give me a second? I've gotta take this call,” Dick plants his other hand on his hip as he glares at the purse snatcher cornered between him and the alley wall. He looks confused, but has the good sense to nod in understanding. Dick flashes him a news-worthy smile before answering the call and lifting the phone to his ear despite the chorus of quiet reprimands in his ear from the Bats. They can deal. “What can I do you for?”

“Ah, Nightwing, so good to hear your chipper voice again,” a painfully familiar voice crows. It makes Dick freeze, his posture immediately straightening.

“Blockbuster,” he greets cooly, motioning stiffly for the mugger to turn around so he can handcuff him. “I thought you were dead.”

“Well, times change, you know that, don't you? In fact, I just heard about something like that tonight. Something about it not sticking but… ah, that's not important.” Dick mutes to talk into his comm as he grapples to the nearest rooftop. Blockbuster keeps monologing in his ear but he isn't listening.

“Everyone, status, now.”

The flock knows better than to argue with his uncharacteristically sharp tone. Each one of them on patrol tonight responds with their vaguely positive conditions. So what…?

“...ut I figured I should give you a chance. You may have stepped out of the way of that bitch's bullet for me, but I'm going to graciously allow you to try to find your ally. I expect thanks for this, you know.” Dick tunes back into the monologue, unmuting himself.

“Who? Where are they?”

“Pity you can't even deduce who you're missing. Is Gotham really so much more important that you'd leave your ally alone in Blüdhaven for it?”

Dick mutes again.

“Who the fuck is in Blüd right now?” He nearly shouts, but manages to keep his voice to a loud hiss. Oracle's keyboard clicks in the background of her mic.

“No one, literally no one is in Blüdhaven right now,” Babs responds tersely. 

“Look for locations of everyone who's ever been there who's even vaguely someone I know.” Dick is pacing the rooftop now, with no direction to go and far too much energy he can't expend in any productive way.

“That's going to take awhile, N.”

“Just do it. Please.”

“You probably won't be able to find him, of course, but you'll have the chance anyways.” Dick clenches his fist so hard the material creaks. “I even put a nice little microphone in there for you, so you can listen to him as he dies. Karma's a bitch, blue. And, a plus side, now he'll be back where he belongs instead of sticking his nose into things he shouldn't be.”

Blockbuster laughs, and the line clicks once, twice, three times, and then a slightly staticky sound comes through. Dick's pacing slows and he covers his other ear so he can focus on the background.

It's faint, but it's there. Breathing. Quiet, slow breaths, like whoever it is is sleeping, but ever so slightly cut off at the end to suggest pain.

“O, how's the search?” Dick manages to keep his tone under control this time, reassured by the quiet breaths.

“All the Titans that you've been seen in public with are elsewhere in the country,” Oracle reports. Dick nods, but his guts twists. He's missing something. He's missing something big.

“He was taunting me,” Dick muses aloud. “He's mad that he died, he's trying to get back at me. He wants me to find whoever it is, or at least try. He would've left clues.”

“Oracle, can you play the recording of the conversation over the comms so we can all hear it?” Tim asks. Oracle hums an affirmative, and lets it play over. Then the active call itself is connected, so Dick puts his phone away.

“That was somehow oddly specific and incredibly vague at the same time,” Tim mutters.

“Agreed.”

“Tt. Is it not obvious?” Damian cuts in snidely. “There is only one who ever speaks of how death does not ‘stick’. Oracle, locate Hood.”

“During his previous check in two days ago, Hood was located in Boston,” Batman rumbles. “His investigation into a drug smuggling ring was proving fruitful, and going well. He may have been on his way back.”

“You don't just bump into Blockbuster, you need to be sticking your nose into his stuff,” Dick sighs.

“I… can't find Hood's tracker,” Oracle– or rather, Babs, now that she's turned off her voice modulator– informs them. “His last known location was from two hours ago, and it was in Blüd.”

“His investigation must have taken him there.”

“That is entirely possible, but it does not help us find Hood's location.”

“I've already tried triangulating the call's location, it's like it's not coming from anywhere. It's untraceable, I can–”

“Wait, guys,” Tim cuts in, “I think he's waking up.”

They all fall silent as the breaths become shallower, quicker. As fabric shifts, as normal breaths turn to pained half-gasps, as small, exploring movements turn to desperate, scrabbling ones.

Then Tim asks the question they'd all been dreading the possible answers to.

“Wait, didn't Blockbuster say he was in something? What the hell does that mean?”

And then Jason gives them their answer with his first words, and it's a whole lot more concerning than they ever thought it would be.

------------------------

It's… dark, Jason realizes, as soon as he opens his eyes. His head is throbbing dully, but it's also a little fuzzy, like he's waking up from a drug-induced nap. At first he thinks he's blindfolded, but there's no pull of any sort of covering over his eyes, not even his domino.

The pain floods in a moment later, tearing his thoughts away from figuring out why it's so damn dark. Burning pain, pulsing around his thigh, his arm, and his chest. The slightest movements make his breath hitch, but the clarity it brings to his mind is welcome. His right arm– the one with the dislocated collarbone, his mind supplies– is tingling uncomfortably. 

He grunts as he tries to sit up, finding himself not actually restrained to anything and–

His head thumps against a hard surface covered by fabric. The surprise of it makes him drop back down, onto what he now realizes is a surprisingly soft pillow.

Actually, he's surrounded by surprisingly soft padding.

His heart and his breathing pick up before his mind connects the dots.

Careful fingers, ignoring every stab of pain, feel along the edges of the tight walls containing him. There's a lip between where the wall and the ceiling meet. It's sealed shut.

“No, no no no no no no nonononononono not a coffin please not a coffin I can't do this again– not again please not again–”

But kicking out with his good leg finds he's surrounded on all sides by a well-padded box, sealed tight. 

His eyes burn as he scrabbles at the walls that close in on him, nails digging into the fabric and ripping it apart only to find the lacquered wood underneath. His breathing stutters into gasps for air as it grows stifling and suffocating, pressing into him on all sides.

He sobs, not only at the pain flaring from every movement he makes but at the fact that he's trapped in a coffin and he can smell the wet ground surrounding him. 

“Please, please don't make me– I can't– no–”

Panic courses through Jason's mind as the air grows thin. How long has he been down here? Sometime, a long time ago, he was told that a coffin has enough oxygen to survive for about five hours. The memory is hazy at best but even if that number is remotely true, how much has he already used up? How much is he using right now?

“B- Dad– mom– fuck, Dick– anyone– I– I need h- help– please– I can’t– fuck– I can’t fucking do this again, please, anyone–”

Only a resounding, heavy, painful silence answers his shouts, his pleas. He's desperate, and he sounds pathetic, and he knows that, but he really just does not fucking care.

As he's tearing apart the fabric above his head, his fingers brush against something near the highest edge of the lid, embedded in the wood. Just the smallest bump, but the difference is enough to bring him back to himself, if only the slightest bit. Enough for the pads of his fingers to gently feel across its surface, making out the subtle criss-cross texture of metal.

“A fuckin’- a fuckin’ mic,” Jason breathes out. He lets out a choked laugh, remembering Blockbuster's words from earlier. “D- Dickie I am so gonna- gonna punch you later, an’ you're gonna stand fuckin’ still with no fuckin’- no fuckin' flippy shit- and- and you're gonna fuckin’ deserve it.”

He grins at the thought, dried tear tracks and old blood cracking at the motion. It's enough to motivate him to use the fabric as a mask over his mouth, remembering what he did last time. He's not going to die here. Not to Blockbuster. Not when Dick, and who knows who else, is listening in. He's done some cruel things but making his family listen to him die is not going to be one of them. 

So he digs his nails into the lid of the coffin, and he rips. 

It's a slow process, exacerbated by the blood running down his numb fingers and the white hot stabs of pain from every movement of his shoulders, but there's headway. He feels his nails be ripped off under the pressure, one by one, until his nail beds are just bloody, mangled husks.

Distantly, he thinks he might be screaming. Or sobbing. Maybe both. Maybe in hysterics. Maybe he's just finally fucking lost it.

He just knows that his throat is hoarse but he keeps going, keeps digging, keeps clawing, ripping away the wood and feeling the splinters become embedded in his already torn apart hands and his arms are struggling to move through the injuries of earlier tonight but he does it anyways because he is not going to die like this because he didn't the first time, not with worse injuries and not with being smaller and weaker and not without the experience of already having done it before so now he knows what to fucking do even if he doesn't have a belt buckle to help him.

The smell of wet earth hits his nose just before dirt and soil comes raining down. He screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth through it, feeling it cascade down over his face and chest as he digs. He pushes it down towards his feet so he can keep going. The worms squirm around him, over him, their wriggly bodies trying to find their way back to their homes. Jason gags around the dirt and worms that found their way into his mouth, but he refuses to actually throw up. Not yet. Not until he's out. Not until he can feel the pitter-patter of freezing cold rain on his face, not until he can see that fucking angel gazing impassively down at the zombie that just came back from the dead, not until he can get a lungful of that trademarked Gotham smog that's probably ever so slightly tinged with fear gas and Joker Venom. 

His fingers break the surface, sooner than Jason was expecting. They reach up towards the sky, where a freezing breeze makes his fingers want to just stay there and never move again because it hurts and he's tired, he's exhausted–

Gloved hands find his, frantically clasping onto them with an iron grip and not letting go. He thinks another pair, or maybe several, are digging out the dirt around his fingers, leaving the rest of his hand, and soon his arm, exposed to the elements. He lets his hand go limp, let's himself stop fighting, stop digging. He feels the dirt being pushes away, the pressure of the earth surrounding him becoming less and less until there's ice cold moisture pattering against his head and there are arms underneath his, hands clasped around his hand and his forearm, the fractured one, he thinks, but he doesn't have the energy to scream, to yell, so he whines, he whimpers, while he's wrapped in something heavy, something warm, but it's too much, there are hands everywhere, they could be hostile hands, so he shoves them all away and blindly scrambles back until he can gag and heave and the dirt and the worms are finally being expelled from his mouth and his stomach. His ears are ringing and his chest burns and his body violently shivers and suddenly the weight is back but the hands aren't and it's just so, so warm so he lets himself get lost in it.

He did it.

He's out.

There's a hand carding gently through his hair. He leans into it. It's comforting. It's safe.

He closes his eyes, surrendering to the pull of that comforting, heavy darkness.

------------------------

Someone on the comm line fails to fully stifle a sob at the sound of Jason's cries, his begging, his screaming for help. Dick himself has long since stopped trying to stop himself from crying, instead he's just made it easier by flicking up the white lenses of his domino up so his tears can run freely over the mask instead of pooling within it.

It's not every day you hear your brother, who is as distant and emotionally closed off as they come, begging through tears for someone else to save him.

To say it was traumatizing was an understatement.

“Where are we at with the search?” Batman asks in his signature distant, emotionally-closed-off voice he gets when he actually feels something. It's the only reason Dick knows that internally, Bruce is freaking the fuck out right now.

He can sympathize.

“I– the line is untraceable, even to me. I've been combing through footage of every graveyard in Gotham, trying to find any irregularities but there's nothing yet,” Babs reports shakily. Dick takes a deep, calming breath, and tries not to let it out as another sob. He moderately succeeds.

“Something's been bothering me,” Tim finally states, breaking up the tense silence of the call. Well, silence from anyone who wasn't trapped in a coffin for the second time.

(Apparently. That was something else Dick was still trying to wrap his head around, but it also wasn't the most pressing matter at the moment so he pushed those thoughts aside before he could spiral further than he already had. He'd be of no help to Jason otherwise.)

“N, how was Blockbuster able to call you on your actual phone?” Tim's tone was clinically detached in the way he got when he was also starting to freak the fuck out. Some guilty part of Dick is thankful he isn't the only one.

“He… knows who I am,” Dick mutters, punching some other mugger he came across a little stronger than strictly necessary. “Out of costume. He knows who I am. Got a lucky hit in a fight a while ago, mask broke.”

Tim hums. “If that's the case, theoretically he would know who Hood is as well, right?”

“If he looked into it, sure, he's smart enough to figure that out.” 

And, a plus side, now he'll be back where he belongs instead of sticking his nose into things he shouldn't be.

The words echo in Dick's head. He swings his bike around to thunder down the road in the opposite direction, pushing the accelerator nearly to the max.

“He buried Jay in his own fucking grave,” Dick bites out, leaning down so he can avoid at least some of the icy rain pelting his face. A chorus of swears follow the words, and probably a collective changing of directions. “I'm twenty minutes out.”

“Twenty-five,” Tim mutters.

“Father and I are thirty-five,” Damian speaks up.

“I'm pulling up the feed now,” Babs reports. “Looks like it was set to a loop, nothing seems to be changed, but I should be able to find the real recordings–”

“A fuckin’- a fuckin’ mic.” Jason's raspy words cut Babs off, all of them going silent when he chokes out a slightly hysterical laugh and continues. “D- Dickie I am so gonna- gonna punch you later, an’ you're gonna stand fuckin’ still with no fuckin’- no fuckin' flippy shit- and- and you're gonna fuckin’ deserve it.”

Dick lets out his own wet laugh at that. “You got it, little wing. We're almost there, just hang in there.”

There's almost a minute of heavy, staticky breaths and a distinct lack of screaming, before another sound that'll probably haunt Dick's nightmares forever comes through. It's like nails on a chalkboard, but worse, because just by Jason's sounds of agony and sheer desperation he knows for a fact that the sound is nails clawing through wood. 

He screams and shrieks and Dick tries his best to block it out because if he actually listens he'll be forced to confront the fact that he's the reason any of this happened, Blockbuster did this to get back at him, and there was no explanation that could refute that. It was just plain fact.

The comm line is painfully silent of all voices other than Jason's, who had completely forgone even swearing in lieu of just letting his pain out in mangled, breathless howls. 

Finally, finally, after what feels like both forever and the blink of an eye, Dick is vaulting off his bike and racing towards the cemetery.

“Cut the cameras,” Dick orders just as he scales the wrought iron gates protecting the property. It isn't hard for him to sprint unseen across the various graves and up the hill he knows all too well.

Sure enough, the dirt before Jason's gravestone is freshly reburied. If he listens close enough, past his comm and the thundering rain, he thinks he can hear Jason's muffled screams through the earth.

That propels him to look around frantically for the nearest shovel, which, of course, is nowhere in sight.

Granted, his sight is vastly limited due to the pouring rain, but that doesn't stop the frustrated shout from leaving him. He just drops to his knees and starts digging with his hands.

Minutes later Tim is there with him, immediately dropping down beside him and joining him in his frantic shoveling. 

“B's ETA is five minutes.”

“Bring a fucking shovel,” Dick hisses, too tired and panicked to worry about his tone.

“Bring several,” Tim amends, his voice now having the barest hint of a waver at the end. Bruce grunts in affirmation, which is good enough for Dick.

In what could been five minutes or two, Bruce and Damian are there with them, carrying three shovels. Dick and Tim immediately take two of them, and Bruce helps them with shoveling out as much dirt as they can, as fast as they can. Damian is relegated to spotting duty so they don't accidentally hit Jay with the shovels.

Which is why when Damian's eyes widen and his breath stops for just half a moment, Dick is immediately chucking his shovel out of the three foot hole and digging with his hands again until bloody, mangled fingers break the surface. He latches onto them despite the pain it probably causes Jason, because it's probably better he knows someone is here regardless of whatever injuries he has.

Tim, Bruce, and Damian all drop in beside him to continue digging out around the slowly uncovered form that is Jason. Dick keeps his hand locked in Jason's, getting a better grip on him as more is uncovered. First it's his full hand, which Dick is more than happy to clasp in his iron grip, smiling wetly when he feels Jason gripping his hand just as tightly. His forearm is next, which Dick holds with his other hand, ready to help lift him out. His hand and arm go limp at some point, and only the rapid thread of his pulse under Dick's fingertips keeps him from panicking further. Then there's a muddy streak of white, or at least what used to be white, plastered within black curls. Bruce is quick to work his arms under Jason's shoulders to help lift him out.

“We've got you, little wing, we've got you. You're safe now,” Dick murmurs comfortingly as they start pulling him out. He doesn't answer, and doesn't open his squeezed-shut eyes, but he's shaking like a fucking leaf and maybe that's because he only has his underclothes on instead of all his gear.

Or maybe it's because he just had to go through an extremely traumatic experience for the second time and is still sobbing and hyperventilating.

But who really knew.

He's partially lifted out of the hole to where his full chest is visible when Tim speaks up.

“Wait, wait, stop!” Both Bruce and Dick glare at the younger vigilante, but they do stop.

“The dagger gifted to Todd from my mother is embedded in his right thigh,” Damian reports. “It is dangerously close to his femoral artery. If you remove him too carelessly, we will have a far greater problem.”

“Secure it. Quickly,” Bruce growls, and oh, yep, that's all fatherly worry there. Glad to know he can still let it out sometimes, Dick supposes. Even if it takes one of his children being literally buried alive.

From Dick's point of view, he can't see exactly what the younger two are doing, but he's getting antsy waiting around for even the maybe fifteen seconds it takes them to secure the knife.

And then they both lean back and help Dick and Bruce lift Jason out the rest of the way. A broken whine leaves Jason's lips as he's quickly draped in Bruce's cape, whimpering as he weakly tries to shove himself away from Dick, away from them all, movements jerky and sloppy and bloody, god, there's so much blood. Each movement makes him flinch, each calming touch they try to give him makes him scramble back, so eventually, they stop and let him have his space.

Except for Bruce, who follows Jason calmly and cards the hair out of his face while he gags and throws up graveyard dirt. He drapes his cape around Jason again, gently rubbing soothing circles on his back. Dick watches as Jason's ability to hold himself up finally gives out under his trembling shivers and he sags gracelessly into Bruce's hold, who murmurs comforting words to Jason even as he keeps him wrapped in both the cape and his arms.

Dick breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Jason's breathing even out and his face goes slack. He lets go of Tim's and Damian's hands, which he didn't even know he grabbed. 

“I– I'll take care of this,” Tim says quietly, gesturing back at the grave. Bruce nods, but doesn't say anything further. Damian follows Bruce as he stands with Jason in his arms, looking so small, smaller than he should ever look, considering the six-foot-two at least and built like a brick shithouse build he has. Dick glances wordlessly between Bruce and Tim, panic once again rising at the thought of leaving either of his brothers.

Tim rests a steadying hand on Dick's shoulder. “It's okay, I can handle this. Go be with Jay.”

Dick meets his eyes, searching for any sign of lying from his little bird.

“Alright, baby bird. But come back as soon as you're done.” He plants a kiss to the crown of his head before he's jogging to catch up with Bruce and Damian to head back to the manor.

------------------------

When Jason finally wakes, it's not slow, or comforting, or painless.

When he wakes its with a violent jerk, brain still having yet to catch up with the events around him, his mind filled with the stifling, still darkness of the fucking coffin and the pain, the agony as his fingernails are ripped out one by one from the sheer force of his desperate efforts to escape it, and he's cold, he's so cold, it's like he's dead all over again and there's fucking grave dirt in his mouth, choking him, drowning him, he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe–

“–wing? Little wing, I need you to open your eyes, you're safe, I promise,” a voice– Dick's voice– speaks from somewhere in front of him. He manages to tear his eyes open at Dick's calm words, immediately squinting with the sudden brightness of what he thinks is the Cave medical wing.

How the fuck did he get here?

He doesn't have time to ponder it before his leg is buckling and he's falling into Dick's chest, the older vigilante making only the smallest grunt at his weight.

“Breathe with me, Jay. Let's get you back in the bed, yeah?” He gently leads Jason back over to the cot he'd flown out of in his panic, which he didn't even realize was him panicking until Dick had pointed it out a moment ago.

With only a few hisses and grunts, Jason manages to help lower himself back into the cot. It's only then that he registers the other eyes on him, crowded at the entrance to the medbay. No less than four vigilantes were squished into the space of the corner of the room and the doorway, making Jason roll his eyes once he got his heart rate back under control.

“You–” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat (wow that fucking hurt), “– you all just gonna hover over there or…?”

Because honestly he had no idea what they're doing. But he does know that his voice sounds like shit, because everyone's face grimaces and Tim is quick to walk over to pass him a glass of water with a straw. You'd think he'd gargled glass or something, and he can say that because he technically has! Or at least, was forced to eat some. Zero out of ten, do not recommend. That was a rough couple weeks.

Or maybe this was because he's been screaming and shouting his fucking lungs out at some point. That vaguely sounded like something he did recently.

Jason resolutely chose not to think about it for his sanity.

That being said, he gulps the water down thankfully, after swishing the first couple mouthfuls around and spitting them out to get the lingering dirt taste out of his mouth. Because it's gross.

“How are you feeling?” Babs rolls in next, coming to a stop on the opposite side of the bed from Dick and Tim. Her voice is soft, genuine, in that way she gets when she's really worried. 

Jason shrugs, immediately regretting it when he feels several stabs of pain from it. Looking down at himself now, he can tell he won't be doing anything for a bit. His ribs are wrapped, his leg is wrapped (with the dagger that used to be in it sitting on the table next to him), his arm and wrist are in a cast, and his hands are thoroughly bandaged. 

Yeah, nope, not gonna think about that.

“Better than I could be,” Jason tries, attempting nonchalance. By the looks exchanged between the five present, he doubts it worked. Oh well.

“Pennyworth says you're to remain in the manor for two weeks,” the demon brat speaks up, arms crossed across his chest. If Jason didn't know any better, he'd think there was a tinge of unease, and perhaps worry in his eyes. 

“Nah, I'll be out by the end of the week,” Jason replies easily, waving dismissively. “But don't worry, pipsqueak, I won't be doing anything too strenuous. Probably.”

Because who really knows with this job.

But apparently that wasn't the right answer, because looks are exchanged again and now it's making Jason annoyed. Annoyed, because he doesn't want to admit to being uncomfortable.

“I think we'd all really like it if you stayed a bit longer than that, Jaylad,” Bruce chimes in gruffly. His words are firm, but there's a hint of desperation behind them. “I'd like it if you stayed longer. To make sure you're okay.”

Dick, Tim, and Babs all have their stupid little hopeful smiles, Damian is scowling slightly less than usual which is basically the same thing, and Bruce is looking… oddly emotional. Not walling himself off like usual.

Huh.

Weird.

But no way he was staying in the manor any longer than he absolutely needed to. He can already feel his blood pressure rising at the idea of being trapped here for two whole weeks.

“Yeah… no. I'm not staying here for two weeks,” Jason mutters tersely. “Besides, I have shit to do in my apartment. Cases. Work. Whatever.”

Literally anything to get him out of staying here for two weeks.

“Alright, alright, we can talk about it later,” Duck cuts in before anything can devolve into anything even close to an argument. “But for now, why don't we head upstairs and relax? Watch a movie? It's been a long night.”

“I agree with Master Dick,” Alfred announces as he strolls in with a change of folded clothes. “I will be taking a look at Master Jason's injuries before he follows. I believe Master Tim and Master Damian can decide on a movie together?”

He sends a pointed look at the two, who don't dare linger under it and quickly scurry off, already bickering about their ideas of good movies. The other three turn back to Jason, who immediately feels the air get heavier.

“Jaylad…”

“No,” Jason bites out, “I'm not talking about this. Not tonight. If you didn't already know, then you aren't nearly as good of a detective as you think, Bruce. The Pit can't just bring people back to life, and I had to wake up somewhere.”

Of course the hoarse words come out more exhausted than actually scathing, like Jason meant them to be. Once again, he shoved down the mental images into the recesses of his mind, despite how they clawed at the fringes to get back in, just like he had clawed to get out of those stupid coffins.

God. If Jason had a nickel for every time he had to dig his way out of his own grave, he'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird and fucking traumatizing that it happened twice.

“He's right, B,” Babs chimes in quietly. “We shouldn't talk about this tonight.”

“Or ever,” Jason helpfully adds with a glare. He hisses under his breath as Alfred checks his injuries as gently as he can. Unfortunately, it's bound to be painful when every movement hurts something.

“...Fine. As long as you stay,” Bruce compromises, meeting Jason's gaze. Jason furrows his eyebrows. Since fucking when did Bruce compromise? Where is Bruce and what did this imposter do with him??

Jason acquiesces with a sigh. “Alright, whatever.”

And so Alfred finished up his examination, Dick and Bruce helped Jason get upstairs, and he spent the rest of his night watching movies with his family until he passed out in the giant cuddle pile that they all inevitably turned into.

It didn't stop the nightmares, but it certainly helped once he woke up.

[dragonbabes]

F*ck it, I'll do it myself...

Note | I've taken it into my own hands and am writing a short series on the weeks that Rook is stuck in the fade. This is based off my Crow!Rook playthrough. I'm posting it through AO3 as well, because why not. And buckle up my friends, this is gonna be a long ride and is very much going to be a passion project.

Words | 4,366

Pairing | Rookanis, for sure

The Thorns that Bind

Ch 1

He comes to notice the ache in his jaw first. How that dull throbbing is slowly spreading up into the base of his head, and then down into his shoulder and neck; oh, how he ached all over. The familiar burning of muscles from being pushed to their limit, and further, has him releasing a groan and a mumbled curse. His eyes crack open and drag mindlessly over the floating shelves and rings of the astrolabe that is suspended in the lighthouse…

The lighthouse? When did he get here? What happened?

A form — long hair spilling over their shoulders — leans over him, eclipsing the bright light he’s been squinting at while collecting his thoughts. They extend a hand to him.

“Rook?” He clasps onto the hand that forcefully pulls him up and then steadies him as his head spins. No, not Ise. Brown eyes stare back at his, brows slackened with uncharacteristic worry, and lips in a thin line.

“Did you have to hit him so hard?” Neve snaps over her shoulder, her gaze hardening at Taash. The young Qunari crosses their arms and shrugs, keeping their position between Lucanis and the stairwell leading down to the eluvian. He takes note of Harding, standing at the top of the other set descending steps. The assassin puts together that his lapse of memory may have as much to do with Taash’s blow as Spite’s influence.

“We don’t need him hunting down Solas and getting himself killed.” Taash confirms it with her own hard look at Neve. Lucanis rubs at his jaw and shuts his eyes at the sharp pain that jolts through it. What made Spite take over? He doesn’t recall going to sle-

“Get the dagger!” The line — one that comes with blurred images of bright red and the smell of metal — echoes in his head. He remembers being thrown back. From what? He squeeze his eyes shut and turns away from the others, so they wouldn’t see the confusion flittering across his paled skin. His heart begins pounding, his muscle tensing; Lucanis stands on the edge of a watery memory, desperately trying to get a clear view of what he was seeing or where he was.

“Lucanis?” Neve sounds like she's shouting from the other end of a tunnel.

There’s a crushing force pressing down against him, a fierce wind lashing out at him and throwing dirt and debris against his cheeks; it burned. He could only push himself to his hands and knees. He used one hand to block the blinding light trying to catch sight of-

“Rook! Get the dagger, Rook!” It’s a sudden shift that has his cheeks and arms running cold, and his heart coming to a dead stop from its hammering beat. There’s a flash of her long burgundy locks whipping in the wind, her hand latching around the hilt of the dagger – a swell of triumph in his chest because he won, he stabbed and killed the elvan god Ghilan’nain, and he smiled – and then her scream tears through his head.

“Where’s Rook?” Lucanis’ voice is drawn tight, his hand reaching out to stop Neve from stepping closer to him. He can feel and hear Spite fighting for control; bellowing that he gets her out. If he loses control again, he fears what Spite will do if they were to step between him and his goal: deny the Dreadwolf, kill Fen'Harel.  “Where is Isehari, Neve?” He pushes as the silence persists

“You don’t remember?” The mage’s voice is full of a pity that Lucanis can’t stand to hear. Why pity him? His flaring eyes dart to Neve’s, where the fire within him is immediately extinguished at the watery look she gives back. She wears a slack brow over downturned and wobbling lips. For the stoic Neve to have that look on her lovely features; Lucanis’ eyes flutter at the burn in them.

“What, Neve?” He grinds out, impatiently looks to the other for answers. Ghilan’nain is dead, Rook had the dagger. His gaze pleads with Neve to tell him what he doesn’t remember.

“After you killed Ghilan’nain and Ise grabbed the dagger, a tear occurred in the Veil… She was pulled into the fade, and – and,” Neve begins a pace, “we don’t know what went on in there, but it was the same at Solas' ritual, except this time Solas came out and…” She stops and surrenders her hands in front of herself. “And Isehari didn't.”

“So…” Lucanis blinks at the others. So, she’s trapped in the fade? Trapped in the prison that ancient mages, so powerful they were considered gods, couldn’t escape themselves for thousands of years? It digs up the suffocating feelings he thought he’d buried with Zara. Feeilngs that made him slam his fists against his cell walls, made him pace and scream and tear at his hair; feelings that he's smothered a thousand times before. He heaves in a sudden and deep breath, burying the corners of his lips into his cheeks.

“She’s imprisoned in the fade.” Taash does him the favor of saying it for him. He swallows thickly and focuses to keep his legs under himself. Lucanis reminds himself to count his breaths, deep and slow, until the pounding in his ears subsides.

“Thank you, Taash.” Lucanis nods to them. “Can we get her out?” Taash’s eyes flick to Neve, piercing into the mage.

“The question of the hour.” Lucanis raises his brow at Taash’s words and then takes in the closed off stance they hold toward Neve. The tucked chin, arms crossed over their chest, feet a shoulders width apart. He could cut the air between them like butter; the hard stares he’s finally taking note of making his feet shift.

“Am I missing something?” The assassin asks. Neve hums at him and holds her hand out to Taash.

“Oh, yes indeed!" Neve motions towards the dragon hunter, "Taash was enlightening me on how I don’t care about Isehari.” Neve’s voice is hard, and a tight-lipped smile returns to her face. Taash rolls their eyes.

“Neve…” Harding’s voice is shaking with nerves. Lucanis can see it on her round face, in the flush of her cheeks and her darting eyes, the way she holds her hands out in front of her as if she’s trying to calm a wolf. He imagines she feels that she is, somewhat, sandwiched between the towering form of Taash and the cool look Neve is giving. He’d be on edge too. “I don’t think Taash means it that way.”

“I do.” They don’t waste a beat.

“How can you say that?” Neve scoffs. Lucanis’ trained ear picks up the strain in the investigators tone. He looks back to Taash.

“Not really sure how ‘let’s leave Rook to rot in the fade’ exactly says you care about her.” Taash narrows their gaze. Neve throws her hands out and shakes her head. Lucanis holds his hand up and shakes his head.

“Wait – we’re considering leaving her?” Taash shrugs.

“I’m not.”

“I didn’t say that Taash!” Neve’s voice is raising. She takes a step closer to Taash, and Lucanis moves forward instinctively. He joins Harding in standing between the two and watching their every movement. What the pair would do — with Taash being triple the size of both of them, and Neve a force to be reckoned with — he isn’t sure. “I’m just saying that Elgar’nan is still out there. We need to deal with him.”

“Not without Rook.” Taash stands their ground. Lucanis is inclined to agree with them, too.

“Taash, not even Solas – an ancient elven god — could escape that prison. What makes you think we can get Rook out?” Neve’s voice comes out softer this time, almost as if she’s pleading with Taash.

“If we can’t, then Rook will.”

“Rook is just Rook, Taash. She’s not even a mage. What can she do?” Lucanis flinches at her words; he can see Neve recoiling at them herself. The dragon hunter’s hands find purchase in their hair as they begin pace around. “What do you expect her to do?”

“I don’t know!” Taash cries, tearing their hands from their hair and turning back to Neve. The tears reddening their eyes makes the mage draw back and swallow the other words she was poised to spew. “I don’t know, Neve. But Rook finds a way. She always finds a way.”

“And if we take the time to get her out? Elgar’nan will decimate everything in the meantime. Rook won’t have a home to even come back to.” Neve stops. As do the rest.

“If she can come back.” Harding’s head falls.

“You too?” Taash’s expression falls. “You’d turn your back on her?” Harding looks to her hands, head falling a little, and shoulders slumping forward. “No! I-“ Harding’s lip wobbles, but she steels herself against the judgement pouring from Taash with a deep and quick breath, “People are dying, Taash. We can't ignore that.” They only grunt back to Harding and then turn away, putting distance between themselves and the rest. “Varric brought us together to stop the world from falling apart. That’s what I intend to do.” Harding’s voice is soft. Lucanis’ heart pounds in his head. He sees where Neve and Harding are coming from… But…

“I can’t…” Lucanis’ voice breaks as soon as he starts. His head falls. Heaving in deep breaths, he tries to find the right words.

Does he want the world to burn? No. Of course not! But… He almost doesn’t care, with Isehari gone. The last time he fought a god with something weighing on his mind like this, he failed. He doesn’t get to fail twice. Not this late in the game, not with Elgar’nan on the cusp of breaking this world entirely…

“I can’t do this without Rook.” Lucanis’ words are rushed, and he’s positive he’ll never be able to get them out so evenly again. “It’ll be Weisshaupt all over again. I cannot do this, knowing she is trapped in there.”

“I don’t like it either, Lucanis, but what other choice do we have?” Neve reasons. “We don’t have the dagger, we don’t know anything about the rituals to open the prison, or where to look for rook, or how to find her; if she’s even still alive.” He takes in a sharp breath.

“She’s alive.” His words are hard, but his eyes are pleading. Eyes begging Neve to never utter those words again, or he may wither away to nothing. Her rich, chocolate eyes keep locked with his, steadily, before she sighs and turns away from him with a shake in her head.

“If I might…” Emmrich’s quiet and smooth voice, and the only person in the room who still seems to have a grip on even a thread of reason, finally breaks the silence he’s been keeping, “Rook has been gone for approximately four hours… We have done nothing but argue in the meantime.”

Lucanis didn’t realize it’s been so long since everything happened. It’s been a blink of an eye between now and when he saw Rook grab the dagger. Part of him deflates and he repeats those words to himself; it’s only been four hours, and Lucanis feels he’s already at death’s door…

“Yeah. All over bullshit, too.” Taash snorts over their shoulder at them. “We shouldn’t even have to argue this.”

“It’s not-“ Harding comes to an abrupt halt at Emmrich’s raising hand, the jewelry adorning him clanking together.

“Come now. We’ve been making circular arguments.”

“Because Taash won’t listen!” Neve cries. “Everyone else can see reason.”

“This isn’t about seeing reason! This is about being there for a friend that’s never let us down.”

“Oh?” Neve tilts her head toward them. Lucanis can already guess what she means — they’ve talked it over again and again — before it comes out of Neve’s mouth in a cool tone, “What was Minrathous?”

“Minrathous wasn’t just Rook’s responsibility.” There’s a glean in Taash’s eye, one that has Lucanis moving closer to them.

“Taash is right on this, Neve.” Lucanis pitches into the conversation. “I thought we worked past that…”

“I know that Rook made a hard call… But…” Neve crosses her arms over herself. “Lucanis you’ve seen my home now. You all have. I fully believed that Isehari would come through for me that day… So, forgive me if I don't feel the same about it.”

“Four hours and eight minutes we’ve been arguing.” Emmrich sighs. “Rook would have this cleared up in no time, wouldn’t she?” There’s a distant look in his eye when he says it, and a melancholy smile taking up his lips. Isehari does have a nose for trouble; she somehow shows up as soon as words started getting tense. She came with a smile and disarming green-blue eyes curved and sparkling. It’s like she sucked all their anger directly out of them. Then, she’d play peacekeeper.

“She did have a knack for peace keeping, didn’t she?” Harding gives a light laugh…

There’s a long silence after that. One that’s needed after the last twenty-four hours. He takes that time to sit down; the others soon follow. Every inch of Lucanis’ body runs numb with fatigue, his heads spinning, and his stomach twists. When’s the last time any of them have eaten? He’s still got blood dried on his gloves, and a cut on his arm he really should patch up. The others don’t fare much better than him. All disheveled, covered in blood, bruises, and dirt.

“Listen…” Lucanis leans forward. “We’re all exhausted. We need to clean ourselves up and eat something.”

“That’s an excellent idea!” Emmrich says. The assassin stands quickly and nods to the others before darting out of the lighthouse doors.

~*~

Dull eyes stare back at him. Shallow pools of earthy brown; pupils blown a little wide, the whites irritated, and the skin beneath them reddened and purple. They reflect nothing. He looks into them, and he sees nothing; feels nothing; can read nothing.

Gaze turns back down to the basin in front of him. He watches his hands turn through the cold water, barely feeling it shift against his calloused palms, and then considers how the firelight flickers off the ripples in the bowl, or the water dipping off his hands. His hands. They turn in front of him, and he examines the scarred knuckles on his right hand, the hardened skin on his palm; these are the hands that have taken a thousand lives, hands that he cooks with, the hands he used to brush Rook’s hair back from her eyes and tuck it behind her ear.

The hard and blank expression he’s practiced in the mirror falls off, his brow pinches, and his downturned eyes crest with unshed tears. He reached out to her that day without thinking – on instinct, because he couldn’t see her eyes – and took up the soft tresses that had fallen over her shoulder; her wide eyes had shot up to him and frozen him in place, hand stopping at the corner of her jaw before he quickly yanked it away. His heart was pounding, every inch of his body thrummed, he was on fire; he felt alive.

His heart beats the pace of a dirge now. His limbs are numb, and he is cold. Muscles aching at every movement, the assassin splashes water over his face and rubs at his quaking expression, until the sob swelling in his chest subsides and he can iron his expression out once more. The icy water on his face puts his feet a little flatter on the ground. He lets his head hang.

Rook is gone… She… Isehari is missing.

“Find. Rook.” Those words have been Spite’s mantra since Lucanis has come to. “She was torn away. Get her back!” Mierda, Spite knows no rest. It’s exhausting, ignoring the same thing being screamed and grunted every so often. “Ripped and torn from us!” Lucanis’ eyes flick up to the brown ones before him, and he meet’s the purple flash just behind the pupils with a wave of fresh determination hardening in his heart and setting in a frown on his lips:

He will get Rook back. At the very least, Solas will answer for his transgressions against Ise.

Lucanis steps back into the dining hall and pulls the tray holding the coffee he brewed along with cups, sugar, a small pitcher of sweetened milk, and a small jar of cinnamon off the counter… No one but Ise puts cinnamon in their coffee; he gave her a strange look the first time she followed him to the market one day to purchase a small jar of cinnamon and sweetened milk... He’s kept it stocked since.

He leaves the cinnamon on the tray and turns to Manfred, who stands close at his side, hissing his eagerness to help.

“Take this to the others, please.” The spirit takes up the tray – Lucanis imagines if Manfred could smile, his lips would be stretching from ear to ear, the way he bounces about – and scuttles toward the door. The assassin returns his attention to the assortment of foods he’s prepared, counting the plates and utensils twice, before taking up the dishes and realizing he’ll have to make two trips; the plate of fruits and the puff pastries that Harding always takes two of.

“Here… I’ll help.” Harding’s voice is quiet and sudden; he almost didn’t hear her approaching.

“Thank you.”

“I’m happy to… I’m not much help in there right now anyways.” Lucanis hums his agreement; he understands. This, he casts his eyes down to the snacking meats, cheese, and sliced bread in his hand, is the best he can do. Isehari is trapped in a lonely desolate place, and all he can do is prepare a decent spread.

Lucanis cannot poison the sky; he cannot stab the veil and force his way into the fade to find her; he doesn’t understand any of that. What he does know is that no one has eaten much of anything in at least eleven hours. No one here has any appetite to eat a meal, but a snack and drink is less daunting.

The others have cleaned themselves up and taken seats in the time that Lucanis has been preparing the food. He sees that the adrenaline has finally left the others systems, just as it’s left him an exhausted mess. Their eyes have fallen lidded, shoulders are slumped forward, defeated. The loud and passionate voices from before have become withdrawn and staggered between drawn out silences.

Emmrich is hunched forward with his forehead pressed to his hands, clasped atop his walking stick; the charcoal gray hair on his head is freshly washed, but unusually displaced. Neve holds her cup out as Manfred pours the coffee with a fascinated hiss at the rising steam. Taash has resumed the same pose as before: leaned back in their chair, arms crossed over their chest, furrowed brow, a frown, a tucked chin, and a withering glare locked on the table. Lucanis sits the snacks in front them, hoping it’ll redirect their attention for at least a minute. He takes up a cup from the coffee tray, and Manfred hops over to him.

“Thanks.” Lucanis’ eye is drawn to the coffee tray as Harding pours a bit of sweetened milk in her coffee. The three cups remaining on the tray catches his attention, and it remains there. One for Davrin, another for Bellara, and the last for Rook.

“Hey…” Neve’s soft voice calls him back. He shakes his head at her questioning gaze.

“Have we gotten anywhere?” Emmrich’s head is shaking before Taash or Neve could fire another back handed word or start up another argument that bordered more on word vomit than actual reasoning.

“We’re just circling the drain, my friend.” The necromancer leans back in his chair. “We can’t come to an agreement.” Lucanis can’t help the twinge of annoyance in his chest. He swallows it into his endless pool of patience and nods instead of snaps at the two stubborn parties glaring at each other.

“Right…” Lucanis grinds out quietly. “We’re not doing anybody any favors while standing here arguing. Not for the people dying by Elgar’nan’s hand,” he levels Neve with a look before turning it onto Taash, “and not Rook. We need to do something.”

“Like Emmrich said before,” Taash begins in a surprisingly civil tone, taking up some of the cheese from the tray, “Rook would’ve had this figured out asap. We need Rook to make the decisions, whether we like it or not. If we go up against Elgar’nan without her, and we can’t come up with a plan on the fly, we’re all dead. And everything was for nothing.”

“Taash, there is so much we don’t know, and not enough time to understand it. Believe me, I want to get Isehari out; I do! But this is so much more than stabbing at the sky and pulling her out.”

“Well, duh. But, if I’m right, didn’t Rook just spend the past few months recruiting fade experts, famous investigators, and assassins? If there’s anyone that stands a chance of helping Rook, it’s us.” Lucanis nods.

“They’re right. It’s not like we have to chose one or the other, right?” Harding sits up on the sofa, and then sits her glass down as her face lightens. “Emmrich, Taash, and Lucanis, you can look into what we’ll need to do to get Rook back, if you can… Neve and I can keep tabs on Elgar’nan. Loosing Ghilan’nain must be somewhat of a setback for him.”

“Or it’s just pissed him off a little more.” Neve mumbles. Harding nods, acknowledging that that could be very true as well. The mage sighs. “You tear open the Veil, and there are going to be consequences.”

“As there always are.” Lucanis finally takes a seat.

“The consequences are something to consider.” Neve reasons. “What we could do by breaking into that prison? It could be catastrophic; we could release more blight, release more demons, or get ourselves killed in the process.” Taash scoffs.

“Rook wouldn’t let any of that stop her if it was any of us in there.” Lucanis is inclined to agree with them. “Rook would find a way. We need to do the same.”

“You’re right. Rook does things that no one expects, and she rarely considers the consequences when the stakes are high. But that’s also the whole reason any of us are here.” Neve cooly says back.

“Neve…” Lucanis shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s fair to blame all of this on Isehari.” The Shadow Dragon blinks and shakes her head.

“Oh! I’m not pointing a finger at her. I haven’t forgotten that I was pushing that beam right next to her. But that doesn’t change that we were reckless… And we released two blighted gods on the world.” Neve’s voice trails off, until she is silent again. Everyone is. Lucanis sighs and begins to run his hand over the fabric of the chair beneath him. Ise always sits here when the team gathers. She was here, in this chair, less than a day ago, and her scent is still fresh. It’s wrapping around him much like a hug. The thought places heavy weight into chest; a feeling that makes his body tense, and ache.

“I…” Lucanis’ voice comes out tight and gravelly, “I will kill as many blighted gods as I need to. Once Rook is safe.” Neve stares at him with an unreadable expression, until she takes her eyes away when she takes another drink of her coffee.

“I know.” They’re all quiet for a bit. “Bell would be far better for this than I am… I want to help Rook,” Neve’s eyes are pointed at Taash, who purses their lips and looks away, ”but I can’t ignore the threat that Elgar’nan poses.” Emmrich’s head falls as he gives a somber nod. 

“Solas has the lyrium dagger.” Harding suddenly announces, bringing the rare burst of momentum they’d found to an abrupt halt. They sit in silence, occasionally taking a drink, occasionally plucking a bite from the assortment of food on the table, and occasionally sighing.

“Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain made their own dagger. We can do the same, right?” Lucanis suggests. Both Emmrich and Neve stare at the assassin, before they look at each other, considering.

“We could, technically… But the power we would require to make that…” Emmrich looks to Neve and shakes his head, and she only responds with a shrug of her own. “I’m not sure how we would come across that.”

“When the Inquisitor closed the Breach ten years ago, she had to siphon enough mana into the mark to do it… She recruited the rebel mages from Redcliffe… Could we do something similar to that?” Harding asks.

“It could work… I’m not sure where we’d find that many mages."

“We all know a few.” Harding says. “We have connections; let's use them. I should reach out the Inquisitor Lavellan and let her know how things have turned out… She might be able to help with the dagger and recruiting enough mages to help.”

"We should get in contact with Morrigan again… I imagine she’d have some good counsel right now.” Neve adds.

“I agree.” Emmrich has straightened considerably, like a flower that had been without sun for too long, and there's a new brightness in his eye. “In the meantime, I will reach out to Vorgoth and some other associates. I’m hoping I will be able to gather more insight into the fade prison itself.”

“And I’ll see if Isabela can get started on tracking down the materials we’ll need to craft the dagger. If one of you could give me a list, that is.” Taash looks between Neve and Emmrich.

“Of course.” Neve nods to her.

“Any expenses, the Crows will cover. Spare no expense.” Lucanis says to Taash. They grin in turn.

“Well, ‘course I won’t.” Lucanis nods and swirls the coffee in his cup.

"I'll check in with with the Shadow Dragons, see what sort of movement the Venatori have been making. Bellara said she kept notes. I’ll take a look through her things to see if she kept any on the dagger.” Neve sighs, a new sense of calm masking over her features again.

“She and I looked at the dagger extensively together. I have a very basic understanding of it, but Bellara truly is the expert of it all… Her notes will be invaluable” Taash stands slowly and excuses themself to go and clean up. Dread sags into Lucanis’ shoulders, and he rests his head against the back of the chair.

“You’re not doing anything.” Spite’s voice crawls into his head. “Do. Something. Find Rook!” Lucanis rubs at his temple. He’s going to do something alright… He nearly dreads this more than he dreaded taking his first shot at Ghilan’nain.

He must tell Viago.

[monkey-overalls]

Project: Eden’s Garden Deadly Life/Trial Thoughts

Feeling a bit more incoherent now than I did before for… obvious reasons, so these are gonna be bullet points instead of full paragraphs:

Kai’s “OOOHHH SHIT” voice line cracks me up every time I hear it, the delivery is hilarious.

Also the “GAME OVER MAN, GAME OVER”—I see you Aliens reference, don’t think I didn’t catch that 👀

Wolfgang’s enraged sprites were phenomenal. The emotion captured in them had me on the edge of my seat.

I still don’t trust him though. They keep hammering in how great of a person he was but I dooon’t trust it not ooone bit!!!

WOLFGANG’S VOICE ACTOR NAILED IT OH MY GOSH ‼️‼️

The performance may have been much less intense than many of the other characters, but I want to shout out Eloise’s VA as well. Her voice is so soft and sweet, but she can also sound authoritative when she wants to be (i.e., questioning Grace). Anytime she speaks I’m like 🥰

Diana lowkey sounds like Kaede. Am I the only one who thinks she sounds like Kaede???

The fact that they made Ulysses say “Um ackshually ☝️🤓” gave me irreversible whiplash.

I can’t attest to the playability of the Argument Altercation (I watched it, not played it) but it was visually and conceptually stunning. Eva may be having a complete mental breakdown, but the art makes her look super cool doing it lmao

Diana I am so sorry for thinking you were sus, you deserve so much better… your speech was a little goofy though ngl

I say this while also still shipping her and Eva… whoops, got blinded by the toxic yuri beams sorrynotsorry-

Now for the elephant in the room… Eva they could never make me hate you. NEVER. I don’t care that you chewed Damon out or framed Diana for murder, you’re still my favorite girl and this game will have to pry my imaginary Eva Tsunaka marketable plushie from my cold, dead hands!!!

Obviously her VA also slayed. I love how quiet and raspy her voice normally is, and how that juxtaposes with her absolutely losing her shit towards the end of the trial.

That execution, man. At first I was like “A fire pit? That’s it? Seems like a pretty instant death to me” and then they brought out the glass and the nails and I was SILENT. The ghost of Kirumi Tojo was cheering you on the entire way, Eva.

The animation had no right being that smooth??? Tozu was right, this probably did take up most of the budget.

Everyone’s crying sprites make me want to commit Sakura Protein Shake 😭

INGRID’S AFFIRMATIONS DIDN’T HELP, THEY JUST MADE ME CRY HARDER 😭😭😭

[smiley-mcdoggington]

ALPHA CONSTANCE OMEGA STANFORD BECAUSE YOU CAN PRY THESE TEENAGERS OUT OF MY COLD DEAD HANDS :3 NO GIRLDICK SORRYYYY TW STANCEST TW NONCON TECHNICALLY BECAUSE CONTRACEPTIVES NEED TO BE KNOWN AND AGREED ON TW IMPLIED MPREG TW ABO

Outside the window, a tiny dog was yapping loud enough to echo down the street. Inside, the old AC could be heard buzzing from a room away, and a steady beat of a rubber ball against a wooden paddle tried to drill a hole into Ford's brainstem. The metal finally broke off the pencil he was chewing, and he snapped, spitting out the pencil end and whipping around. "Constance, would you quit that?! You can't copy off my exam if I can't write my own exam because you kept me from studying." He said tersely.

Stan let her toy flop to the side, cocking her head. "You know, studying ain't the only thing you coulda slammed on your desk and done the last three hours." She said, back arched just slightly, legs crossed in her pilfered boxers that Ford would never be able to wear properly again because she was most definitely stretching them out.

"The joke is homework." Ford said vaguely, looking at the way her thighs squished together.

"Huh?"

"'Homework' is what you slam on your desk, 'studying' is a verb."

"Fuck off, you get the gist." She said, getting up and sauntering over. "You gonna do me or am I gonna lose you to that geometry?" She asked, gesturing to his open textbooks.

The reminder snapped Ford back to reality. "I can't, Stan, I have to study. You would know that if you ever tried it yourself." He said, turning back around in his chair and picking up his now broken pencil.

"Aw, but I'm great at studying - I know all the different browns in your eyes because I'm always studying em'." She said, leaning over the back of his chair and letting her warm tits press into his shoulder blades.

"Are you trying to take me to bed with cheesy one-liners? If so, it won't work this close to exams." He lied, because the words he had just written were already blended together with everything else on the page while his mind tried to map out where her nipples sat on his back between their shirts. Damn her.

"Hey, come on Sixer, only thing you're doing is stressing yourself out." She muttered, lips itching his sideburns just slightly. "Why don't you come to bed?"

Ford leaned back against her and blamed it on his nature how easily he sank into her warm, gentle touches. "I can't tonight, Constance, I'm tired." He said, while her fingers carded his hair away from his face.

She hummed, gently turning his head so his ear rested on her shoulder and putting his mouth so close to her neck he could reach out and taste her without having to leave the hold of the fingers scratching at his baby hairs. She smelled like the ocean, salty and earthy - Ford could get drunk off it. And Stan just showed her neck so readily, as if she were the omega in the room. Ford leaned just slightly closer, giving teasing bunny kisses to that sensitive gland on her neck, feeling her breath hitch as much as hearing it. Her other hand came up to his ribs, he laced his fingers through hers and held it there.

She huffed a short laugh, not at all subtle with the deep breaths she was taking. "What happened to studying?" She asked lowly.

"You happened." He retorted, giving the side of her neck a gentle kiss that had her nails digging just slightly into his flesh.

Pulling away was like pulling teeth, and Constance seemed to agree from the way she groaned when his head left the cradle of her shoulder and his hand left hers, but it had to be done. "Take me to bed." He said hoarsely, and Stan keened in a way she obviously didn't mean to from the expression on her face.

"Course'." She said shortly, surging forward, one hand on his ribs and the other on his hip, she looked up at him like the moon and the stars, slowly turning the both of them like a ballroom dance.

She slowly guided him backwards until his knees hit her bunk - her bed still looked the same as it had when they were six and their grandma had gotten her a frilly pink bedding set that was now sunbleached white with fraying frills along the edges. He wasn't one to judge, his bunk was decorated with faded rocket ships. He sat down and she immediately moved to straddle him, mound grinding against his stiff cock. But he grabbed her hips.

"I'm tired, remember?" He dragged, the empty feeling in himself more glaring the more he thought of his next words. "Won't you take the lead?" He asked, and his sister's eyes widened.

For a second she just studied him, looking for a tell that he was lying, before a wide smile lit up her face. "You're shittin' me - I can?" She said, excitement lilting her words, hips rocking just slightly against his thighs - he could feel the moisture through his stolen boxers.

Ford had looked into it - he was fairly certain she wouldn't be able to Lock with him on her first attempt, so it wouldn't matter that he had been so busy studying he had forgotten to refill his birth control. He was almost certain - and more pressingly, he very much wanted to know what it felt like to Kiss with her.

He nodded in response to her, and she all but tackled him into her threadbare sheets, giggling like an excited child and kissing all over his face - it was impossible for her giddiness not to affect him, he found himself chuckling along with her.

Then she pulled back, hips still gyrating just slightly on his stomach so she could lay face to face with him. She took his face in both her hands. "You wanna be on your front or your back?" She asked, nerves starting to show, trying to hide it with an awful grin.

Ford had seen a book, and while he was flexible, being on his back while Kissing seemed... Ambitious. Especially for a first time. "Front." He said, and Stan nodded, before crawling off of him. He almost flipped onto his front immediately, but then he felt her thin hands on his knees. He looked down and saw her looking at him with her head between his legs. She gave him an evil little grin, reaching for the button of his jeans. She pulled his pants down agonizingly slowly, giving herself a little show as she traced his thin, hairy legs with her eyes. His brows lowered, waiting for her to be quite done amusing herself, even as something like pride curled in his stomach just seeing the evidence that she found him appealing.

Finally the pants were off his legs and she went for his waistband. He hadn't felt how wet he had become until she pulled his boxers away, and he could see the dark spot in the gray material. Stan also seemed to notice this, and maybe something else, from the way her hands had stopped dead on his waistband and she was looking between Ford's legs with wide, dark eyes. Ford put his knees together in front of her. "Hurry up, Stan."

Constance nodded, still distracted but at least getting his boxers off his legs. "You smell like taffy, you know that?" She said, swallowing her saliva.

Ford's face twisted. "Gross." He said, because he had no idea why Stan liked it.

"Gorgeous." Stan corrected, gently pulling his legs apart again, looking for a reaction - permission. He let his legs fall open again and she smiled dopily. "Ya smell gorgeous." She said as if it made sense.

She kissed up the insides of his thighs, one of her smaller hands coming up to wrap around his cock and squeeze. Then something hot and blunt pressed against his hole and for one heartstopping moment he thought it was a phallus - as if he hadn't seen Stan's genitals before, as if he didn't know female alpha biology, as if her crotch was even close to his - but the the pressure dragged upwards, over the slit of his taint, making him shiver, stopping right at his balls. That was her tongue. She was licking him. His face burned hot - her actions were obscene, he was suddenly frantic to remember the last time he'd showered - too long ago. Then her tongue lapped at him again and he keened, high and embarrassing, his hands both snapping down to grab her hair just to hold on. Sure she had stuck a finger or two in him before but this was different.

Stan moaned with her tongue still out and against his hole, and the vibrations made him squeak. "Stan!"

Stan poked her head up, looking dazed as all hell, an indiscernable clear liquid glinting on her chin. "Ya?" She said astutely.

Ford felt like a live wire in her hands. "Would you get on with it? I want to t-try..." He trailed off, but his twin understood.

She stood up, shucking her pilfered boxers like they were on fire, t-shirt gone with enough force it made her tits sway like a hypnotist's pocket watch. She grabbed under Ford's thighs, picking them up and turning his whole body to be in line with her bed before crawling up after him. Ford was so startled by the sudden action he nearly forgot to flip onto his front. Her thighs bracketed his hips, sopping cunt pressing his cock into his stomach while she pulled at his shirt as if she didn't know what she was doing to him.

Her ten fingers snaked under his shirt and pulled it up, only pausing for a second when she saw his nipples - he did not understand her fascination - before pulling the clothing over his head with his assistance. She kissed his cheek and his jaw and after a quick nod from him, kissed his neck, one hand idly groping at his chest for a tit that was not there. Then she backed off, crawled back to the foot of the bed to give him space and waited with eager eyes still roving over him.

He got his elbows under him, slowly turning himself, only looking away from her when he absolutely had to as he laid down on his front, arms poised and ready to push himself up and off at a moment's notice. He heard no shuffling - Stan was still waiting. He buried his face in a greasy pillow that smelled like the ocean and slowly arched his body into the mattress, stiff cock dragging against the mattress as his pelvis slowly tilted up. He heard her hum, low and infatuated with what she saw. His legs were already shaking when she moved, straddling the backs of his thighs. Her small hands moved to his ass, cupping the small amount of fat there, thumb rubbing gentle circles into him. "It's alright, Stanford." She said, voice rough but words gentle, more soothing than they had any right to be. "You can tap out if you need to--"

"Don't." He snapped without thinking. "Just - just fuck me, Constance." He said, and Stan groaned. The weight left his legs as she shuffled forward.

Then she was on him. Knees on either side of his hips, warm, wet heat dragging against his hole. He keened, long and low, feeling her gyrate slowly against him with little huffing whines of her own. He could feel his own pulse - or maybe it was hers? Inside him. Her weight kept him from rolling back into his sister but she seemed more than content to move enough for the both of them. Her hands reached for his and he quickly put them over hers, feeling her kiss his shoulder blades. Her clit caught his rim and they both moaned.

Stan huffed, her grinding slowly getting faster. He could feel his slick and hers both running down over his taint. She swallowed thickly, and something about hearing her behind him made Ford feel cut open for her to see. "You like it?" She asked, voice gravelly but still checking on Ford.

Ford nodded against her pillow. "Yes!" He yelped as he felt the briefest suction on his rim. His mouth got stuck on the word, repeating it over and over until it didn't sound like a word anymore, just gibberish as his release built and built. Stan rolled her hips hard against him and he yelped, hands gripping hers for dear life while he drooled on her pillow. His peak was so close he could taste it, every brief meeting of her hole perfectly against his driving him that much closer. He could hear his sister above him, wanted to catalogue every new noise she made but her movements were melting his thoughts away into a pretty little puddle like the one he could feel growing between his legs. Their holes caught again for a second, and Stan growled slightly. He tried to formulate a question to that when she repeated her movements but stopped dead halfway through, and Ford wailed into her pillow while his brains were pulled out of his asshole, warm suction like a perfect kiss covering his hole. Locked, his brain added, but he couldn't remember why the concept was anything but earth-shatteringly hot.

Then Stan's thighs started quivering at his sides while she keened, and the first rush of warmth painted his insides. He cried, rutting as much as he physically could, feeling her seed slowly fill him with a rush of satisfaction that had him finally falling over that edge, shaking apart under his sister while her weight held him down and she put gentle kisses in his sweaty hair.

He was panting when he rolled his sister off him so he could face her, kiss her, hold her. But then a trickle of her seed trailed down his ass cheek and he paled.

"You came in me." He said quietly.

Constance smiled dopily at him. "Yeah - but it's fine, you're on the pill, right?"

"I haven't had a chance to refill my prescription." He said faintly, and her face paled to match his.

"Shit."

[everlastingdreams]

The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 27

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Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: Oddity

Notes: /

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forced Marriage. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn. Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter:  27/47

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Your head felt heavy against the cold brick wall as you awoke from the slumber they had forced you into. Your arm was hurting and you hoped the wound on it was not bleeding again, they must have dragged you into this freezing cold place. A cold dark cell, surrounded you, the bars a couple of feet away were rusted and by the rain dripping through small holes in the ceiling you could smell the rust.

When you saw who was at the other side of them, you prayed it was a nightmare, or that you were dying and that this was just a delusion. “Father?”

Aldith was reading in your mother’s journal, he had your satchel under his arm. “You brought a lot of misfortune on me, child. Killed my son, betrayed me, and because of your husband’s recent outburst against the Trinity Guard they now have Ravenwick under guard. Because of you, I cannot return home.” He closed the book, came to the bars and stuck his arm through them, he threw the journal at you with force and you had to cover your head to dampen the impact. “Foolish little whore! I was far too gentle with you.”

You grabbed your mother’s journal and stuffed it inside your jacket, a desperate attempt to protect it against him. You saw him take your own journal out of the satchel.

He dropped the satchel to the floor and began to look inside your journal, being careless with the pages, causing tears on multiples ones as he searched through them. “Cassian is death because of you, because of that Weeping Monk. Ravenwick is lost to the Church. You owe me a debt, one you will pay or suffer the consequences.”

You refused to be blamed. “Cassian is dead because neither of you kept your word on the trade with Father Carden, your hunger for coin killed him!”

He snapped the journal shut with his hand and you could barely avoid being hit by it too, it hit the wall just above your head, he kicked the satchel against the bars. “You dare accuse me?” He scoffed. “I heard of what you did the day that the Weeping Monk caused that chaos that happened in the paladin camp, do you think you can use that magic of you now? You were given enough of that flower that I know you will even struggle to walk. You should be very quiet, child.”

He had heard about it, about the green fire that had send the paladins to flee for their lives.

“Where am I?” you gritted out through your teeth angrily.

Aldith found great pleasure in speaking of your fate. “In the castle of the Lord of Morrowstead. He has been waiting for you ever since he gave me the coin. You are his newest novelty. I would expect a visit from him very soon.”

It came out bitter, “You sold me.”

He had no mercy to show. “You were free for the taking now that your husband is dead, you belong to Lord Leoric now.”

The earth was pulled from under your feet, even though you sat on the ground you felt like falling. “What did you just say?”

Aldith had a malicious grin on his face. “The fool tried to stop my men from taking you at the inn, he tried to follow them, they cut his eyes from his skull and burned that Fey child he was with alive.”

Ice ran through your veins, hot tears came over your cheeks but you no longer felt them. A numbness stronger than the effects of the flower had overtaken every inch of you and you no longer heard what Aldith was saying. It no longer mattered what happened next.

        Aldith did not stay for much longer, he must have noticed how you had locked the world out. The only thing you could think of was Percival and Lancelot, how they had been murdered only because they had tried to help. You had not moved since the news had been given so cold and cruelly, and you doubted your legs could carry you now. Guards who wore helmets that covered their heads and faces from harm, stopped at your cell’s door. You wondered how hard it would be to drive a dagger through the space left open for their eyes. They opened the cell door and in stepped a man who was dressed like a noble.

He looked only a few years older than you, short golden hair and a rather uptight look on his face as he studied you. “I am Lord Leoric. Do you know where you are?”

You turned your head away in response to that. Whatever it was that awaited you, you had no energy left to fight it.

Lord Leoric got closer, looking down at your bound wrists. “This castle will be your home from now on. You are a fine specimen.” When no reaction came from you, he continued, “A half-blood and Ash Folk. A rarity. I look forward to seeing what you are like.” He reached out to touch your face, but you recoiled. “No markings… Fascinating.”

He rose up from to ground and spoke to his guards. “It is time to bring her to her quarters. Have her bathe. See to it that she wears clean clothes, we cannot have her looking like she has lived in an inn.”

That vain comment pulled you to the present, you glared up at him. He didn’t seem to care one bit, he was looking at you like an acquired toy.

“I have read all I could find on your kind and unfortunately there was not much, what better way to learn than to observe the species itself.” Lord Leoric beckoned for you to stand. “On your feet. This dungeon will only make you sick and the Ash Folk is rare enough as it is.” His guards pulled you to your feet roughly and he noticed them doing so. “Careful. She is worth her weight in gold and more.”

You were watching it happen with widened eyes, it felt surreal. Were you something he wanted to study? To lock you up and examine you? As they walked you out of the dungeons and on more than three sets of large stairs, you tried to take in your surroundings as much as you could. The place was perfectly clean, there were short pillars with oddities and strange statues in every hallway. The Lord of Morrowstead was a collector of sorts, and you prayed he was not of the insane and cruel kind.

You dug your heels into the carpeted floor. “My husband-”

He had been walking up front and turned as you spoke to him for the first time. “What was that?”

“My husband… I was at the inn with him and a boy.” you swallowed hard. “Is it true that they were killed?”

“That boy is in my dungeons.” he said.

Some broken pieces of your heart put themselves together again. Percival was alive, imprisoned but alive.

Lord Leoric looked at his guards expectantly. “Have we received any word about the Weeping Monk?”

“No, Sir.” One of them answered. “Those sellswords did not speak of the Weeping Monk to us.”

“Strange.” he hummed. “Who told you he was dead?”

“My father.” you felt a spark of hope. “He said his men killed him when he followed them.”

He scoffed. “That would be atrociously foolish. If the Weeping Monk is truly of the Ash Folk, he is worth quite a generous amount to me alive.”

You saw an opportunity to use this to your advantage. “Then you should find out if he’s still alive.”

He looked at one of the guards. “Have a group search for him. Death or alive, bring his corpse if you have to.”

“Yes. Sir.” The guard said, slightly disturbed by his Lord’s odd command.

Maybe there was still hope, maybe this was another one of Aldith’s ways to hurt you. Still, you feared to let that hope truly in. The thought that Lancelot could very well be dead was a thought you could not stand. To miss him, to lose someone like him… no you couldn’t bear the thought.

Lord Leoric began to walk ahead again. “You see, many believe I am unwell. My interest in the oddities of the world unsettles many.”

“What is your intent towards me?” you demanded to know as he came to a halt at a large door.

He was ridiculously casual about it. “The most valuable matters that I collect are kept locked away, as you will be. When I heard of your existence I had a room prepared that will be your home from now on. You will have all you want.”

The reality of the situation hit. He did not intend to treat you in a humane way. “Except my freedom?”

“You are far too interesting to be wandering around freely.” He opened the door and the guard made you follow inside. “A bathing room, table and chairs to eat like the civilized, a comfortable bed. A bench to sit on covered with the softest wool. What more could you want?”

“My freedom.” you deadpanned.

He turned to face you, agitated. “If you believe that I am not able to make you compliant, you are gravely mistaken. I own you.”

Fury burned inside. “I am not your property!”

Lord Leoric looked at one of the guards and gave a nod. The guard came to stand in front of you and struck you with the back of his hand. A shocked gasp fled your lungs.

“There are rules,” he said, watching the guard step back into place, “-that you will follow here. No fleeing, you stay where I tell you to stay. No talking back to me, know your place. Follow my orders, if I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to crawl, you will crawl. Obey my rules and I will let you keep that satchel with the journals. Disobey and I will have you burn them page by page.”

The guards steered you to the bathing room, Lord Leoric followed and pointed to a stack of clothing that were on a chair next to a large wardrobe.

“There are only gowns.” he said. “I do not want to see you in those filthy clothes again. Bathe.”

Your clothes were not filthy, but he was so condescending that there was no reasoning with him. It must have been because they were not like the fancy ones that he himself wore. A Lord who was vain and obsessed with rare things, you doubted you were safe in this place. He would treat you like nothing more than a caged animal to entertain himself with. If you acted compliant, maybe he would be reckless enough to think you would not try to escape. For years you have had to behave like an obedient servant to Aldith and Cassian, you had enough experience to play the part.

With your head down you went to the stack of clothes and picked out a gown at random. “May I wear this, please?”

He picked up on the change in your tone quickly, seeming to approve of it. “No.” he said, then handed you his own choice of gown. “Wear this one.”

Controlling too. Great. Just great. You looked at the large wooden tub that was already filled, it’s steam had filled half of the room.

He used a short dagger to cut the ropes from your wrists, using the dagger again to threaten, “Do as I ask. Bathe.”

Lord Leoric and his guards left the room you were then locked into, trapping you into the golden cage of a madman.

        Bathing was frightening, anyone could have unlocked that door and walked into your quarters. And the area of the bathing room was only seperated from the rest with a thick curtain, not even a door was there to offer some more privacy and certainty. Never had you washed up so fast in your life, and you hoped that Lord would not wish to inspect that you had indeed followed the order. You walked out of the bathing room in the gown, a simple thing but it did show some more cleavage than you had hoped it would. They had taken your weapons from you, and now you couldn’t even wear what you wanted. Your old clothes were hidden under the wardrobe, a precaution in case they would come and take them away. The satchel never left your hip out of fear it’s contents might get lost forever. Just as you were about to sit down on the bed, the door was unlocked and Lord Leoric walked in alone.

“You bathed. Good.” he sounded like he thought it was proper to even demand it of you. A small vial was in his hand and he held it in front of you. “To avoid encountering unnecessary problems.”

That scent… it had been what was on the rag, you could smell it. They were trying to keep your magic sedated.

He saw your reluctance and his tone got cold. “Drink it.”

You tried to keep the anger out of your voice. “You won’t kill me if I don’t.”

“Do you wish to see me release my fury on that child instead if you dare to disobey me? That can be arranged.” he warned. “He will wish Aldith’s sellswords had killed him.”

You were so eager to hit him, to strangle the life out of him because of that threat. But you had to remain docile, if he suspected you were going to try and escape the second the chance was there… Reluctantly you took the vial and began drinking it.

He was watching. “All of it.”

The taste was awful, too bitter on your tongue. Almost did you let him know, but you held back. He took he vial back and inspected it to see if you had drank every single drop of it.

“Aldith is my guest here.” he said, stepping away. “Ravenwick is no longer safe for your family. It will be interesting to learn all about you with his help.”

His help would be of little use, Aldith never bothered to learn who you really were. To him and Cassian you were nothing more than the one they could put all the work and blame on.

“Take a seat.” He gestured to the bed whilst picking up one of the many candles in the room.

You rolled your eyes the second you had turned, and sat on the edge of the bed. He approached you with the candle, handing it to you.

“I was told you can make fire turn green. Show me.” he demanded.

Did he think you just changed the colors of fire? Was he not aware of what those green flames actually were?

“I can’t do it on demand.” you lied.

He did not appreciate that. “Let me inform you that for each time you irritate me, that child will lose one of his fingers. Perhaps that will encourage you to do as I ask.”

You focused your eyes on the carpet, or risked him seeing the murderous intent in them. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Now.” He thought it smart to rush it.

The Hidden were so quiet when you tried to focus on the flame, they could sense how forced you felt. It took some time before the flame of the candle turned a little green.

Lord Leoric stared at it, already impressed with that small change. He took the candle from your hands and watched it until the flame turned back to normal.

“How fascinating!” He was pleased. “Well done. You have earned your meal.”

Earning meals… being held in a place against your will… it was Ravenwick all over again. The only difference was that he would hurt someone else and blame you for it. He even took that candle with him like it was a trophy as he walked out the door. When you heard the lock being turned, you got up from the bed and went to the windows, breaking them would be no problem but the iron bars blocking your exit were. And tying the sheets in the room together, even if you did include the drapes, would not offer enough to climb down to the ground. Escaping would have to happen through the castle and you were not going to leave without Percival. Maybe if you made him think you could be trusted Lord Leoric would let you roam the castle. But then there was Aldith… it would be harder to mislead him and there was a high possibility that he had already warned Lord Leoric about you trying to escape.

The results of the vial were going into effect, the drowsiness began so fast that you barely reached the bed to lie down. As you tried to fight against sleep, you worried about Percival. He was just a boy and they had locked him up in the dungeons. Was he cold? Scared? How cruel could people be to do this and believe it is right… the plant in your blood won and pulled you into sleep’s embrace for the night.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  The next day had already began strange. Lord Leoric had you bathe in the morning, again. Heavens forbid you tainted his shiny tile floors… it almost made you feel self-conscious but then you remembered that you were just something he had collected and he wanted your appearance to be pristine. Your questions about Percival received only vague answers, it was infuriating. It wasn’t easy to resist using the strap of your satchel to strangle Lord Leoric, but you kept your anger under control by thinking about what could happen to Percival in return. By fulfilling his request the previous night, you were given a meal the next morning. The plate of food and bowls with soup and fruit were anything but little, still you only dared to eat the fruit because you feared they had stuffed more of that plant into the rest. Drinking that vial last night was enough to weaken your body and keep your magic from awakening. If you wanted to get your freedom back, you would have to play it smart.

In the evening Lord Leoric had come to your quarters again, he sat down at the table scribbling away in a journal whilst watching you stand by the window across the large room, it was unnerving.

“Has there been news about Lan-… my husband?” You caught yourself before speaking his name.

He kept writing, unbothered by the question. “Aldith confirmed that his sellswords had to kill him. I still want the body found, anything of the Ash Folk is worth examining.”

You turned away from him, feeling the tears well up in your eyes and your body painfully tensing up from the distress. It couldn’t be true, someone as experienced in battle couldn’t have been defeated by some sellswords. It couldn’t be… “If he is found. I want to see him.”

The request was met with ridicule. “You’d want to see his corpse?”

“Yes.” Was your firm answer.

“We will see.” He sighed and went back to his notes.

You took a step towards him. “And I want to see Percival.”

He didn’t even look up. “No.”

Your patience was running thin. “I demand to see him!”

Lord Leoric stood up from the chair and approached, stopping only a few steps away. “The only one who gets to make demands here is me. You should be glad I don’t leave him to be eaten by the rats.”

You had to take a step back, too tempted to lash out and attack him. “I want to see him.”

He was not to be swayed. “And you will have to wait until I consider you worthy enough to have that as a privilege.”

His eyes landed on your hand, a displeased look on his face. “You did not bathe properly.”

What? Upon looking down at your hand you noticed a small bruise near your thumb. “It’s not dirt, it’s a bruise!”

It did not convince him, his nose scrunched up as if you smelled like manure. “Bathe before you sleep. Otherwise you will ruin the sheets.”

He turned and left the room, but you did hear him command his guards to make sure you bathed again. Your skin would dry out quickly at this rate. To avoid them having to push you into the bathing room, you went there yourself and they closed the door to your quarters when they were positive you were following that order. The last thing you wanted was for them to be ordered to help with this, you didn’t put it past that unscrupulous Lord. The water of the bath was cold this time and you barely did anything more than sit in it, not willing to scrub your skin off for someone who was never pleased. The moment you set foot out from behind that curtain, a few guards were waiting there.

One approached and held out the familiar looking vial, it was filled with the liquid again. “Drink this. Lord Leoric commands it.”

They made sure to watch you drink it, if they hadn’t you would have let at least half of it drip down into your sleeve instead. You even had to shown them, mouth open, that you had indeed swallowed it. There was no chance to spit it out. The foul taste lingered on your tongue for long after they left your ‘fancy’ prison cell again. The tiredness the plant brought upon was not enough to quieten your troubled mind. Poor Percival… was he well? Had they hurt him? Did they even give him food?

You searched that whole space you were trapped in, under the bed and all the furniture, in the hope of finding something useful as a weapon. They had prepared this room well, not a splinter of wood was to be found that could pose as a threat. You kicked one of the chairs, sending it launching into the wall as a frustrated groan freed itself from your lungs. Blocking the door and delaying the next dose of sedation would only put Percival at risk, this castle would be a maze to get through before finding him and precious time would be lost. If you had a weapon, just something small and sharp, you could use it to threaten Lord Leoric with and force him to obey your command.

Your eyes fell on the ceramic jug that held the water to drink and an idea planted itself in your mind. By wrapping the jug in a sheet, you were able to break it without making too much noise. The sharp shards offered an array of improvised weapons and you chose a thin longer piece. The dress offered little ways to hide it. So you tore a small piece of the sheet that you then used to bind the shard around your arm, the sleeve hid it from sight and it was easily accessible this way when it would be needed. Your eyes grew heavy when folding the sheet in a way that would hide it’s ruined stated. Cursing, you crawled into the bed, hating how effective those vials were to keep your strength at a low. You fell asleep seconds after your head touched that pillow, hoping that tomorrow most of that plant would be out of your system.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  Deep into the night, a dream too vivid to be your imagination was drawing you out of sleep. A continues nudging against your shoulder was irritating you, and then you remembered where you were. Your eyes snapped open and as they adjusted to the darkness, the guard sitting on your bed came into view. Not a second later you had rolled out of bed at the other side and grabbed the first thing you could to defend yourself, a small candle holder. That bastard was quick on his feet and you barely had time to give the warning. “Stay away!”

The copper candle holder would do little damage to his head, considering it was well protected by the helmet, it still didn’t stop you from aiming for his head when he got too close. He blocked your arm, you pulled the shard free from where it was hidden in your sleeve and lashed out at him. In the darkness it was hard to see how he moved, how fast he moved. You felt your arm be grabbed and your back forced against the wall. The shard was stolen from your fingers. He gave you no chance to call out for help as he covered your mouth with his hand, and you doubted much help would be given against one of their own. You struggled against his hold violently, trying multiple times to hit him with your knee and foot.

    ~“Little ember, stop!”~

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Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story. Using this old list from the previous fic.

[olailamajnoon]

Steve, Part 2

Previous fic

Steve walked into the bathroom of the warehouse where Batman had stashed him. Stupid flightless birds, he muttered, thinking of Oswald Cobblepot and his giant drum belly. Thanks to you, I don't have place to hang my underwear. The lack of fucking clotheshooks inside the cold-ass bathroom annoyed him. Who wants to put their underwear on the floor while showering? And there was no bathtub. Fucking Penguin, and fucking Regina.

Regina, with her drop-down-dead beautiful eyes, and her soft gurgly voice. Her lips, the way they kissed him, like he was wanted and loved.

She had wanted a squirrel fur coat, and had made it the price of admission, and Steve, like a total chump, had taken the bait.

"Takeout!" someone called from the door. Steve stepped out of the shower hurriedly and put on his robe and tighty-whities. "Coming!" he called, hoping the voice belonged to the blue one, and not the red one who liked to poke fun at his—everything, really.

He breathed in. Why the fuck was he nervous? These guys had never hurt him. These guys were constitutionally incapable of hurting him. They treated him like a vulnerable bunny. Even the big strong one with the guns.

He walked into the warehouse's main room. (He was calling it the main room because he didn't know what else to call it. It was large and white and square, and main.) The lighting was dim and harsh at the same time, and the concrete walls and floor were hard and smelled old.

There were like nine bats. There were definitely nine. Steve could count. He realized what he must look like, in his tattered bathrobe.

"Nice robe, Steve," said Red Hood. Steve stuck his tongue out.

Batman turned around, and stared at Steve. He didn't feel as self-conscious as he probably should have.

"Do you need fresh clothes," said Batman. He had some kind of gadget in his hands.

So Batman had definitely noticed.

Steve tried to smile and act jolly, but the truth was the presence of nine bats had unnerved him. He knew one thing about the Batfamily—they usually operated in twos or threes. Unless...there was a Gotham-wide operation, which could only mean one thing. A disaster. A cataclysm of epic proportions.

"What's going on? Can I help?" he asked, his smile too wide, his face way too happy.

"No," said Red Hood and Red Robin together, and then frowned at each other.

"Help how?" asked Nightwing. "You've already given us all the information on Penguin you could. Thanks to you, we took down his waterfront businesses. All of them."

Steve glowed at this praise. Then he collected his face, and composure. "I could go places you people can't. Perp habitats. Henchmen bars. Hellholes. I can be of use to you."

"Why," said Batman.

"Why?" Steve was confused. Also the heater was off, and he was standing in the middle of a cold warehouse trembling, but he didn't want Batman to see and think he was afraid or some shit. He wondered how soon he could get into his clothes. The bats seemed to be wearing insulated suits, the bastards.

"Why do you want to be of use," Batman said, as if repeating himself.

"I dunno," said Steve, shrugging. He breathed out. "Maybe cause you gave me another chance."

Batman looked at him steadily, not saying anything. Just looking with his arms crossed.

"Everyone deserves another chance," said Orphan gently.

"Yeah, well. It's whatever, you know," said Steve, embarrassed there were suddenly tears in his eyes. He didn't want to cry big man-tears in front of Batman.

"Fine," said Batman. "You might be of use."

"Really?"

"Yes. If you prove reliable, there may be a place for you. Keep out of the line of sight, and wear a mask."

Wait.

Holy fuck.

A mask?

"Yessir," said Steve. "Yes, yes sir."

"You will also—" Batman seemed to bore into Steve's eyes, "—not ask any questions that are not relevant to you, or try to ascertain our identities in any way."

"Uh—okay."

"Trust is built, Steve. My trust is limitless, once I extend it to someone, but it takes time to create."

Steve sighed happily. Batman was trying to trust him. He tried to remember the last time anyone had tried to trust him, really trust him. "I won't let you down, sir," he said.

"I hope you won't," said Batman, rather softly.

Steve turned around to go to his room to get dressed, but then he turned around. "Just one thing."

Batman cocked his head.

"I totally get it. The secret identities and all. But—" he swallowed. "I have no one to tell. I'm isolated from my family and friends, I can't ever return to them. I'm completely cut-off. So. You know. Even if I ever knew. Your secrets are safe with me."

"We'll see," said Batman shortly. "For now, you will operate under me. I'll see what can be done, about...other things."

He thinks I'm lonely, Steve realized. He thinks I'm complaining. But he doesn’t know that for the first time in my life, I don’t have to watch my back. I don’t have to keep up appearances. I’m totally fucking alone...

...and somehow, I’m fucking okay.

[enniewritesathing]

memory management (parallel 1)

⏮️Previous || (📚Previous Stories) || ▶️Beginning

Charles: "Please. Surely, you'll reconsider your course of action after what I have to say."

(The Werewolf growls. He can easily snap Charles' neck and be done with it... but that's far too kind of a punishment.) "I really doubt that, but you can try anyway."

(Charles watches as The Werewolf paces back and forth, never taking his eyes off of him. Another growl. He's on a timer of indeterminate length. He has to choose his words carefully... perhaps there could be a chance he can get out of here alive.)

"You don't want to do this. You're scared and you've... lashed out."

(Charles braces himself for a fraction of a second as The Werewolf shifts his weight too fast for his liking. He's safe, for now.) "This is all a cry for help, you know--"

The Werewolf: "Shut the hell up! You don't smell like the others."

(Charles blinks at the blunt question. It didn't work. He can't possibly have-- ah, yes, an oversight that he didn't account for. Lycans were known for their remarkable senses and Johnathan is no exception... there is very little that he can hide from him.)

(The Werewolf curls his lip.) "Your blood smells old and rotten. And your voice. Why do you have two tones in your words? I don't like your eyes, either. Everything about you is wrong."

(Charles laughs despite himself. Just like that, his plan is dead.)

"It seems that I won't be able to get anything past you; I am the proverbial and alleged mad scientist. Of course, I won't be normal; I've been unwell for years."

(The Werewolf points a clawed finger at Charles.) "That is not what I meant!"

(Charles sighs and looks at his hand.) "You're right. We've both been unwell for years and I've figured out something in the last ten minutes. Despite my efforts, everything I've done to get rid of you... stubborn beast. I thought I could break you to the point where the mere thought of escaping would never cross your mind again."

"Ha! Clever dog. Waiting for us to flush the toxins out of your body. Just enough for you overcome it. You were all but dead. You were dead. Or he is dead and your sheer hatred is what revived you? I'm not sure. Your heart stopped for a very long time and your healing abilities were pushed to the brink. Nothing short of a miracle, as much as I loathe the word.

Perhaps it is true that death works differently for occults..."

(The Werewolf narrows his eyes. ) "What are you saying?"

Charles: "I have a hypothesis, but I will need you to listen before you do anything else."

(The Werewolf huffs.) "Fine."

Charles: "Thank you. I told you, I've been unwell. I've lost count for how many years. Sickness... has always been a part of me since I was a child. Plagued me. There were times I wished for Death, but it never came. I reached adulthood; I was still fragile but I made what time I had count. In the meantime, I read arcane and obscure books and combined it with my accrued medical knowledge."

"Fortune smiled upon me one day as I was introduced to a rather charming... individual. Hm."

(Charles pauses. He can't remember their face. Has it really been that long? What would they think of him now?) "They entertained my proposals to cure myself. There were substantial risks involved, and honestly, had it been anyone else, I would've been committed. We found a way."

"I used their blood in very small dosages over the course of months."

"My sickness worsened as well. One night, I saw the Grim Reaper standing over me. I closed my eyes and waited for that cold hand to take me. It never came but morning did. The light in my room was brighter than I remembered; my eyes ached... but my body felt different. It was different. I didn't have that haze over me. I was light.

"I was cured; naturally, there's consequences the way I went about it."

"In that elation, I discovered that my skin and eyes became sensitive to the sun. Not like I liked it in any fashion. My poor appetite was nonexistent. I required little sleep now. To some, that is a loss, but for me?"

(He laughs.) "I got what I wanted. Those losses were very acceptable; I was alive for the first time; I cheated Death."

The Werewolf: "You call me a monster and yet you do that?"

(Charles looks up at The Werewolf with a smug grin.) "Oh, that's very rich coming from you, Johnathan. What you said made me realize something that I'm sure you'll appreciate -- the lengths someone will go through for some semblance of normalcy. Surely, that is a reasonable thought process?"

"The only thing they asked of me was to consider my new found path. How will I use my gift? Well, I became one of the top doctors of this region. I've worked on, that some might say, miracles. I researched on any and all occults, pouring over centuries of data -- whole, incomplete, and even proven myths and falsehoods. Why, I even found new, better treatments for ailments that have plagued mankind for centuries!

"Then there were the curious matters of werewolves. What I had was very insufficient -- elusive lot. It bothered me that there were hardly any medical knowledge on them. I became obsessive. Surely, they cannot be extinct!"

"One night, I got a call about a boy suspected of being a werewolf. His mother was terrified, on the brink of tears; she had lost one son exhibiting the same symptoms -- unexplained sickness, severe mood changes, an impossibly high fever without any clear cause yet it clears in a few days time... on this particular night, the moon was full."

"My initial tests confirmed it -- the boy's a werewolf. I worked backwards; his mother was latent. His deceased father was latent as well... but his twin brother was active right before he died. My theory told me that he was too young to handle the transformation."

"The stress of the beast awakening almost killed the boy, but why did it awaken early, I wondered? When he regained consciousness, I told him what happened. He was old enough to understand what was at stake but he was young enough to still have that certain innocence. One I didn't have."

"I told the boy that he had a monster inside of him, that it will eventually get stronger and take over when he gets older. That he will want to cause death and destruction like the werewolves before him. Why, he could even harmed his loved ones. Or worse. I realized that this little boy was in a similar position I was all those years ago. Just as I vowed to myself, I vowed to find a cure, by any means.

"But I had to bide my time as my intended methods were... harsh. It would've been frowned upon if I started too early. My plans were contingent on the boy following my simple order: resist. Resist until he couldn't bear it anymore. He was around seventeen when this started to happen; that's when we allowed you to take his place."

The Werewolf: "Is that supposed to make me feel better? You manipulated him and everyone else to get what you wanted! You couldn't bear to fail!"

(Charles laughs low.) "Oh, Johnathan. You poor, wretched child. I did no such thing."

"You're so naïve."

// Next ⏭️