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sennextheassasinkingoflight · 4 years ago

Text

"I'll Always Stay"

Witcher fic. Pre slash Geraskier fic. Rated T and up for minor swearing, blood and gore.

Cross posted on AO3

Geralt and Jaskier get into a fight. Geralt gets injured. Jaskier takes care of him. (Fae Jaskier.)

(Still figuring out read more links on mobile. Help!)

It wasn't as though he had never seen Geralt injured; or that he had never stitched torn and bloodied flesh back together, while the witcher sat brooding beside him; or like he hadn't learned all the witchers potions, how to make them, what they do, how and when they should be administered. But this. This was different.

Geralt was unconscious on the ground beside him. He was without armor, and based on the the amount of blood covering pale skin he wasn't sure that he'd even been wearing it when he was attacked. He'd had it when he'd stormed out of camp with a growled,

"Fuck off."

The witcher had not gone on a hunt. No, that would have been good. Would have settled Jaskiers heart, if only a little. No, instead he had stalked off into the moonless night because they were fighting and he was done with Jaskier and the conversation. When he hadn't returned by midnight Jaskiers unease grew, blossoming dread in his chest and reaching out with tendrils, spreading to Roach and filling the clearing of their campsite. Setting his jaw and recognizing he was being reckless and quiet foolhardy he started into the darkness. Concern squeezed at his heart and weighed like lead in his chest. The darkness was consuming.

He was blind in the darkness and it was by sheer luck alone that he found the witcher at all. Or so, he would say. Now he wishes he was closer to camp and that he had brought more than a single vile of Swallow. He glances around the blackened clearing and though his eyes had adjusted a little he can't see anything now. He's far to close to continue using his magic. Blindly he gropes for one of Geralts swords, anything, fear prickling his skin, raising the hair on his neck and arms. If Geralt had been rendered unconscious and bloody than it would be in Jaskiers best sense to run back to camp and stay there.

With one of the witchers too heavy sword, slick with blood in his hands, he knelt over his friend and listened for too slow breathes, feeling for a too slow pulse. Watching the barely there rise and fall of a bruised and bloodied chest. When he found it he foracably swallowed back his panic, thrusting it from his mind. With shaking hands Jaskier lifted a white clad head into his lap, hair more pink than white. Finally he pulled the vial of Swallow from his pocket and slowly tipped it into an unresponsive mouth. He brushed his fingers down Geralts throat, coaxing it into contracting and swallowing the potion. It was a slow process.

A few moments later, Jaskier huffs out a small sigh of relief. Geralt is breathing easier, if only just. There is no way to get the witcher back to camp and it's too dark to see the full extent of injuries, or find his other sword, and let's not forget the creature that was lurking somewhere in the shadows. Without thinking about it he let his magic sleep out around him. That would keep whatever it was away. He swallowed, it was a calculated risk. And perhaps Geralt would be to out of it to notice it in the morning.

He'd spent so long with humans he'd nearly forgot he had it. Still he dare not use it on Geralt unless there was no other option. That the witcher would notice immediately. So instead he whispers, "I'm sorry."

Sorry he can't use his very nature to save his friends life. Maybe one day. Sorry for the things he had said. Sorry that Geralt had been injured. Sorry for everything he'd done that annoyed, hurt, or angered the witcher.

While he waited for the sun to rise, he ran delicate musicians fingers through coarse, sticky hair. Guilt resting around him like a cloak. As the grey light of dawn rose he felt like an idiot forgetting he could have used his magic to take stock of Geralts injuries at the least, he'd already let it lay lazily around the forest floor. Panic had made him fuzzy. Though that too would have been a very calculated risk. If Geralt found out. Well…. Jaskier quiet liked his life as it was.

The wounds were healing, slowly. Witchers mutations and potion at work. But it wasn't fast enough, congealed red blood oozed from the wounds, even now. hours later. Jaskiers fears to think what would have been if he had waited for the light to go looking. Slowly as not to strain or startle the still unconscious witcher he extricated himself. He hated what he was about to do but it was necessary. He moved quickly, quicker than this form should have moved. He returned to and broke camp quickly and Roach followed him with a soft neigh.

He turns to her and whispers softly.

"Don't tell him please." He holds eye contact with her until she snorts into his shoulder. This really shouldn't be a concern right now. But it is.

When he returned to Geralts side he collected his silver sword, gingerly, and placed it with the steel. He gathered up shredded armor, and for all his vast knowledge of magical creatures, more than he let's on, he has no idea what did this. He swallowed harshly. This was not good.

He built a fire and set water to boil. Doing things the mortal way was not his favorite thing. He notes absently that their supplies are running low. He gathers another bottle of Swallow and again coaxes it down Geralts throat. Finished he set about creating a salve or potion. Anything that would help his friend. With the water ready he set about washing away the blood and dirt from the front of Geralts torso. He couldn't reach his back and hoped it wasn't as bad. Although the fact that the injuries were this severe on his stomach was disheartening and highly concerning.

Really he hadn't meant to make him angry. But he had been cold, wet, hungry and they had been traveling for 3 days straight stopping only for a few hours of sleep. Not a problem if he wasn't hiding what he is from the witcher, remarkably well at that. And Geralt hadn't told him anything. Hadn't said where the were going, what they were doing. And he'd known the moment the words left his mouth, he'd known he had completely and irrevocably fucked up. So he'd spent the next five hours apologizing profusely for his mistake. Saying that he hadn't meant it he'd only been angry. It wasn't true. It was never true. The witcher had decided to set camp and then stormed off into the dark effectively ending the conversation. Uncertain what to do he had tended Roach and the fire. He hadn't even attempted to compose. Then he'd just listened in silence and darkness for Geralt to return thinking about how to make it right.

Now he was sitting on his knees in the dirt beside his wounded friend who could very well die. He told himself to stop thinking like that.he'd give himself away before he actually let Geralt die.

He continued peeling back torn remnants of clothing, soaking bits that were stubbornly stuck and then removing them completely. He washed as he went removing dirt and congealed blood with water then antiseptic. He knows it has to sting a ridiculous amount and is grateful the witcher is still unconscious.

The cuts are deep. The flesh is torn and ragged like it had been ripped from bone; the cuts were not clean and sliced. They are deep and he pulls back flesh to make sure its clean. Infection has likely already begun to set in. Once he's satisfied that the wounds are as clean as they can be he sets to work stitching the flesh.

It isn't pretty work. And his stitches, though practiced, are not beautiful against ashen skin. They're uneven and some are a little tight others a little loose. But he's a bard. He is not a surgeon or a seamster. Still it's work that needs to be done so he bites his lip and let's hands accustomed to playing strings guide one through muscle and skin.

He swallows down bile. Guilt returning as the stitched wounds continue to ooze blood. If only he hadn't riled him up, hadn't let him stalk off into the darkness of night, angry and alone.

He continues to work with nimble fingers on the skin he can see. At some point he lost track of how many stitches he had run. Finished with the visible portion of Geralts torso he smears a thick salve across it. He can't bandage it now. He has to wait for the witcher to sit up. And he prays to every deity he can think of that he isn't badly injured on his back. He clenches his teeth, bounces his leg, and let his eyes roam over Geralts prone form. "Wake up" he thinks desperate with nervousness. Tears work their way towards his eyes, his throat constricting painfully.

"Geralt please. I know. I was unkind. I didn't mean it. Truly. I swear it just slipped out. It was a low blow and I knew it would get a reaction. But I didn't mean it. I swear. I am so sorry. Please. Please don't die here Geralt. Don't die. Not yet. Not like this." He whispers leaning back against the tree head titled back silent tears streaking his face. He closes his eyes. He tells himself if there's no improvement by that night, he'll use his magic and hope against all odds the witcher doesn't send him away.

Until Geralt woke up there was nothing more he could do. He keeps his eyes closed but doesn't sleep. Ears turned to the sound of breathing beside him. Time passes and the sun rises high overhead. A low groan pulls him from his heartache.

"Geralt?" He pitches forward from the tree and scrambles to push the witcher back down.

" Geralt! Stop. Dont sit up your injured. Badly." He frowns. The witcher lays back obediantly. Tired eyes scanning his surroundings. He nods and seems to relax. And the dread in the pit of Jaskiers stomach dissipates.

" I tended the injuries I could find." He starts quiet, just barely a whisper and then more confidently. " I'm sorry Geralt. Really. I- I am so sorry." He gets a grunt and the two stare at each other for a while. Geralts features hard, but he must see something in Jaskier that tells him undoubtedly that these words are true, because his brow unpinches and his jaw relaxes. The witcher let's out a long sigh. Then pushes himself up into a sitting position. and Jaskier goes from concerned his friend won't forgive him to concerned his friend is going to run off and never come back and die alone in the woods to hes not moving but now I can see his back, oh God I can see his bakc in the span of a single breath.

"Your wounds are serious! Geralt you really shouldn't --"

" Stop, Jaskier. There's a--"

"Oh yes indeed. Stay put. I'll just grab the supplies." So he gathers up a fresh rag and the water he's kept warm and the salve and bandages. The needle and threading. Finally he settles himself behind Geralt and neither speaks. He hears the witcher inhale against the sting of the antiseptic.

"Two vials of Swallow. One when I found you. One 6 hours later, when I could see to get back to camp." He says dutifully, never looking away from his work. These arn't nearly as bad as the others. He works quickly so he can properly bandage the mess.

"Hand me the bandages." He says pulling the last stitch tight. And Geralt let's out a pained grunt as he reaches for them. Jaskier doesn't hesitate to begin winding them around the witchers torso. Arms bracketing the larger man far to intimately in the process. He pulls them just tightly enough, with well and overly practiced ease. He hesitates, then he moves back to Geralts side.

He doesn't speak, just breathes. He's said his peace. He doesn't flinch under Geralts scrutiny as the man continues to look at him.

"Your eyes seem bluer."

"Crying." He says after a moment of silent panic.

"Hmm…. I'm sorry too."

And he actually chokes on his own spit. What? He looks at Geralt and stretches a hand out to touch his forehead but the witcher holds eye contact.

"Well then. I guess were squared away now?"

A nod. "I'm tired Jaskier." The witcher says eyes soft and unfocused as he reaches out a hand to brush fingers against the bards flushed cheek.

"Then sleep, Geralt. I'll stay."

"I'll always stay."

#the witcherr #Geraskier #hurt comfort #mostly hurt #fae jaskier #major character injury #everyone lives

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hardyimagines · 6 years ago

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Fitz

This is called ‘its 2 am and I can’t sleep so I wrote this in 30 minutes’ also I watched this today and can’t get him out of my head!!!

DRABBLE ( SHOCK )

Warnings: smut (;

———

“Jesus, would you just drop it?” The heaviness of your tone warned the surrounding men to back off. Your agitation was seemingly growing by the second and the gun that Bridger had aimed at John wasn’t helping the situation at all. Your hands were set firmly on your hips, jutted out to the right side as you scrutinized the situation. “Put that down before you hurt yourself.” Bridger looked toward you, lips curving downward at your lack of worry. Did you not think he would pull the trigger and blow Fitzgerald’s brain all over the blanketed snow?

Fitzgerald was sat calmly on the rock he’d been sat on for an hour. His boots shuffled noisily in the crunching ice below as he adjusted himself on the boulder. It was beginning to irritate his rear, not exactly the most ideal surface to be perched on. He pushed another piece of meat past his lips, unbothered when pieces of it clung to his strands of facial hair. You moved past Bridger and took it upon yourself to brush away the gross-looking piece of food from his beard.

Bridger lowered his weapon then, eyes falling to the ground in defeat. He doubted he’d ever be able to shoot a man that wasn’t a physical threat. He took a small step back and then another before turning on his foot and heading back down the small hill toward the circle of men gathered around the growing fire.

You let out a heavy breath before pinching John’s beard. Tugging on it in the slightest to draw his attention solely on you, you sent him a glare before moving around the rock so you stood at the ledge of the cliff. Peering down at the river, you watched the racing water, crashing against itself and hidden rocks to create large splashes and life-threatening waves. You folded your arms, unable to admire the scenery because you were too alert for threats. There was no peace here, despite how it appeared.

“You just gonna starve yourself till your body eats its way from the inside out?” Fitzgerald muttered gruffly. His fingers pinched the raw meat, tearing it from the bone it was attached to.

“I don’t like that..” You told him firmly. “You know I dont. I’d rather eat some fish.” You hated fish. “Why the hell cant you cook it? You’re going to get sick eating it raw like you do.” Turning to face the man with a squint, your arm extended, finger pointed toward the flame a few feet away. “Sitting in the circle for ten minutes to warm the meat up won’t kill you, you know?”

“Being near Glass is bound to do the trick.” He bit back. Rising from his spot on the rock, he instantly towered over you. The coat that had been draped around his shoulders began to slide off of his broad form, unnoticed by him, so you stepped forward and swiftly caught the collar. Drawing it more securely around him and back into its proper place, you let your hands linger on his shoulders.

“You are such a baby.” Your words were a whisper. A playful tone danced in your insult.

Fitzgerald seemed to like the atmosphere you’d created, for he stepped closer to you, blue eyes gliding along your features as you smirked up at him. He lifted the meat, already cradled in the center of the two of you. But you swiftly stepped back and pushed his hand away.

“Oi, come here.” The hand that wasn’t coated in fresh blood extended toward you. He grasped ahold of your hip and easily drew you back toward him. “I wasn’t finished messing with you.” The meat in his hand was tossed on to the rock, instantly staying in place because of the amount of snow.

“I don’t want to be anywhere near you.” You teased, hands finding the middle of his stomach in order to keep some distance between your body and his. It was pointless, but he let you think you were actually doing something. He pretended to be restrained for a second before he managed to overpower your arms and lug you into him completely.

“Come on, give me a kiss.” His puckered lips were so very inviting, but the speckles of blood in his beard reminded you of what he’d just been feasting on.

“Baby, I really don’t want to kiss you after you were chowing down on some raw meat.. I love you, but I do have some restrictions.” Staring up at him intently when he trapped you against his bulky body, you weakened the longer he held you.

“Oh, you don’t want to kiss me?” He whispered, leaning in nevertheless. “Don’t break my heart, now..” He whispered as quietly as he did when there were threats present. You shivered noticeably, lips parting so you could let out a shaky breath. You heart thumped deafeningly, rendering you silent for a second.

“I do want to kiss you,” You elbowed him in order to get away. “but not when you taste like dead meat.” Shoving him back and away from you, you took the advantage of him being momentarily stunned before rushing toward the small hill so you could join the other men around the fire.

Glass watched from his peripheral, the way that you and Fitzgerald messed around with one another. He couldn’t believe it. John Fitzgerald was a cold, heartless son of a bitch that no one would miss should he fall ill or be slaughtered. Glass took a bite of the fish he cradled, dark eyes illuminated by the glow of the fire. He shared a look with Henry, neither one of them understanding how a man so cruel, so heartless, so careless, could fall in love. John went from beastly and inconsiderate when around them, to this playful, loved up teddy bear when with you. It was mind-blowing. He was two different people.

John was quick to follow you back toward the group of tired men. Nobody lifted their gaze to him, but most lifted their gaze to you. Soft smiles, polite ones, were exchanged. The men shuffled to make room for you, but didn’t bother making a space for the man that you — for some reason — loved. They knew he’d settle down behind you. You practically collapsed in the snow, kneeling in front of the fire happily. Basking in its warmth, you leaned forward to grab a stick and some of the raw meat on the plate in the corner. Jabbing the sharp end of the twig through the food, you stuck it in the flame and watched as the heat cooked your meal.

Fitzgerald lowered himself down behind your kneeling form. His legs opened wide, offering you the perfect place to settle down once you were ready to eat. He removed the canteen strap from around his neck before placing it by his side. The water sloshed noisily inside the hollow bottle, catching your attention for only a second before you looked back to the fire.

Bridger was avoiding all means of eye contact with John, too afraid to look at him after holding a gun to his head. He’d done it for a stupid reason — simply to show that he had some sort of power over the previous situation. It was about direction, where they needed to go, how they needed to get there. Long story short, they disagreed and Bridger thought drawing his gun was wise. It wasn’t. Fitzgerald would remember that.

Dropping down on your rear, you settled back and against John, small hand finding his thigh as you used his chest as a steady surface to lean on. Your knees bent, closed-toed shoes smushing the snow beneath them as you happily munched on the cooked meat.

John pressed his lips against the back of your head, leaving his mouth there for a few moments as he relaxed. He was warm. He didn’t know if it was because of the fire or your little body, but he was grateful for both. His lips moved from your head, down and around to your ear, resting there for a moment before he spoke lowly — almost inaudibly.

All the men around the fire found it difficult not to watch the pair of you. You were the only girl they’d seen in months and of all the men in the group, you’d chosen the meanest one. The smallest ounce of affection reeled them in so when you craned your neck around to inspect the bearded-bloke, they couldn’t stop staring. You lifted your hand to his cheek and pinched it softly before stealing a soft kiss. Shyness didn’t accompany John, not in the slightest. He didn’t care if the entire group watched him bend you over and take you on a sprawled out pelt, but you were a bit more.. classy.. than that.

“Quit it.” You whispered against his lips in response to the disgusting things he’d just whispered in your ear. You discreetly squeezed his thigh before looking back to your food. In attempt to distract yourself from the bubbling want in your belly, you pinched the meat and pushed it past your lips.

John didn’t mind the fact that you were playing hard to get. He knew it was because of the group. If nobody was here, he knew you would’ve rolled over on to your back, opened your legs, and begged him to do whatever he wanted. It wasn’t a secret to anyone that the pair of you were crazy about each other. It wasn’t a secret that you had sex. So he didn’t know why you were being so shy about it. His fingertips trailed along the length of your arm, so rough and cold against your skin, but still welcomed. He wore torn gloves, fingerless now because of all the hard labor he’d had to do over the last several months. His free hand found your hip, gliding along the waistband of your trousers. You briefly looked south when his thumb grazed the button on your slacks, but you didn’t say anything. He was just being John, he wasn’t actually going to do anything.

Your fingertips were red from touching the meat in your hands, tongue and teeth the same despite the fact that you’d cooked it semi-thoroughly. It wasn’t well done, it had been a little under medium rare. You let out a breathy sigh before looking toward the stars as they began to twinkle above. It was getting darker by the minute.

Shadows danced alongside the flame, joining in the branches of the swaying trees. John was continuously tracing the button on your trousers, caressing the cold metal as if it were really all that interesting. All of the men had lost interest and were now either trying to doze off, finish their meals, or get closer to the fire. You finished off your own meal, tossing the stick into the flame onced you were done. John drew you into him even more securely then, unable to resist from being your main source of warmth. You closed your eyes and gave yourself over to his touch.

Months ago when you’d been found scavenging through their campsite, they’d been ready to kill you. Fitzgerald, in fact, was the first one to remove his weapon from its holster. You weren’t a woman then, you were just a threat and you would’ve been disposed of if it hadn’t of been for your quick tongue. You’d explained how you’d been taking from your own camp whilst sleeping. The French, so angry and careless, had swept you from your sanctuary and taken you from your friends. Who knew if they were even still alive? You were very, very lucky to have escaped the bastards who’d taken you — one little mistake they’d made and your ran for days. You hid in tight spaces, avoided all open areas. You’d been on the run until the men you resided with now had found you. John’s group was nothing like the French. Nothing at all.

Fitzgerald had been on the side of the men who thought it was wise to kill you. You could’ve been a liar, a scheming thief, a heartless bitch with no care in the world for the men. And you probably would’ve been shot if it hadn’t of been for Glass. He found you necessary to keep, should an actual problem arise and a trade was needed. It was ironic, how you’d ended up with the rudest bloke of them all — but you considered yourself lucky. Beneath the hard, tough exterior of Fitzgerald was a cuddly teddy bear and he was all yours. He’d grown so attached to you and your smart mouth.

Fitzgerald undid the button on your trousers, instantly making you straighten defensively. Verbally asking him what the hell he was doing would only draw attention to the pair of you, so you remained silent. Your eyes dropped to his hand and your own fingers followed. Grabbing at him to try and shove his greedy palm away, you swallowed thickly. “Fitz.” You hissed breathily, attempting to be as silent as possible. He paid you no mind. The tips of his fingers moved under the waistband of your trousers, slipping further and further under the material until he was wrist-deep in your pants. The urge to gasp was strong, but you swallowed it down and instead let out a strangled whimper that you tried to disguise as a cough. It worked.

His fingers grazed your slit without hesitation, delicately caressing you. He was careful, slow, and beyond grateful for the warmth you gave back to his fingers. His mouth moved to your ear, husky and low as he spoke. “Close your eyes and keep calm.” His hips pressed against your lower back. “Let’s not draw any attention to ourselves.”

You craned your neck around slowly, mouth skimming his chin before you spoke against his beard. “I’m breaking up with you.” You grumbled sweetly.

He smirked visibly. “Well, then I’d better savor this, shouldn’t I?” He marked his words by firmly pushing his fingers against your clit and rolling the hardened bud gently around in a slow circle. Your eyes fluttered shut, body growing heavier and heavier as he held you. He leaned in and kissed your nose before adjusting his head so that your face fell into the crook of his neck.

The only person able to see what the two of you were actually doing was Glass and that made John feel completely in control. Cocky. Hot with pleasure to rub this into the bastard’s face. He wasn’t sure why he clashed so much with the man, but he did.

John took his time to pleasure you like he said. One finger made its way to your entrance, sliding into you with so much ease because of how wet you were. The other fingers played with your clit, poking and teasing and rubbing the bundle until your feet were squirming in the snow. He took pride in what he could do to your body. Red-faced, heavily breathing. He loved the way your knees pressed together and your hands fisted in the icy snow. You were the loudest woman he’d ever been with and he got so much pleasure from that. So to see you squirming, so desperate to make a sound and let him know how good he was doing, it made him feel quite powerful.

Glass knew what the two of you were doing. He was the farthest thing from an idiot, but he wouldn’t give John the satisfaction of knowing he was watching. He tried to distract himself, tend to hawk, look at the food, watching the surrounding trees to ensure that they weren’t being stalked — anything to keep from ogling the pair of you.

Fitzgerald added another finger, pumping it simultaneously with the other and jus as agonizingly slow. He wasn’t usually so tender with you, he was a rough lover, a hard, fast man that took the dominance and ran with it. This was a different side to him, one that you actually quite liked.

Your toes curled inside your boots and your teeth sunk down on your bottom lip. Nibbling at the pink flesh until it was sore and swollen, you didn’t stop fidgeting until your body grew tingly. “Oh, John..” The words were impossible for anyone to hear. He felt your clenching around his fingers, making his job in pumping them a little bit more difficult. Your back pushed into his chest firmly, feet sliding in the snow as you arched slightly. He moved his mouth to your neck, attempting to mask your orgasm with a look of mere pleasure from a neck kiss. You whined breathily, thighs closing and trapping his arm in place. He could tell you wanted to thrust your hips, rock them vigorously in order to draw out your orgasm, but that would be too obvious, so instead you twitched and wiggled, eyes clamping shut as wave after wave of ecstasy ran through you.

It took a few moments for you to come down from your orgasm, but once you had, you were unsure of whether to punch him or kiss him. He withdrew his fingers from your trousers, lifting them instantly to his lips so he could lick them clean. He blamed it on the fact that he didn’t have a rag, but you both knew it was merely because he wanted you to see just how much he enjoyed you. Your soft eyes moved along his face before you lifted yourself up and rotated around. Kneeling between his spread thighs, you hooked your arms around his shoulders and pressed your lips against his own. He let out a moan of surprise, hands lifting to steady your hips as your mouth assaulted his. You slid closer, moaning unashamedly into his mouth. This part — you didn’t care if everyone watched or heard. He swallowed each of your sounds with ones of his own, grunting and humming each time you suckled on his tongue. His hands moved south to your thighs, gripping them so he could guide you completely on to his lap. Forcing you to straddle him in his seated position, his hands returned to your hips, urging you to grind against him.

“Mh..” You drew back breathlessly. “Let’s go.” You hissed. Standing from his lap, you shoved your messy strands of hair out of your face. Leaning over in order to snatch his hand, you lugged him up with difficulty.

John would’ve asked questions, but he already knew where you wanted to go. Somewhere — anywhere private. Who was he to deny you?

He followed obediently as you pulled him away from the bright, cracking fire and through the trees until it was impossible to see. He had no time to ask questions before you had him on the ground, covering your body like a blanket as you laid in the ice cold snow. Your hands were on his waistband, undoing his belt and shoving at his trousers desperately. You hadn’t wanted him this badly in months, not since the very first time the pair of you had slept together. It was exciting — risky, hot, and it made you feel so happy.

How he had such a strong effect over you, you didn’t know, you’d been trying to enjoy your meal and now here you were, hungry for something so different. You supposed that’s what love did to people.

—

Morning came around sooner than anybody would’ve liked. You were fast asleep against Fitzgerald’s chest, sleepily nuzzling into him the brighter that it grew to be. His arms were wound around you snugly, protecting you from the cold wind that whipped around your bodies now and again.

Glass was fast asleep, Hawk was messing with a stick, Bridger was on lookout duty. Henry was peering down at the river. Anderson was snoozing still.

You rolled around again when the sun’s rays weaved through the tree branches and shone down directly on your face. Whimpering in distaste, your hand moved to your face, shielding your eyes from the alarm clock that you didn’t ask for. Opening your droopy eyelids, you leaned up on your elbow, sleepily peering down at Fitzgerald as he slept soundlessly. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. So peaceful, unbothered. You stole a very small kiss, a brush of the lips before you rolled to the side and leaned up on your knees. Rising so you could stretch, your arms extended high up into the air, hands closing into tight fists as you woke your body up fully. There was no going back to sleep now.

Stepping over Anderson’s legs, you made your way toward the ledge where Henry was and peered out at the water that noisily raced along stream.

“Sleep alright?” He inquired quietly.

“Mh, crick in my neck, but that’s bound to happen.” You told him quietly before sending him a soft smile. “You?”

He nodded. He didn’t speak again for a few more moments. “It’s quiet.” He adjusted the rifle in his hands. “Where are all the animals?”

You lifted your gaze to him, arms folding over your chest. His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, stomach churning in disapproval at his assumption. “You think someone’s near?”

Henry pursed his lips. “Arikara don’t ever come this far.” He whispered softly. “You stick close to Fitzgerald.” He turned away from you then. “I reckon it’s the French.” He didn’t want to scare you — but at the same time he did. Letting your guard down was the last thing anyone needed and he wanted to be sure, even if it meant scaring you into it, that you were safe and protected.

You stiffened visibly before slowly moving your gaze back to the stream. All the memories of being held hostage by the French came rushing back. You felt sick, cold, and afraid all at once. It was enough to make you think you were going to pass out. You wobbled on your legs before hurriedly moving back toward your space beside Fitzgerald. You never wanted to be held hostage again, not by the low-life, scum of the earth pricks who’d had you before. Your hands fisted against your boyfriends chest, beating against it firmly enough to wake him.

“The French are near.” You whimpered out brokenly. “I can’t go back to them, John.”

He was bleary-eyed, momentarily confused. Your words didn’t register within him for a few moments, but once they had he was up and his rifle was in hand.

Their was a pop to the left, a loud crunch and then the sound of a gunshot. Glass was awake in seconds and Anderson rolled into the fire from the sheer shock. They dusted themselves off before lifting themselves up and all at once, the men prepped themselves for a war.

The French were here and not a single one of them was visible.

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Tagged: @peakblogbecauseimweak @bsotstory @mollybegger-blog @morphoportis @ghost-of-student-sufferings @drippydownes2002 @ellar21 @sovereigngoth @willowick13 @xxxxxeroxxxxx @wheresthewater @anrm1 @pansexualginger @marvelgirl7 @evilspretty-dead @heyitscam99 @wow-he-cute @haroldpain @justrepostandlove @sparklyreaderx @emerald-bijou @multireality @innerpaperexpertcloud @goodiesintheclosetlove @giftofdreams @ihclipse @meer0rauschen @inkedfandom @thatsamegirl @doct0rstrange @jakechillenhaal @shanty-lol @centerhabit @clevertheoristpainter @jamierdr @favouritereadings @badmaax @thephuonganh @wewillfindourwaythere @uhhhemilyrose @scarrasco1325 @matoki-darkpanda @bignastyfan-nz @97freaknik @hot-and-spiceyyy @azayamari @shane-isa-shame @chimthighz @azayamari

#tom hardy x reader #tom hardy imagine #john fitzgerald x reader #john fitzgerald imagine #the revenant imagine

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wistfulcynic · 6 years ago

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Their Way By Moonlight: Emma (Chapter 4)

Notes: Thank you as always for your comments and feedback, though I confess I've been a bit taken aback by the vehement reaction to Emma and Walsh's cursed marriage. It seems that people hate Walsh in a much more visceral way than I anticipated.

I do truly appreciate all of you who are reading this, and especially those who have made supportive and encouraging comments. I’m really putting a lot into this one in terms of style, plot, and detail, and it’s hard not to get discouraged when I pour blood and sweat into something only to have everyone focus on one tiny thing. So to ease your minds, here is our first chapter from Emma’s POV. I think it will go a long way towards assuaging your fears about her circumstances under the curse. If you are considering bailing on this fic because of the Emma/Walsh situation, I would ask you please to read this chapter before you make a final decision.

As before, there are allusions to cursed relationships, and a potentially distressing scene of aggression within a cursed marriage.

Summary: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time the Saviour is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from her son and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Hook are soulmates, working together within their shared dreams to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from the clutches of evil yet again. (Alternate 3B, set in the What Dreams May Come universe)

Rating: A hard M

Tagging: @teamhook @wellhellotragic @rouhn @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615@tiganasummertree @let-it-raines @bonbonpirate @thejollyroger-writer @lfh1962

Anyone wishing to be added to or dropped from this tag list, please let me know!

Read it on AO3

Emma:

Emma hesitated outside the door of the old cannery. She wasn’t quite certain of why she was there, or the reason behind the irresistible compulsion she felt to see its disconcertingly attractive new owner again. He had invited her to come by, though of course he’d meant later— the bookstore wasn’t even open yet. But Emma hadn’t been able to wait. Two days had passed since they’d met, since that brief but oddly intense conversation in Granny’s, and she had been unable to get Killian Jones and his son out of her head. Something about them, about him, pulled at her, and it wasn’t just his striking looks, not even the beautiful blue eyes with their expression of profound, compelling sadness. It was something deeper. She felt somehow as though she knew him, and more astoundingly that he knew her, better than anyone, better even than her own husband. Although, she thought with a small start, as though the idea had only just occurred to her, Walsh barely even took the trouble to speak to her these days, much less keep up with what was going on in her life. She’d been meaning to talk to him about that, she remembered suddenly. Yes. She’d been meaning to talk to him about a lot of things, but when the time came to do so she always seemed to forget. Tonight, she promised herself, making a mental note. Tonight they would finally talk. She wouldn’t forget this time.

Gathering her courage, Emma reached for the doorknob with her right hand, the palm of which still tingled from her brief handshake with Killian two days ago, and as she opened the door she remembered how the night before last her sleep had been troubled by disturbing dreams. She could recall only wisps of them, but she was certain he had been in them, he and his eyes, doing things to her that she couldn’t bear to think about in the light of day. Things she couldn’t bear to admit she had loved.

She really should stay far away from him. And yet here she was, in his shop.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, gasping at the sight before her. The room was simply lovely, bright and airy, with sunlight pouring in through the wide windows, dancing across the exposed brick walls and the antique looking dark-wood shelves that stood tall in four distinct sections around the room. A heavy mahogany desk sat opposite the door, elegantly carved with nautical designs: ships and storms, mermaids and other sea creatures she couldn’t put a name to, all rendered in exquisite detail. Atop it was an antique metal cash register, as elegantly decorated as the desk, sitting alongside, Emma was amused to note, a decidedly modern portable card reader attached to an iPad. Someone had a taste for the ancient but enough sense to appreciate the modern, she thought.

She was so caught up in admiration of her surroundings that she didn’t notice Killian’s arrival until he spoke.

“Swan?” The sound of his voice seemed to wrap around her, as deep and sonorous as she remembered, almost caressing her name. She turned to see him standing at the foot of the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“Um,” she said, feeling abruptly hot and itchy. How was it possible that he could be even better looking than she remembered? Admittedly she hadn’t really had a good look at Granny’s, though she had definitely noticed his face, but now as he stood by the black wrought-iron staircase that wound in a perfect helix up to a hole in the ceiling, his expression briefly unguarded and searingly intense, she had an opportunity to ogle.

He wore dark grey trousers in a soft woolen twill and an equally soft looking v-neck sweater in a shade of blue that made his eyes stand out even more. A tuft of dark hair peeked out just above the vee, and the itch in Emma’s palm flared to life again with the desire to touch it, to touch him. Everything about him seemed so eminently touchable. The sweater clung to his lean frame just tightly enough to show how fit he was, and his hair was tousled in a way that looked both deliberate and as though it could have been caused by fingers being run through it in the heat of passion.

What? Emma shook herself. Where the hell did that come from? Remember you’re married. And it’s not like you know anything about the heat of passion, anyway. At least, that’s what Walsh always told her, what he always gave as an excuse for why he didn’t want to touch her. She was cold, he said. Too hard. Not enough. She forced back those thoughts, promising herself once again that she would sit down with Walsh that evening and discuss the problems in their marriage. She dreaded it, but she had to try. They couldn’t go on much longer like this.

“Uh,” she tried again to respond to Killian’s question. “You said I should come by.”

“So I did, though I didn’t expect you quite so soon. I’m afraid we’re not open yet.”

“Yeah, sorry, it was stupid,” she said, turning away. “I was just passing and I thought— never mind, I’ll go—”

“No!” She looked back at him, startled at the vehemence in his voice. He flushed faintly pink and reached up to rub at a spot behind his right ear. “No, you don’t have to go. Please don’t, in fact. I’d be happy to, um, give you a tour? If you’d like.”

He looked hesitant but also eager, like he really, really wanted her to stay. She smiled. It felt like a long time since anyone had actually desired her company.

“Okay,” she said, a bit shyly. “I’d like that.”

A bright smile broke across his face, warm and soft and with just a hint of something wicked beneath it. For a moment Emma forgot to breathe. God, he’s gorgeous.

“Well, why don’t we start here?” he said, coming to stand beside her and indicating the near corner of the room with his left arm. His sleeve was pushed up slightly and she could see the seam where his prosthetic hand joined his arm. She realised with surprise that she hadn’t noticed the other day that he was missing his left hand. He’s missing his left hand. Why did that fact seem so significant to her? It tickled at the back of her mind, like something she needed to remember but couldn’t quite pull from her subconscious.

“So we’re still waiting on some inventory, but you can see the general layout of the shop,” he was saying. “Reference material is here at the front, with theory guides just here behind it. The practical manuals we have to be a bit more careful with, so they’re back in this corner, some of them will be locked in a special glass cupboard, available on request only. Then here in this corner we have the historical context.”

Emma frowned, looking more closely at the titles of the books that already graced the shelves. Rare volumes, he’d said the other day, but these were all—

“These are books of magic!” she cried.

“Oh, aye, did I not mention? That’s our specialty. Books of and about magic.”

She started to laugh, then trailed off when she noticed he didn’t join her. “But you’re not serious?”

“Very serious.”

“Books of magic.”

“And about magic, aye.”

“But— magic isn’t real.”

“There are quite a number of people who would disagree with that assessment, Sheriff.”

“And you’re one of them?” Her voice was rife with disbelief.

“Aye,” he replied, and the sincerity in his face and tone were unmistakable. “I am.”

She shook her head. “I would never have pegged you as someone with an interest in the occult. You seem so, I dont know, practical.”

“Oh, I’m very practical, love, but that doesn’t mean I can’t believe in magic.”

She wanted to deny his words, really it was so absurd, but she realised with another start of surprise that she was genuinely interested, almost despite herself, curious to the point of fascination. “Will you tell me about them?”

He exhaled deeply, almost as if he had been holding his breath waiting for her reaction, and gave her another dazzling smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

Nearly two hours later they were sitting on the floor surrounded by books, and Emma’s head was buzzing with stories of witches and wizards, covens and cults, fascinating details concerning the history and practice of magical arts. She felt like she had learned more in that short time than she had before in the whole of her life. Of course, her earlier education had been… it had been… what? She couldn’t recall. Frowning, she tried to remember where she had gone to school, the names of her teachers, fellow classmates, anything, but it was all a blank.

“Emma?” She turned to see Killian looking at her inquiringly. “Are you all right, love?”

She should really object to that ‘love’, she knew, but couldn’t bring herself to. She liked it. It made her feel warm inside.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit distracted.”

He nodded, and reached out to close one of the books. “We’ve been talking for a long time,” he said. “Perhaps we could take a break?”

She watched carefully as he used the prosthetic hand to close the book. The hand moved, she noticed, clearly it had some sort of mechanism operating it, but he seemed to mange it awkwardly, as though not quite used to it. She wondered how long he’d had— “When did you lose your hand?” she blurted, then flushed. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

He looked startled, then smiled. “No, it’s fine. It’s been so long, I don’t mind speaking of it anymore.”

“How long?”

“Oh, years and years.”

“What happened? Er, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all. It was stupid, really. I was young, I got in a fight. Over a woman. Woke up the next day with no hand.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “Like I said it was years ago.”

“Mmmmm.”

“What is it, Swan?” He looked almost expectant, like he knew the gears were turning in her head and was excited to see what they would spit out. She felt again the odd, unfamiliar sensation of being the focus of genuine interest. He truly seemed to care about what she had to say, for no reason other than that she was saying it.

“It’s just— well, you don’t seem very comfortable with the artificial one. If it’s been so long, I guess I would have thought you’d be more used to it by now.”

“Ah, well that’s explained easily enough. I lost my hand so long ago that the prosthetics that were available to me at the time were, um, let’s say primitive. This one however is quite new. State of the art, they tell me. It works by interacting with the electrical impulses in my muscle fibres, apparently. So you see, until quite recently I had a much simpler one, and this one, while far better in many ways, is taking a bit of time to adjust to.”

Every word he spoke was the truth, she could detect no dishonesty in his face or manner, yet she sensed it wasn’t the whole story either. He was leaving out important details. And she wondered why.

As he spoke he adjusted the prosthetic with his right hand, drawing her attention to the thick, engraved silver band he wore on its ring finger. A wedding ring? she wondered. It must be. A man with no left hand would naturally wear his wedding band on his right, wouldn’t he? Especially if until recently he’d worn a simpler prosthesis, one with no fingers.

She wondered, and not for the first time, about Henry’s mother. Killian’s face when he’d spoken of her in Granny’s had worn for a brief moment such a devastated expression, her loss must still be fresh and painful for him. In a weird way that made her feel better about having sought him out and spent so long talking with him. She was married, he a grieving widower, what harm could there be in a friendship between them? She certainly wouldn’t have to worry about anything coming of the fierce attraction she felt for him. Even if he felt it too, he would never act on it. He was very obviously still in love with his wife, and Emma somehow knew beyond any doubt that he was not a man to betray those he loved.

“So, um, it’s ah, lunchtime,” he said, scratching behind his ear again. “And it seems we both could use a break. Would you care to join me? For some lunch?”

“Sure, I guess. Where were you going to go?”

“I—, uh, we live upstairs,” he gestured towards the staircase. “The third floor is a loft apartment, I was just going to go up and make a sandwich.”

Alone with him in his apartment. Emma’s heart thundered. “A sandwich sounds great,” she managed to say. “Can you do grilled cheese?”

His face twisted for a moment into the strangest expression, half blissful happiness, half like he wanted to cry. “I can,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s my son’s favourite.”

“In that case, I’d love to join you.”

The grilled cheese was perfect, exactly the way she liked it. She told him as much, and was rewarded with another half-delighted, half-sad expression. “I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch,” he said, almost to himself.

“What do you mean?”

“Grilled cheese is— Henry’s mother’s favourite as well,” he said quietly. “Since we lost her we don’t make it as often as we used to.”

Emma didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so she crunched her sandwich in slightly awkward silence as he busied himself at the stove, avoiding looking at him until he slid a cup in front of her. “What’s this?” she asked in surprise.

“Traditional Jones family accompaniment to grilled cheese,” he replied.

She picked up the mug and inhaled over it. “Hot chocolate with— is that cinnamon?”

“Aye. It’s a bit odd I’ll grant you, and if I’m honest I prefer it plain, but that’s how Henry likes it.”

“Seriously? You’re telling me your son likes cinnamon on his hot chocolate.”

“Aye.” He seemed to be watching her carefully.

“Grilled cheese and hot chocolate with cinnamon is my favourite lunch,” she said. “You’re basically telling me that I have the same tastes as your thirteen year old kid.”

“Would it help if I confessed to an affinity for it as well?” he asked, his face deadpan but with amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“It might.”

“Very well, I confess it, but you mustn’t ever tell Henry. I’d never get him to eat a vegetable again if he thought he could wheedle grilled cheese out of me every night.”

“It’s a deal.”

The earlier awkwardness was dispelled, and as Killian sat down to eat his sandwich Emma sipped her chocolate —it too was perfect— making it last as long as possible. There was no way she could justify staying any longer once lunch was over, and she didn’t want to go. She felt comfortable with Killian, and happy, things she couldn’t remember feeling in a long, long time. Later she knew she would need to analyse these feelings, but for now she simply wished to feel them.

When the last drop was finally drained she set the cup down on the counter, then realised it might be nice if she took it to the sink instead and went to pick it up again, at the same time as Killian reached for it himself. Her hand closed around it first followed a second later by his, his fingers linking with hers in a way that felt so natural that it didn’t even occur to her to question it, simply laughing lightly as they released the cup but not each other’s hands. His thumb caressed her bare ring finger. “You don’t wear a wedding ring,” he said softly.

She could barely breathe her heart was pounding so hard, the gentle movements of his thumb sending sparks coursing up her arm, reverberating through her whole body. “Um,” she said, trying to think. “No, I — I have one of course, but I don’t wear it.”

“Why not?”

“Er.” She tried to remember. There was a reason, surely? “I can’t with— with my job. It gets in the way.” Yes, that must be it.

“Ah.” Something in his tone suggested he didn’t quite believe her, but before she could reply he had released her hand and turned away, picking up the mug and putting it in the sink.

“I like yours though,” she said abruptly. Where did that come from?

“What?” He turned, giving her an odd look.

“Your wedding ring.” She reached out and took his hand again, this time caressing the silver band upon the third finger with her own thumb. “It is a wedding ring, isn’t it?”

He cleared his throat. “Aye.”

“Henry’s mother.” It wasn’t a question and so required no answer, but he gave one anyway. “Aye.” The sadness was back in his voice, this time untempered by any joy.

Emma smiled, feeling suddenly swamped by sadness herself. She felt such a connection to this man, unlike anything she’d ever felt before, and she hated to think of him hurting.

Briefly she allowed herself a rare, uncharacteristic moment of self-indulgence to wonder what it would be like to be loved as devotedly as Killian loved his wife. To be loved even after she was gone. To have such an emotion, from such a man. Swallowing back tears, she looked up at him. “She had good taste. This is exactly the sort of ring I would have chosen.”

“She’s an extraordinary woman,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion, his eyes blazing with it.

Emma nodded, wishing she knew why that remark left such a clutching, squeezing sensation around her heart.

“Well I should go,” she said, releasing his hand.

He swallowed hard then gave her a small smile, a tight, guarded thing that squeezed her heart again. He looked so sad. She wanted to see the bright, wicked grin from earlier.

“May I see you out?” he asked politely, his emotions under control again.

She shook her head, already moving towards the door. “No, it’s fine. But thanks.”

“Any time, love.”

Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke again. “Emma.”

She looked back at him, gripped by the wild, irrational hope that he might ask her to stay. “What about your husband?” he asked.

“Who?” She frowned in confusion, then remembered. “Oh, Walsh.” Why had she forgotten him? “What about him?”

“Does he not wear a ring?”

“Of course he does.” Didn’t he? “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that you said ‘would have chosen.’” Killian’s face was calm, but that intensity was back in his eyes.

“What?”

“Just now, when you looked at my ring you said it’s exactly what you would have chosen. Not what you did choose.”

There was that confusion again, swirling through her brain and blocking her thoughts. Why couldn’t she think? “I— I must have misspoken.” She rubbed her forehead, which had started to ache.

He was silent for a long moment before replying. “Of course, I’m sure that’s it. Goodbye, Sheriff.”

Emma smiled tightly and left.

When she arrived home that evening, Emma sought out Walsh in his study. He didn’t like her bothering him there but she was confused, her head spinning with questions that needed answers. She’d spent the afternoon in her office with the lights dimmed, nursing her headache and making a list of all the questions she needed to ask him, everything that was odd in their relationship and in her life. It was a long list. Why hadn’t she ever talked to him before? She’d been unhappy for so long…

“What is it, Emma?” Walsh’s voice was cold.

“I just— wanted to talk to you. About some things.”

He turned and fixed her with the icy, probing stare that never failed to make her tongue-tied and anxious. She wanted to flee, back to the relative safety of the living room, where Walsh rarely went. No! You need answers! Stay strong!

“Some things,” Walsh repeated.

“Y-yes.”

“Well go on,” he waved his hand at her and adopted an expression of exaggerated patience. “We haven’t got all night. What are these ‘things’ that are suddenly so important?”

Emma had spent an hour memorising her list of questions, but now she could only remember one.

“Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?” she burst out. “Why don’t I?”

“Of— of course I wear one!” Walsh looked genuinely surprised, his composure slipping enough to rejuvenate her resolve.

“Walsh I am looking at your hand right now and it is bare,” she said. “Neither of us wear rings. I’m certain I have one, I remember it, but where is it? Why did I stop wearing it?” He gaped at her and she seized her opportunity, letting months worth of questions flood out. “And why don’t we do anything together any more? What happened to our friends? I remember— I think I remember that we used to go out, do things as a couple, with other couples. But we have no friends now, and I stay in alone every night. I feel like I never see you these days, you’re hardly ever home, you never want to have sex—” she broke off as a look of revulsion crossed Walsh’s face, crushing her, stopping the words in her throat. Your own husband finds you repulsive, she thought bitterly, and a small voice at the very back of her consciousness piped up with a single word. “Why?”

What? thought Emma, and the voice elaborated. “Dont you want to know why?”

A memory flashed through her mind, although no, not a memory, it couldn’t be, but it felt like a memory. The blue, blue eyes of Killian Jones, warm with adoration, his deep voice, his hand in her hair. “You’re so beautiful, Emma,” he whispered. “So utterly, heartbreakingly beautiful.”

“Walsh, what’s going on?” she asked, suddenly angry, furious, incandescent with rage. “There’s something very wrong here, and I think you’re behind it. Tell me what it is. Tell me what you’ve done to me!”

Walsh’s face twisted into a terrifying snarl and he grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him until they were nose-to-nose, drowning her anger in fear. “Why are you asking these questions all of a sudden?” he hissed, “Does it by any chance have something to do with our new neighbourhood bookseller?”

“Wh— what?” Emma scrambled to lie, to protect Killian. “No! Of course not.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Emma.” Walsh sighed, his face falling back into its usual supercilious, condescending expression. Still holding her arm he turned and picked something up from his desk, a small box in silver filigree, beautiful in a cold and terrible way. “Fortunately it won’t matter. Come morning you’ll be yourself again. Or one of your selves, anyway.” He opened the box with a flick of his thumb and blew a harsh puff of air into it, sending a shower of glittering grey particles flying into Emma’s eyes. She gasped, then collapsed. Walsh held her up with his grip on her arm, then gave her a shove back into the sofa behind her. “That should take care of you for now,” he muttered, looking down at her unconscious form. “It appears that the pirate works faster than I had anticipated. Of course very little that we anticipated about him has turned out to be true. How he even managed to get here in the first place is something I would very much like to know. He is supposed to be stuck in Neverland.” He paused, smirking. “The power of true love, I suppose,” he said, sneering the words. “But he’ll soon be dealt with, him and your son. And now, ‘wife’, off to bed with you.” He waved his hand and Emma disappeared in a puff of green smoke.

When she awoke the next morning, alone in her bed as always, all her doubts and worries about her marriage along with all recollection of her confrontation with Walsh were gone.

Her memories of the time she’d spent with Killian Jones, however, were not.

Notes: I hope this makes you feel a bit better (but still interested enough to want more!).

#cs ff #cursed storybrooke #captain swan #captain cobra #cursed captain swan #mystery #angst #canon divergence #alternative 3b #their way by moonlight #profdanglaisstuff

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mahbonesmccoy · 6 years ago

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Valentine's surprise (Severus/reader one shot)

So sorry. I know Valentine's day is over but naaah. Better late than nothing. Here's my one shot of Sevy the bean queen.

In February 14, 2012, I forced myself to work during midnight. I am a professor and I sadly have no time for Valentine's day. I dont even have a partner anyway! During that time, I risked my health just so I could finish my unchecked papers. I've been procrastinating for the past few weeks because of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows! I was sort of... Not satisfied. Voldemort's death is rendered differently and it frustrates me but Snape's death made me weep like a babe.

As I finally finished my work in 2 A.M, there's an odd noise coming from my Garden. I suddenly felt strange and scared and so I grabbed a kitchen knife and sneaked out to my garden. To my surprise, I saw a figure laying down on the grassy ground. He was clad in black and... So familiar. I immediately dropped my knife elsewhere and rushes towards the man to help him.

I accidentally touched his neck and I heard a little noise coming out from his mouth. "Sorry." I muttered and I suddenly realised that my hand was stainted with blood! Panicking, I slowly roll the man to lay him down on his back properly for me to check his wounds and.... I went silent. Am I dreaming? What is this?! I slapped myself so hard that it hurts so much and enough to wake me up but I didn't!

After my self-realization, I immediately and carefully guide him inside my house and put him down on the couch. I can't believe it's Alan Rickman in my Garden dressed as Snape! I rushed to my bathroom and took my medical kit to tend his wounds on his neck. Again, with sudden realisation, he was bitten by a snake. His chances might be thin and I'm no doctor. But I also can't risk to let anyone or the public, in general, see him!

I crossed my fingers during the days I took care of him and hopefully he will be fine. He slept well after 3 days of suffering yet he was still pale and sick. 4 days later, I decided to abandon my sleep schedule again so he can rest on my bed and I can do my work all night long. Unfortunately, I was very sleepy and I nearly slept on my desk if Mr. Rickman or Snape didn't appear behind me, pointing his wand at me with a threatening look.

"Who are you. I dont wish to sound ungrateful but I want answers." He said with his usual deep voice. Panicking, I jumped out of my chair and raised both of my hands.

"Im no threat, believe me. You just suddenly appeared at my Garden!"

"... I see. But you haven't answered my question yet."

"(y/n)"

"Interesting... A muggle. Where's my cloak? I need to go back to Hogwarts." He rushed back to my room and then headed towards my garden and before he could even set foot outside, I immediately put myself in front of him and pushed him away gently.

"Nope. You are not going outside. Besides, the war is over and you can't go back! Everyone thinks you're dead."

"...." He went silent and pointed his wand at me again. "How.. Did.. You.. Know.. About... Me being... Dead?"

Oh fuck.

"Look I have so many things to explain and please.. Dont avada Kedavra me. Im telling the truth. You can even use Legilimens on me!"

"And how in Merlin's beard did you know all about this.. When you're a... Muggle?"

"I told you I have lots of things to explain.. Sit down."

And so I told him that night and he was... Utterly silent. He was trying so hard to let everything sink in. I showed him the movies and the books and I can see he was very angry, but then he bottled it all up.

"It make sense." He said.

"Make sense what?"

"I can't see what's inside your head and its completely black."

He stayed in my home for a year. I enjoyed his company and he surprisingly enjoyed mine too. I was blushing secretly every night time, remembering how he looks good on a white shirt and pants. March 15, 2012, we were sitting together on my couch whilst he was reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows. Meanwhile, I was reading a textbook about histories of Russia. I still need to study more of it..

Snape dropped the book harshly on the table and he suddenly.... Snapped. His emotions devoured him and he cried in front of me. Quickly, I sat beside him and gave him a tight hug which he gladly took it and sobbed on my shoulder. He repressed many emotions and I couldn't comprehend how much it hurts to be isolated and abused.

"It's okay now.. You're fine." I whispered, caressing his jet black hair with my hand as I held his head gently.

"That damn author. She made my life miserable... " He mumbled.

"Shhh. Despite all of it... Harry Potter appreciates you in the end. All is well."

After his outburst, he doesn't look like stressed anymore. Instead, he looked well and finally at peace. He actually smiled at me everyday whenever I talked about theaters, history and what ever interests me. I even convinced him to let me tie his hair and he surprisngly loved it. He didn't really mind staying all day at my house while I was at work. We read and eat together as well and I suddenly had a mission every day to make him laugh which I did successfully. And during christmas eve, we were enjoying our moment together by singing along with christmas songs!

I could not forget the smile on his face while we sing. Then the music changed into a slow, melancholic tone version of 'Let it snow'

"May I?" He said, offering his hand.

"Thought you hate to dance?"

"Not with you at least." He smiled.

I bit my cheek inside as I took his hand and then we start to dance slowly. Goodness, he's out of character and I'm kinda proud that I'm the reason of his sudden change. Out of height difference, we were embracing eachother instead of doing the proper position of waltz. We just danced together as silence engulfs us.

Little did I know... It would be our last moment.

Next day, 10:00 PM, he was standing in front of me, fidgeting his fingers.

"My neck wounds are reopening itself."

"What?! Since when? I can heal it!"

"No need... Im going to be fine. I'm sick of living but you taught me how to live my life rightly. But now... We must part for I dont belong in this world."

"No.. No no no.. You're staying here.. I dont want you to die." I said, standing so close to him that I can feel his breath.

"I will always die in the end. It's what the book says. I know you hate it so much but you can just... Open the book and read all over again. And I will be with you. Not in front of you.. But here." He said, pointing my heart. "And you have Alan Rickman." He chuckled.

"Oh for god's sake, he doesn't know me." I giggled but I still can't repress my sadness.

"Well at least he will remind you of me."

I'm on the edge and his words are pushing me off. Without hesitation, I wrapped my arms around him and sobbed on his chest. "Please don't go... "

"I have to.. " He whispered weakly, his jaw resting upon my head and his arms protectively wrapped around me.

We sat down together on my couch for the last time while I leaned against his shoulder. I felt like I'm such a sissy for being silent but I still managed to say something to him one last time.

"Leave a souvenir for me.. Will you?" And I, sadly, fell asleep. And the last thing I heared from him is,

"Sleep well.. "

In the morning, I was cuddling a pillow on the couch and I was holding something, tightly and unconciously. Slowly, I sat up and look around. He's definetly not here anymore and it's probably a very long dream of mine. I look at the thing that I was holding and... My heart skipped a beat. So he's real.

His wand.

Fin.

#harry potter #severus snape #alan rickman #fanfic #x reader #muggle #reader #valentine's day

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tmntxreader-fics · 7 years ago

Text

TMNT Raph x Reader: Battlefield Temptations

WARNING WARNING THIS IS MY YOUNG TEENAGE SELF A FEW YEARS BACK ATTEMPTING TO WRITE RAPH IN HEAT AND ITS LOWKEY HORRIBLE I APOLOGISE BUT AT THE SAME TIME I THINK ITS FUNNY AND I NEED SOMETHING TO POST SO IM GONNA POST IT ANYWAY

I DECIDED TO BRING THIS OVER FROM MY OLD ABANDONED DEVIANTART ACCOUNT- SO DONT PANIC IM NOT PLAGIARISING (don't know whod try to plagiarise this piece of shit anyway) I tried to fix it a bit but I failed miserably.

WARNING: cursing, violence, slight steaminess- not enough to be nsfw but its steamy

(Reader is fem)

“Are you willing to spar today, child?”

Master Splinter's voice slices through your concentration on the battle before you. You jump slightly at the suggestion and shake your head vigorously, your hair coming loose and waving around the frame of your face. Raising a finger and pointing it into the direction of the brutal sparring between Raph and Leo, you give Splinter a pointed look with a nervous laugh.

“Aha, no. No, I don't think so. Besides, I'd probably be murdered in there,” you turn to glance at the turtle brothers whose fists have turned into blurs that pummel each other into the ground with a force that would surely shatter every bone in your body were you to take one blow. Especially one of Raphael's hits. He'd kill you instantly.

Donatello and Michelangelo remain seated a meter away from you on the side of the sparring mat. Both would wince every so often when one of the fighters landed a particularly brutal hit, that fighter would more often than not be Raph: A 6'5 mass of boiling rage and rippling muscle. A terrifyingly intimidating character to meet at first but you learned to warm up to him as he had to you. Maybe you’ve warmed up to him a little too much.

Compared to 5'11 strategical and precise Leo, Raph seems like a giant. But Leo is no push over, he can very well hold his own against the brute, he's the only brother that has a chance at beating Raph and the red masked turtle hates that fact. The sweat drips down Raph's bulging biceps, dropping off with every shattering blow that he lands on his brother. His gritted teeth serve as an indicator to his concentration and hints at frustration. Red masked eyes narrowed down into piercing green slits, meant to penetrate the enemy's soul and destroy them from the inside as well as the outside. Your eyes roam over Raph's muscled form and your mind dive-bombs into the gutter. A blush takes residence upon your cheeks at the less than appropriate thoughts that suddenly occupy your mind. His large and rough hands caressing you with a gentleness that you had thought to be impossible; strong fingers drifting across your skin with only a light touch, enough to bring you to your knees.

“Enough!” Master Splinter takes his cue to end the match before things get overly heated between the fighters (and your thoughts). Both brothers shake hands tersely with each other and move to sit down, awaiting the announcement of who would be sparring together next.

“It will only be a grappling match. Wrestling, if you will. No hits,” Splinter persists, the look in his eye urging you to accept. You shake your head again, you don't care how much the rat gives you the 'do it' look you are not going put yourself in a situation that would get your head bashed in.

“What, Kitten? Too scared to play with the big boys?” Raph mocks from where he is sitting. You fight the urge to snap something back at him that would surely make him swallow his tongue and just settle for a glare. “You gonna break a nail, little princess?”

“No, I just don't want to fight,” you reply calmly. What crawled up his ass and died? Raph isn't one to be sexist, he isn't one to pick on you either. What’s he up to? “That's because you can't. You should probably sign up for cooking classes or something more suited to you and your...” his eyes fleetingly skim over your body, “-stature.”

Your eyes widen in absolute anger! You vaguely hear Splinter reprimanding his son for the blatant display of disrespect but you find yourself still burning with indignation. That condescending, sexist, chauvinistic, boneheaded piece of sh- “I'll do it.”

It takes you a moment to realize that those words were spoken by you. You just said them. You just agreed to get bashed. Oh, God where is my head? What have you done? You stupid girl. You mentally chide yourself for your impulsive decision.

Please give me Mikey! You chant mentally, Mikey is easily distracted and you’re sure that you'd be able to take him down if you really set your mind to it. It was maybe even a possibility you could hold your own against Donatello considering he is without his weapon.

Who am I kidding? Your thoughts nosedive, as does your confidence. Versing these guys is a completely different ballgame altogether.

You turn to give Master Splinter a look of 'please take pity on my poor, poor soul' but he's not looking at you. He's deciding which turtle to put you up against. “This will be grappling only, no hits exchanged,” Splinter commands, then his gaze flickers to you for a moment. You give him the puppy dog eyes and in return you receive an unamused stare. “Raphael. Stand.”

You almost topple over as you choke on your own spit, “wha- what?!”

Raphael raises an eyebrow but a slight smirk settles in the corner of his mouth as you slowly walk closer towards him. His gaze does not waver from your eyes until you are standing a meter away from him, in which his eyes smoothly move down to your lips and then the curve of your neck. Raph's eyes snap upwards to your face before going any lower and you notice how his gaze darkens slightly. You gulp, noting how he stares at the movement of your throat distractedly. God, what have you gotten yourself into? You know he is watching everything you do, surely observing your possible weaknesses. Both of you stand in your desired fighting stances as Splinter opens his mouth to start the fight.

“You got this, Angelcakes!” Mikey, ever optimistic, yells out with a wide grin and waving hands. Donnie gives you a sympathetic smile and Leo, as per usual, remains stoic.

“Begin!” Splinter snaps you back into the moment and you yelp as Raph wastes no time before lunging at you. You duck beneath the offending limb and circle a safe distance away from him.

“Keep your head in the game,” Raph says, his voice holding a tone of slyness to it. “Don't want to finish you off before the real fun's started.”

You falter for a split second, was that an innuendo?

He reaches for you again and you barely evade his advancing manoeuvres, weaving between his grasping hands and leaping over the leg that he sweeps under you. His eyes narrow slightly and his attacks become more and more difficult to fend off.

“The point is to take him down!” Mikey says before turning to Donnie, “that's is the point, right?”

You immediately drown him out and disregard him as a distraction. Focus on not getting grabbed!

You bend back, just barely avoiding a swipe for grip on your neck. You try to throw back your own offence only to recoil your hand sharply when Raph immediately makes a grab for it. Okay, so the straight on approach isn't going to solve anything. Maybe if you flank him from behind you'd have a chance of taking him to the ground!

You roll to the side sharply, evading a grab and dive through Raph's spread apart feet. Raph grunts in surprise and before you can tell yourself to stop you leap onto the back of his shell and jab at a pressure point in his shoulder that would drop any normal person instantly. You’re overwhelmed by a rush of elation when you feel Raph's knees hit the ground. Could you have actually won?

No.

His hand grabs your forearm, pulling you forward to lean over his shoulder. Your stomach is pressed into the edge of his shell, the breath in your lungs is forcefully expelled by the impact. Raph's face leans into yours, cheek on cheek as he roughly whispers, “gotcha.”

You're sent flying forward, sent into an uncomfortable front flip and landing hard on your back. You're winded, unable to do anything but stare in shock at the figure that has now pinned you down from above. How did he do that? You dropped him!

His weight on top of you causes you to snap back into reality, his skin upon yours is rough but not as unkind to the touch as you’d have thought it to be. You try to wriggle away but he immediately presses himself down on you, rendering you motionless. Raph’s smirking face moves closer until he is but inches apart from yours. Your heart is racing and butterflies embark on a mad rampage in your stomach. His body on top of yours. Skin on skin. So close. Too close.

You turn your head to the side and he leans in to the crook of your neck, next to your ear. “Submit.”

You growl and shake your body as much as you can, flailing your legs angrily but gaining no movement or ground. He chuckles briefly.

“Make it easy on yourself and just submit,” he murmurs to you. Your face is red with anger and exhaustion as you continue to writhe beneath him, you’d be damned before you give up without a fight. Your movement earns a slight growl from the turtle on top of you. You freeze.

“Stop moving if you know what's good for you,” he hisses in your ear. Your chest heaves up and down against his own as you breathe heavily. After a moment of silence, he repeats the sentence with irritation lacing his words. “Submit to me.”

You refrain from crying out loud in frustration and sudden breathlessness as you steadily say the words, “I submit.”

You feel Raph grin against your shoulder before he stands to his feet, towering over your 5'5 frame. You feel as if his weight had left a physical dent in your body, stars appearing in your vision briefly as you greedily gulp the air he had robbed from your lungs.

The smug creature offers a hand to you and you pretend you don't see it, standing to your feet yourself. He had humiliated you. Not because he had beaten you. That would have been fair and square and you would have taken it in good sport if that had been it. But that wasn't it. He had motives behind his movements, the way he whispered in your ear... when he growled lowly as you writhed beneath him. The way he had embarrassed you and infuriated you with his mocking words beforehand.

As you are engrossed in your thoughts, everyone collects themselves and moves to leave the dojo- Splinter having wisely dismissed the session. You ignore Raph, trying not to make eye contact with him as you head towards the exit. You and the brute are the last ones in the training room which is probably exactly what he wants. His large hand grabs your forearm pulling you aside before you can make it out the door and you glare up at him heatedly beneath your hair.

His height and build looming over you intimidates you but it also has another effect that you're not sure you’d ever admit out loud. Raph's eyes make contact with yours, staring intensely for a moment before looking you over. “Did I, uh, did I hurt you at all?” He asks gruffly.

You stare at him for a long moment, torn between answering with a 'f*ck yeah you did, dickhead' and 'nope. Now piss off.'

You settle with a simple and bitter “no.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Sore loser.”

You grit your teeth and poke a finger into his plastron angrily, “Sore loser?! You would've won either way and I would've been fine with it! But what I am 'sore' about is that fact that you didn't just beat me.”

He takes a step forward, a smirk playing on his lips. He seems so different. Controlled. He knows what he wants and he's surprisingly confident in his movements. You move backwards subconsciously before realizing that you have quite literally just reversed into a wall. You look up with wide eyes as he moves in closer than what your personal space limits people to.

“Why don't ya just explain then.”

“You- you humiliated me! Toyed with me, mocked me, made fun of me and then you-you....” You trail off, unable to describe his intimacy towards you without throwing yourself out to look like a fool.

“Why do you stay on the defence in a fight? You wear yourself out,” he pipes up, leaning back a little giving you room to breathe. You blink, a little shocked at the subject change.

“You're a 6'5 walking mass of muscle. I'm a stick insect in comparison. Please explain to me why I would ever hope to believe I had a chance to take you out by a full frontal attack,” you say bluntly, crossing your arms over your chest unknowingly boosting your cleavage into his view. He glances down at the flesh bursting from your bra below him and licks his lips, moving in towards you like he had before You see the resolve in his gaze flicker, he is struggling to maintain the façade. You inhale sharply, trying to continue.

“I'd be...better off...running,” you gasp as he moves his lips to rest on your neck. Your heart is in your throat, thrumming beneath the soft but firm touch of his mouth. Raph seemingly breathes in your scent before running his cool tongue over your sensitive skin, tracing the veins in your neck.

Your eyes widen at the contact, a choked gasp slipping from your mouth. There has always been chemistry between the two of you, the occasional flirting and the light banter you were both notorious for. But never had he been so blatant about his attraction towards you, never had he even gathered the courage to kiss you let alone touch you so sensually.

Then you realise, eyes widening at the sudden revelation. He’s in heat.

Your hands come up to rest on his chest but not entirely pushing him away. There’s a light pressure on your throat as he suckles at your sweet spot, delighting in the sound of your erratic breathing and whimpers.

Raphael’s right hand remains next to your head on the wall, essentially keeping you caged within his grasp. His left hand roams over the smoothness of your waist, groaning almost silently as his hands continue caress your midriff.

“Well, then.” He whispers huskily, finally responding to your words. “I promise you don't need to run away from me.”

That was it. His mouth melds onto yours and you’re not sure who initiated the connection as his hands run up and down your body. The force of the not-so-gentle kiss pushes you into the wall leaving you vulnerable to his desires. His lips moving feverishly on yours as he captures your flesh between his teeth, asking for entrance. You moan, parting your mouth in obedience, his tongue immediately seeks out yours to battle for dominance.

The hardness of his muscled body against yours was overwhelming, the raw strength, danger and masculinity was making you swoon. ”Oh God, Raph,” you sigh in delight as his lips move from your mouth to your neck to greet that special spot once more.

He lightly nips your throat before turning to make eye contact briefly, eyes shimmering mischievously, “I think it's time for round two. Wanna rematch?”

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pointyobjects · 6 years ago

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"I just kissed your forehead,...chill..."

I dont know why I said that. First of all, I never tell people to "chill". Its not in my vernacular. You know who tells people to "chill"? Gerald. All the time. It makes no sense. Dont tell me how and in what manner to react. But, here I am, telling Arnold to "chill". I shouldnt have said anything. I should turned in my chair, gone back to my reading, and let Arnold leave for the night like I planned. Let myself get lost in this ridiculously thick Microbiology textbook, while Arnold got lost in 'Keightlynn's' hazel-green eyes. I know they are hazel-green because he told me, because that is apparently a thing friends and roommates share with each other. Also, her name is obnoxious and I hate her.

But when he came into my room, asking which scarf he should wear, I just had to help. Not only because I was taking to Microbiology like a herd of recently possessed swine to water, but also because living with Arnold made me slightly more altruistic. I found myself making two servings of coffee in the morning, and replacing the roll of toilet paper when it got low, and not mercilessly making fun of his favorite shows until after they'd gone off. I guess it was okay being nicer, but now I'm getting roped into helping him dress for dates, and I fell like I should nip this in the bud. Butt? Bud.

Which brings us here. I tie his dumb scarf around his neck (the red one, even though I like the dark green one better, but Keightlynn doesn't need to know how gorgeous it makes his eyes look), and give him what should be a chaste, friendly kiss. Are there such things as friendly kisses? I dont know. That's what I intended. But now hes just staring at me like I've grown a second and third head, and I realize that I've taken a very wrong turn. I should have told him that both scarves are ugly. I should have said that if he wants his date to go well at all, not to mention that he watches F.R.I.E.N.D.S. for hours at a time, because it's not funny at all, and girls like guys who are funny. I should not have rendered him speechless by offering my advice on a scarf, and tying it for him. I should have ignored that earnest look on his face, kept my hands to myself, and not on his broad shoulders. I should have kept my feet flat on the floor. All of these contributed to me making a fool of myself, right before Arnold goes off on a date that is not with me. Stupid Helga.

"Helga, I-"

"You're right; you're gonna be late!" I tell him, using his shoulders to turn him toward my bedroom door (before pulling them away, lest I do anything else utterly embarrassing this evening). He tries again to say something, but I push him out of the door and fall back on it, pressing a fist to my face, and wondering how quickly I can make it to the airport. One way tickets shouldnt be hard to buy last minute, and Siberia is supposed to lovely this time of the year.

It isn't until I let my head roll back against my door that I realize I'm still holding Arnold's green scarf, the one that looks so much better on him. I should have told him that, instead of depriving Keigh-whats-her-face the chance to see Arnold at his best (though if shes going out with him, she probably knows how great he is anyway, and something as stupid as a scarf isn't going to sway her one way or the other). I should chase him down, romantic comedy style and tell him that, but I'll settle for tossing his scarf on the couch and hooking he doesn't ask about it tomorrow. Not that I'll be here tomorrow...you know...Siberia and all.

I open my door, only to find Arnold, looking like he's just run a mile. Was I out of it for that long? I was hoping to be packed and gone by the time he came home.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I...I just..." he begins, before moving toward me. I dont really know what happens next. There's a hand wrapped around my back, and another at my neck, the scrape of stubble at my cheek, and Arnold, who smells like a fabric softener commercial, sweeping around me like a stiff breeze and disappearing just as quickly, down the hall and into his room.

There is no movement until the next morning.

I'm up early, as usual, making coffee for two. Because I believe in things starting normal and not being a total spazzoid, I don't take any extra strides in my morning routine. Shorts, t-shirt, ponytail, scalding hot coffee, black with sugar. If the Arnold of last night is still around, and wants to talk about last night, hes going to have to face the Helga of last night. What you see is what you get, Footballhead.

But there is no discussion about last night. No desperate confessions of love, and much to my disappointment, no repeat. Just a slow saunter into our small kitchen, and a methodical preparation of his coffee monstrosity (extra cream, extra sugar) in a shiny, metal to-go mug. Just as I'm about to turn on my heel and leave, egg-faced, Arnold pauses in front of me, and adjusts his scarf.

Dark green.

He presses a kiss to my forehead and we both come away smiling.

"See you tonight?" he asks. He doesn't wait for an answer, and I dont have one for him.

Some things dont need to be said out loud.

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

Thank you for the request, @turchinorain !!! I'll leave my thoughts in the tags, but this definitely helped me out of my Avalanche slump, and for that, I am eternally grateful!

For the friends or more starters, do you take one shot/drabble requests?

Yes!!! I sought them out to use in Avalanche (I still might), but I’m absolutely taking requests!

#fanfiction #hey arnold #hey arnold fanfiction #writing prompts #writing #i dont like this #dont get me wrong #great prompt #im just not sure if i did a good job #roomate au #roomates to lovers au #what am I doing #oh well #time to write avalanche #lets hope that goes better

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